The History Ghost, Part 1

A Young Reader Short Story

Sometimes, I enjoy writing for young readers. It’s a different kind of challenge than writing for adults. Here’s a piece I’ve almost finished. I’ll publish it in two parts, to give myself some time to get the ending right.

“F? What kind of grade is that?” His dad stabbed the test paper with his finger.

Miles had prayed through dinner that his parents would forget to ask about the history test. His sister, Marne, took up most of the conversation with her mall report, and for a change, he hadn’t pretended to gag. He hadn’t even crossed his eyes.

Just keep ‘em busy, Marn, he prayed silently, fixing his eyes on his dinner plate and yumming over Mom’s chicken.

Victoria, the sister who arrived seven years ago and ruined his life, ruined this night as well. “Guess what?” she said between bites of chicken. “I got an A on my arithmetic paper.”

Miles dropped his fork with a clatter and stared into his dad’s eyes which were suddenly fixed on him. Little Miss Prodigy with her A was the drumroll of doom for Miles because in the next minute, Dad asked what his problem was, then where his history test was, then…

Now his dad leaned back in his chair, the paper with a dark red F clutched in his hand. “I thought we had an understanding about this, Miles.”

Oh no, the I’m-disappointed-in-you look. Anything but that. Miles slid lower in his seat. Why did he have to be the only kid in the seventh grade with a dad who taught history at the college? Why did he have to be the only one who hated history? He sat through his dad’s dinner table lecture, nodded in the right places, looked miserable as he knew he should, then scuffed his way out of the room with his eyes glued to the carpet.

His dad’s voice followed him into the hall. “Get that grade up, or the computer goes, the telephone goes, and so does your summer vacation.”

Miles climbed the three flights of stairs to the back room he’d claimed as his when they’d moved into this old house at the beginning of this term. His room wasn’t light. It didn’t have a view of the lake. And because there was no closet, neither of his sisters was the least bit interested in it.

He’d chosen it because of where it was. As his dad always said, “The house is not important. It’s always location, location, location.” Miles agreed. Once in his room he didn’t have to dodge Marne, the sixteen-year-old Miss I Know Everything. And Victoria didn’t like to climb higher than two stories, so she didn’t nose through his stuff.

The room had one problem and he couldn’t figure out how to fix it. Every so often it became as cold as a refrigerator. Then just as quickly, it warmed. This always happened when he was under the sheets and nearly asleep, so he’d pull up the extra blanket from the end of the bed and burrow under the covers.

When he told his mom about the cold that came and went, she shrugged and said, “These old Victorians have strange drafts. I’ll ask your dad to look at the heater vent in your room.” As far as he knew, Dad hadn’t looked at anything, so the problem remained.

That night when Miles got to his room, his ears still rang with his dad’s scolding. He went to his desk and shuffled through his homework pile. Math done. English almost done. History totally not touched. But who cared what happened to the Colonists in 1600? He tossed the F paper on top of his books. He’d work on his assignment later.

Pulling his car magazine from the middle desk drawer, he flipped the pages. HotRods. Now this is important. In an article, he found a website that looked interesting and logged on. He scrolled down through the ads. So many beauties. Page after page of Chevys and Fords, chopped, channeled. The ones with the flames were his favorites.

When he glanced at the clock on his computer screen he couldn’t believe it was after eleven. How had he lost track of so much time? He had to get some sleep, but he still hadn’t opened his history book.

As he stretched up from his chair, the room temperature dropped and the skin on his arms turned to goosebumps. When he looked behind him, a strange man stood near the door to his room. Miles flattened against the wall next to his desk, his breath coming in short pants, his eyes riveted on the figure across the room.

The man’s hair curled around his head like a gray cloud. In one hand, he held a scroll, the paper spooling at his feet. In his other, he clutched a quill pen. As he raised his hand, an ink bottle appeared, then floated into the air and stayed at his side. He dipped the pen into the bottle and then scratchety, scratchety went the quill across the scroll.

“Oh mymymy.” His whispery voice seemed to come from a great distance, not just a few feet away. “This will never do. NoNoNo.” He dipped his pen into the floating ink bottle again and crossed out several lines.

“What . . . are . . . you doing here?” Miles finally managed to stammer.

The man glanced up. “How rude you are, young man. Where are your manners?”

“But—”

“Now you’ve interrupted my thoughts and I’ll have to go over this whole bit and I’ll be late with the submission. I’ve told them this is a job for three, not one, and here I am once more behind schedule. OhdearOhdearOhdear.” Without looking at Miles again, the man scribbled quickly as he walked, dragging the scroll beside him. When he reached the wall he walked through it as if it weren’t there.

Miles sat in his chair with a thump, his eyes fixed on the spot where the man had been only a second before. The room temperature became normal and soon he stopped shaking from the cold, but he couldn’t stop shaking from what had happened. When he stood, the HotRod magazine slipped onto the floor, unnoticed. Slowly he walked across the room. He stretched his hand out, touching the wood, feeling its solid structure, and at the same time doubting his sanity.

It was late. That had to be the problem. He was tired. He was worried about losing his summer to whatever punishment his dad had in mind if he didn’t get that grade up. Diving into bed, he left the desk light on like he used to when he was five.

After school the next day, Miles didn’t climb the stairs to his room. He sat at the dining room table, spread his homework out, and tackled his easiest subject, math. At dinner, he took seconds and considered thirds. He wasn’t eager to go into that room of his.

Marne had lots to say about some dance and a dress and a guy, so Miles tuned her out. Dad got worked up about all the misprints in his textbook that made a major difference in when past world events happened.

Whatever, Miles thought.

Victoria was coming down with a cold.

Yay! Miles didn’t dare say that out loud.

“So Miles, did you talk to your teacher about extra credit to make up that F?” His dad caught him with his mouthful of potatoes, so he nodded.

“That’s good.” Mom smiled at him. “You can’t fail history in this town. It would not reflect well on your father.”

It was time to escape and the only place to do that was his room. “I’ll get on that assignment right now.” He cleared his plate, stacked it in the dishwasher, and gathered his books.

When he reached the third floor, he faced his door, then turned the knob and pushed. Still standing in the hall, he peered inside. The tumble of bed covers, yesterday’s jeans and shirt, Hotrod magazine still by his chair—everything looked normal. Leaving the door open, he crept toward his desk and eased himself in front of the computer. He’d check his e-mail, and then he’d start that extra credit for history.

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Well, Miles seems to have a couple of problems—his history grade, for one, and now a ghost that haunts his room. Are you up for finding out how Miles will handle that grade problem and what this ghost is about? I’ll publish the second part next Wednesday. Thanks for reading. I hope you’ll leave a comment. They’re always interesting and often helpful.

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