The Old Willis Place

where we were, as much a part of the farm now as the trees, more firmly rooted to its earth than the deer and foxes.
    Silently we watched Daddy drive the truck through the gate. Mother closed it behind him. She lingered, her eyes searching the woods, whispering our names again. Daddy called to her softly, and she climbed into the passenger seat. The door closed almost noiselessly, and Daddy turned off the engine. They sat together for a long time, talking.
    "Maybe they'll change their minds," Georgie whispered. "Maybe they'll stay."
    I shook my head. Miss Lilian had fired them. The old stone tenant house was no longer their home.
    Finally, Daddy started the truck and turned east on the state road, just two lanes in those days. Georgie and I climbed onto the gate and watched until the truck vanished from sight and the road was empty.
    For weeks afterward, Georgie went to the fence and watched for the truck to come back. I didn't go with him. I knew it would never return.
    Finally, Georgie got mad and stopped going to the gate. He said Mother and Daddy had forgotten about us, but he was wrong. No one forgets the people they love. I just wished I knew where they'd gone and what had become of them.

    Not long after our parents left, Miss Lilian hired a caretaker, a lazy old man named Jimmy Watts. He spent most of his time drinking whiskey and never fixed anything. He did Miss Lilian's grocery shopping, and that was all.
    He lasted maybe a year. Then he quit, and Miss Lilian hired Earl Powers. He stole money, jewelry, anything he thought might be valuable. Miss Lilian fired him.
    After that, Georgie and I couldn't keep up with the hired men. They came and went, each one as lazy as the one before. None of them bothered with repairs. Paint peeled, ceilings sagged, the roof leaked.
    Years passed. Georgie and I lost count of them. We stayed the ages we'd been when the bad thing happened.
    But Miss Lilian got older—and crazier. We helped the process when we could. We flitted through rooms, just out of sight, knocking pictures off walls, throwing things, slamming doors, turning lights on and off. We played the Stein-way in the middle of the night, filling the darkness with half-remembered music, alarming the cats and terrifying the hired men. Poltergeists, said one. Ghosts, said another.
    "I know who you are!" Miss Lilian would yell and brandish her cane. "Leave me alone! You'll be sorry for this!"
    Georgie and I laughed. The old woman couldn't scare us now. We hated her and she hated us.

    Then things changed again.
    One winter day we ran through the house as usual, chasing each other up and down the steps, laughing and shouting, daring Miss Lilian to come after us with her broom. For once she didn't respond to our taunts. No shouts, no curses, no threats, no tottering footsteps.
    Georgie and I dashed from hiding place to hiding place, searching for the old woman. Cats meowed and darted out of our way. A starling trapped in the house flew up the stairs to the second floor. We heard its wings flutter as it brushed past us.
    The door to the front parlor was closed. Behind it, I sensed an odd silence. An emptiness beyond emptiness. Georgie looked at me, suddenly fearful. I slowly opened the door and peered into the darkness. Miss Lilian sat in her chair by the window, its velvet drapes drawn against the daylight. Still, she sat so still. Too still.
    "Is she asleep?" Georgie whispered.
    "No," I said. "She's dead."
    Georgie and I backed away. With shaking hands, I shut the door as soundlessly as possible. We ran out of the house, leaving her to be found by the hired man.
    As we raced home to the shed, new rules established themselves in our heads, just as the old ones had:
Rule Three: Stay away from the house.
Rule Four: Do not disturb Miss Lilian's slumber.
    A week or so later, a hearse came for Miss Lilian. It was a cold, rainy day, as dreary as you can imagine. The lane was muddy, the weeds were dry and brown, the trees bare. A flock of crows watched from the oak tree, perched on the branches like mourners in a church.
    As the undertakers prepared to leave, one said to the other, "Well, that's that. Almost a hundred years old and not a soul to mourn her."
    His companion nodded. "It's a sad thing to die alone."
    With that, they slammed the hearse doors and drove away, taking Miss Lilian's body with them.
    But not her spirit. Miss Lilian remained in the parlor, just as Georgie and I remained on the farm.
    Now, thanks to me, the