Free The Horror by Rodman Philbrick

to make me leave. I’m going to help, no matter what!”
    Her jaw was clenched with determination, although her eyes darted wildly with fright as the wind slammed her once more against the wall. “No matter what!” she screamed again.
    All the wind rushed together to form an angry funnel in the center of the room. It was like a miniature, deadly tornado.
    We would both be dashed to pieces in its fury.
    The funnel traveled back and forth between us. It sounded like an engine at the highest pitch, ready to explode.
    â€œWe want to help!” shouted Katie, her voice cracking with strain.
    Suddenly the funnel moved to the old toy chest near the rocking chair. The lid blew back and papers swirled into the air.
    And the wind was gone, just like that.
    Katie and I stared at each other, catching our breaths.
    A scrap of newspaper drifted to settle at my feet. I bent and picked it up. As I read, excitement stirred in the pit of my stomach.
    â€œNow we know,” I said wonderingly.
    â€œKnow what?” Katie asked, craning her neck to see over my shoulder.
    â€œWho Bobby was,” I said. “And how he died.”

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    â€œRobert Wood, killed October 2, 1940, age five.”
    Katie looked up from the old newspaper with tears in her eyes. “Fifty-five years ago!” she said. “The poor kid has been haunting this house for fifty-five years, waiting for someone to rescue him!”
    I snatched the paper from her hand and read on. “‘Robert was killed instantly in a fall from the cherry tree outside his bedroom window. Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Wood, his parents, were on a European trip at the time and Robert had been left in the care of a nanny, Alice Everett.’”
    â€œThe poor nanny,” said Katie. “How horrible I’d feel if anything happened to you or Sally while your parents were gone.”
    I shivered. She was right—the situations were pretty similar. Did that mean the time was ripe for another fatal accident?
    â€œâ€˜The nanny,’” I read, “‘was beside herself with grief and there were signs the balance of her mind had been affected. Miss Everett, twenty years of age, kept repeating that the child’s teddy bear was missing. Oddly, this favorite toy had still not been found at the time of the child’s burial.’”
    Katie shuddered. “I wonder what happened to the poor woman?”
    We gathered up the other newspaper clippings that had blown around the floor. They were mostly repeats of the same story. One had a description of the teddy bear—brown with a mended ear.
    As I put the clippings away I noticed another piece of paper face down at the bottom of the box.
    â€œWhat’s that?” asked Katie.
    It was stuck in a corner of the box and didn’t want to come loose. I tugged gently, afraid to rip the old paper. “I think it’s a photo,” I said. “But I can’t see who’s in it.”
    â€œHere,” said Katie, nudging me aside. “Let me try.”
    Just then the paper came free, slipping easily into my fingers.
    â€œThat must be Bobby with his mother,” exclaimed Katie when I turned over the photo.
    It showed a small boy and a pretty young woman in a wide-brimmed hat, which must have been fashionable at the time.
    â€œThey don’t look very happy,” I said, noticing that both the boy and the woman had pretty grim expressions.
    â€œThat was the style then,” said Katie knowingly. “People never smiled for the camera. Picture taking was serious business.”
    It was so sad, looking at the photo of a small boy who would never get any older and his pretty mother who would be so far away when he needed her.
    â€œWhat’s that?” said Katie suddenly.
    I heard it, too. Something small and furtive rolling along the floor.
    Then we saw it. A piece of chalk skittering over the floorboards.
    â€œThat’s strange,” said Katie, reaching for