Free The Ghost of Tillie Jean Cassaway by Ellen Harvey Showell Page A

now, we’ll find something, and don’t worry.” Granny looked straight at Tillie Jean. “I ain’t gonna make you go nowhere you don’t want to. Here’s your book now. It’s all wet but we’ll dry it off. You live on the island with Mr. Craig?”
    The girl nodded but paid no attention to the book.
    â€œWe’ll take you home soon’s it stops raining.”
    â€œNo! I don’t want to go back there. I want to stay here.”
    â€œWhy, this place is deserted. This is the Cassaway place.”
    â€œI’m Tillie Jean Cassaway. I can live here.”
    â€œMy goodness,” said Granny. “It’s certainly strange.”
    â€œShe ain’t no ghost,” said Hilary. “We played together. She never tried to get me to go in the water.”
    â€œâ€™Course she’s no ghost,” said Granny. “But … well, let that be now.” She began rummaging around the house, looking for something dry to put around the girl, who was the only one of the children who seemed cold.
    â€œThere’s a trunk up under the eaves, might have something in it,” said Willy. “But I couldn’t get it open to look.”
    â€œLet me see,” said Granny.
    â€œYou can’t get up there, Granny. I had to climb,” said Willy.
    â€œCould we get it down? How big is it?”
    â€œLike a footlocker. Not too big. Say, I got an idea. We can make a rope out of that old rag—he pointed to the couch cover—and tie it around the trunk. Then let it down to the floor.”
    They tore the rag into strips and knotted the ends together to make a rope, and Hilary got up under the eaves and tied it around the trunk. Granny and the other girl stood underneath to catch it as it came swaying down. But the cloth was rotten—it gave way under the weight of the trunk which fell to the floor with a crash.
    â€œFiddlesticks, I thought it might come open with the jarring, but it didn’t,” said Granny. “Anybody got a hairpin?” Blank faces stared at her.
    Hilary looked at her new friend. “She has a key!”
    â€œYeah,” said Willy. “Around her neck.”
    Tillie Jean turned away from them, clutching the key tightly to her throat.
    â€œTillie Jean,” said Granny. “What’s the key unlock?”
    â€œIt’s mine,” said the girl. “I found it in my room.”
    â€œAt Mr. Craig’s?” asked Hilary.
    â€œNo. My room here.” She turned and ran through the house to the tiny bedroom with morning-glory walls. They followed slowly, except Willy, who was sprawled in the middle of the floor, nursing his ankle. He groaned softly.
    Hilary gently pushed open the blue door. “Tillie Jean, we just wanted to know if it could be the key to the trunk. Don’t you want to try it?”
    â€œIt’s mine! This is my room! Go away, all of you!”
    â€œLet her be a minute,” said Granny Barbour, laying the book down on the floor near the door. “Come on, you all, get away from her.” They went back to the kitchen and were quiet for a time.
    Willy looked up from the floor in astonishment. “She’s giggling!” he said.
    Indeed, the sound of plain girlish giggling was coming from the room.
    â€œStay here, I’ll go see,” said Granny. She went to the morning-glory room and found the strange child standing in front of the bucket into which water was dripping from the ceiling, giggling.
    â€œIs it funny?” asked Granny Barbour.
    â€œYes,” giggled the girl.
    â€œI put it there,” said the woman. “I hate to see water messing up a floor.”
    â€œThat’s my doll,” said the girl, pointing to the sad plastic creature on the floor—head still on its shoulders. “I put its head in the window so it could see out sometimes, but somebody put it back.”
    â€œI did,” said Granny Barbour. “It seemed