Comes the Blind Fury

“You have to admit, it’s weird,” Sally said.

“What is?” Michelle said evasively.

“You choosing that name for your doll. I mean, that could have been her doll, lying on that shelf all these years, just waiting for you to find it.”

“That’s dumb,” Michelle said flatly, not willing to admit that what Sally had just said was exactly what had been going through her own mind. “I could have named the doll anything.”

“But you didn’t,” Sally insisted. “You named it Amanda. There must have been a reason.”

“It was just a coincidence. Besides, Jeff’s lived here all his life, and if there were a ghost, he’d have seen it.”

“Maybe he has,” Sally said thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s why he won’t go over to your house.”

“He doesn’t come over because he’s busy,” Michelle said quickly. “He has to help his mother.” Her voice was becoming strident, and she felt herself getting angry. Why was Sally talking like this? “Can’t we talk about something else?” she asked.

Sally looked at her curiously, then grinned. “Okay. I’m starting to scare myself, anyway.”

Grateful for her friend’s understanding, Michelle reached out and gave Sally’s arm a friendly squeeze.

“Ouch!” Sally yelped, flinching and pulling away from Michelle.

Her arm, Michelle thought. Her arm’s hurting again, just like it did last week. But nothing happened to her, not today. A shiver passed through Michelle, but she was careful not to let her sudden feeling of unease show.

“I’m sorry,” she said, touching Sally’s arm lightly. “I thought it was all better.”

“I thought it was, too,” Sally replied, glancing back at the cemetery. “But I guess it isn’t.” Suddenly she wanted to get away from there. “Let’s go back to your house,” she said. “This place is giving me the creeps.”

The two girls hurried toward the old house on the bluff. As they reached the back door, Michelle shivered a little, and watched the afternoon fog gather in the air above the sea. Then she pulled open the door and followed Sally inside.

“Dad?”

The Pendletons were gathered in the front parlor, a room they had quickly adopted as a family den, since the living room was too cavernous to suit them comfortably. Cal was sitting in his big chair, his feet resting on an ottoman, and Michelle was stretched out on the floor near him, a book open in front of her. She was lying on her elbows, her chin propped up in the palms of her hands, and Cal couldn’t understand why her neck wasn’t hurting her. Flexibility of youth, he decided. In a frightfully hard-looking antique chair next to the fireplace, June was industriously knitting a sweater for the baby, alternating the stripes — blue and pink — just to be on the safe side.

“Um?” Cal replied, his concentration still on the medical journal in his lap.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Cal’s eyes left the page he had been reading. He glanced at his wife and saw that June had abandoned her knitting. He turned to his daughter, a tentative smile on his face.

“Do I what?” he asked.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Cal’s smile faded as be realized Michelle was serious. He closed the magazine, wondering what had brought on such a strange question.

“Didn’t we talk about this five years ago?” he asked mildly. “About the same time we talked about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny?”

“Well, maybe not ghosts,” Michelle said haltingly. “Not like that, anyway. Spirits, I guess.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” June asked.

Michelle began to feel foolish. Now, in the warmth and comfort of the den, the thoughts that had been worrying her all afternoon seemed silly. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned it at all. She considered for a moment, then decided to tell them what had happened.

“You know that old graveyard between here and the Bensons’?” she began. “Sally showed it to me today.”

“Don’t tell me you saw a ghost in a graveyard,” Cal exclaimed.

“No, I didn’t,” Michelle said scornfully. “But there’s a strange marker there. It — it has the name of my doll on it.”

“Amanda?” June said. “That is strange.”

Michelle nodded. “And Sally says there’s no body in the grave. She says Amanda was a blind girl who fell off the bluff a long time ago.” She hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to continue. Sensing her indecision, Cal urged her on.

“What else did she say?”

“She said some of the kids think Amanda’s ghost is still around here,” Michelle said quietly.

“You didn’t believe her, did you?” Cal asked.

“No …” Michelle said, but her voice made it clear that she wasn’t sure.

“Well, you can believe me, princess,” Cal declared. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, spirits, boogeymen, haunts, poltergeists, or any other such nonsense, and you shouldn’t let anyone tell you there is.”

“But it’s weird, me naming the doll Amanda,” Michelle protested. “Sally thinks the doll might even have belonged to her …”

“It’s just a coincidence, dear.” June picked up her knitting, quickly counted her stitches, and resumed her work. “Those things happen all the time. That’s how ghost stories start. Something odd happens, purely by coincidence, but people don’t want to believe it was just chance. They want to believe there’s something else — luck, ghosts, fate, whatever.” When Michelle still looked unconvinced, June set her work down once more.

“All right,” she said. “How did you happen to choose the name for your doll?”

“Well, I wanted an old-fashioned sounding name—” Michelle began.

“Okay. That lets out a lot of names right there. Yours, and mine, and lots of others that don’t sound old- fashioned. The old-fashioned ones, like Agatha, and Sophie, and Prudence—”

“They’re all ugly,” Michelle protested.

“So that narrows the list down still more,” June reasoned. “Now you wanted a name that’s ‘old-fashioned’ but not ‘ugly,’ and if you start with the A’s, as most of us do, about the first one you come to is—”

“—Amanda.” Michelle finished, grinning, “And I thought it had just come to me,” she muttered.

“Well, in a way, it did,” June said. “The mind works so fast, you didn’t even realize you’d gone through all that reasoning. And that, my love, is how ghost stories are born — coincidence! Now off to bed, or you’ll fall asleep at school tomorrow.”

Michelle pulled herself to her feet, and went to her father. Her arms slid around his neck, and she hugged him.

“I’m really dumb sometimes, aren’t I?” she said.

“No more than the rest of us, princess.” He kissed her gently, then smacked her bottom. “Off to bed with you.”

He listened as Michelle went upstairs, then looked fondly at his wife.

“How do you do it?” he asked admiringly.

“Do what?” June replied absently.

“Think up logical explanations for things that don’t seem logical.”

“Talent,” June replied. “Just talent. Besides, if I’d let you think up an explanation, we’d have been up all night, and wound up all believing in ghosts.”

She got to her feet, and poked at the fire, settling it low on the grate, while Cal turned off the lights. Then, hand in hand, they, too, climbed the stairs.

Michelle lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the night — the surf pounding on the beach below, the last crickets of summer chirping happily in the darkness, the light breeze soughing in the trees around the house. She thought about what her mother had said. It made sense. And yet — and yet it seemed as though there was something wrong with tibie explanation. There should be something else. That’s silly, she told herself. There isn’t anything else. But even as the nightsounds lulled her to sleep, Michelle had the feeling that there was something else.