Free The Swallow by Charis Cotter Page B

Winnifred, then?”
    “Oh, yes,” replied Rose grimly. “It’s Winnifred all right. I saw her for a moment. In the corner. A girl my age with long hair and scary eyes.”
    “We’ve got to find out more about her,” I said. “But what about Kendrick? Did she hear us?”
    Rose shook her head. “No. I thought I heard something, but there was no sign of her. I guess she’s decided to ignore me, no matter how much noise I make.”
    “How come you spoke in that terrible voice, ‘Begone, foul beast!’?” I asked sleepily. “You sounded like an avenging angel.”
    Rose laughed. “I guess it does sound pretty strange. I read about it in a ghost book somewhere. It said that you’re supposed to speak directly to ghosts and tell them to go away. And for demons and entities and stuff like that, you need to speak their language, like in the Bible. It’s silly, really.”
    “Not silly,” I mumbled. “Funny, though. And I think it worked. I think you scared her away.”
    “Let’s hope so,” said Rose, standing up. “I’m going to search this room. There’s got to be something here that will tell us more about Winnifred.”
    She started with the closet, hesitating before stepping across the threshold. But it seemed safe, and she disappeared inside for a moment. She came out with more shoe boxes and then went back in again.
    After five minutes of quick trips in and out, she had a collection of about fifteen more shoe boxes, two small suitcases and a couple of large cardboard boxes.
    “There,” she said, dusting off her hands. “Maybe there’s something in all of this.”
    I sat up. “Can I—?” I started, but then I felt dizzy and lay back down.
    Rose came and again laid her cool hand against my forehead.
    “You’re warmer now,” she muttered, “but I’m a little worried about you, Polly. You should probably go to bed. Maybe I can take you home and we can tell your mother you’re feeling sick?”
    I shook my head. “No, I don’t want her to know I’ve been here. I—I want to keep you to myself. Our secret.”
    Rose shook her head. “I don’t know.”
    “I’ll be okay. Just let me lie here for a while. Supper isn’t till 6:30.”
    There was a funny little old-fashioned green alarm clock beside the bed, a round one with brass bells on top. It said 5:45.
    Rose shook her head again, but then she plonked herself down among the shoe boxes and started going through them, throwing off the lids. I didn’t get to see all the shoes this time. She moved quickly on to the suitcases.
    “Wow!” she breathed as she opened the first one. She held up a pink filmy nightgown. It had thick borders of lace along the neck. Then she pulled out another one of creamy satin and another, dark-green silk. I was dying to get out of bed and look at them but she moved on to the other suitcase.
    The fasteners were stuck at first and she had to bang them a bit to get them open. When she looked inside I could hear her quick intake of breath.
    “What?” I asked eagerly, leaning out of the bed dangerously to try to see in.
    Rose stood up and brought the case over to the bed.
    Lying on top was a carefully folded black dress, and underneath were other dark sweaters and blouses, and a skirt. A pair of plain black shoes was tucked into the side pocket.
    “So?” I said, puzzled. “Old clothes, so what?”
    As Rose pulled out the dress, something dropped out of it and fell to the ground with a soft rustle. She picked it up. It was a dried flower—a rose—probably red once but now blackened with age. She handed it to me, then held up the dress. It was long. It would have probably hit Rose halfway between her knee and her ankle if she’d put it on. It had a row of buttons all the way down the front and a wide white collar.
    I still didn’t get it. “It’s kind of hideous, but what’s so special about it?”
    “It’s the same dress!” whispered Rose, fingering the soft material. “The one she was wearing when I saw her in