Michael tried to turn to see who had spoken, but he had already begun to step outside, and he was blinded by the sun. He tripped and tumbled awkwardly to the floor outside. The shed door slammed shut before he could lift himself up.
When he had gotten to his feet, the latch was stuck shut, as though somebody had locked it from the inside, which was impossible, because it had no lock on the inside. He pulled at the handle. He tried to twist it. He banged it. It was no use. He wasn't going to get it open. His father would be angry with him, for sure. Just last night Mr. Scott had pulled Michael in from the shed, and now Michael had broken the lock. He had no choice but to fix it. He looked around for something to hit it with, but he saw nothing that looked big enough or strong enough. The tools, of course, were in the shed. He gave the door a good, angry kick.
"What are you doing?" Willow asked from behind him, having come back from the front garden.
"Nothing."
"That wasn't nothing, that was kicking the door. Why were you kicking the door?"
"It's stuck."
"Who stuck it?"
"I did."
"Why?"
"I was hiding."
"You were hiding outside the shed? Why? Because the door's stuck? Why did you stick it?"
Michael was still glaring in frustration at the door. He answered Willow automatically, not thinking about what he was saying.
"I was hiding inside, and there were sticks and there was dust and I sneezed and someone said 'God bless,' and I fell and now the handle's stuck."
"You like kicking it, don't you?"
Michael made a point of not answering.
Willow was beside him now, looking at the shed in a companionable fashion.
"You probably broke it," she said, "Do you want to hear what I heard in the front garden?"
Michael grabbed at the door handle again. It didn't budge.
"I heard that Daddy's building a new road."
Michael studied the right side of the shed. "He's always building roads. That's what he does."
"He's going to build one here," Willow explained, "for the Americans."
Michael studied the left side of the shed. "There aren't any Americans in Mistleton," he said.
"Mrs. Barger says there will be," Willow said.
Mrs. Barger was one of the leading women on the village board. She was a large-shouldered, large-hipped woman. She had a loose grey bun of hair on her head and a mustache on her lip, and she carried herself with an aristocratic air that she never quite pulled off. She was married to the owner of a local flour mill that sold flour to supermarket chains all over England. Her favorite topic of conversation, which was also the favorite topic of her rotund husband, was progress. Michael could imagine the two of them sharing a generous meal while partaking in an enthusiastic exchange about building new, progressive roads for the Americans. They'd be speaking aristocratically, of course, although probably with their mouths full, spitting out food with every other word. Mrs. Barger was always speaking enthusiastically, often with her mouth full. It was disgusting and messy.
"Mrs. Barger always says there will be Americans," Michael said off-handedly. He was considering the roof of the shed with a careful eye.
"The shed's a terrible place to hide," Willow said, changing the subject to match Michael's point of concentration, "It's the first place I'd look."
"Yeah," Michael agreed, "It's the first place I'd look, too." He moved to the garden wall and peered at the shed's back. There was nothing--or more to the point, no one--to see. To Michael, who had spent his whole life living almost next door to a cemetery, that could mean only one thing.
"There's ghosts!" he half shouted, forgetting that he didn't believe in ghosts. He grabbed Willow's arm. "C'mon!"
Willow had no chance to complain. After letting out a brief grunt when her brother almost pulled her arm out of its socket, she followed him through the garden gate and towards St. Lucy's. They were over the bridge and dodging gravestones before she could insist that he was hurting her.
"Sorry," he said without conviction. He let go of her arm and scurried towards where he had last seen Old Geoffrey. They found him pulling weeds, although how Old Geoffrey determined which plants were weeds and which weren't, was beyond Michael.
"There's ghosts!" Michael blurted as soon as he was in earshot.
"There's what?" Old Geoffrey asked, standing upright in a movement that indicated that his body would have much preferred to have remained uninterrupted in a crouch. The grimace on his face showed a similar conviction.
"There's ghosts," Michael repeated, less loudly now that he was close to Old Geoffrey, and feeling a little guilty for having disturbed him. Still, he was insistent.
Old Geoffrey regarded Michael without a hint of emotion.
"Ghosts," Michael said, more quietly still. He was a little intimidated by Old Geoffrey's lack of action. He had expected a more enthusiastic response from somebody who had spent his life in a graveyard and made a gigantic fuss over not stepping on everyone's resting places. Michael stood waiting for a reaction, any reaction. Old Geoffrey looked to Willow. Willow shrugged.
Old Geoffrey regarded Michael with a look that was a mix of irritation and deliberate patience. Michael had often seen that look on his parents' faces. Old Geoffrey sustained that look for more than a comfortable moment. Finally he spoke.
"Ghosts," was all he said.
"Ghosts," Michael repeated, not sure whether Old Geoffrey was giving him permission to speak but sure he had to say something.
Michael didn't think he had ever seen anyone cross his arms and roll his eyes as slowly as Old Geoffrey did just then. He also heaved a great, dramatic sigh.
"Ghosts," the sexton said to himself, "There's ghosts." He leveled his eyes to meet Michael's. "Well o' course there's ghost's yer berk! D'yer think I been tellin' yer to watch yer step for the sake o' hearin' my beautiful voice? O' course there's ghosts!" His voice had been rising to the point of overexcitement, but then it subsided. "Yeah, there's ghosts," he chuckled, "Yeah there is."
Michael knew that Old Geoffrey had misunderstood.
"Not here," he pointed out, "I know there are ghosts here." That was a fib. He didn't know there were ghosts in the churchyard. He did think, though, that there were ghosts in his garden shed. "In my shed," he said, to make it clear.
Old Geoffrey gave him that look again, that parental, overly patient look.
"In yer shed."
Michael nodded.
"There's ghosts in yer shed."
Michael nodded again. He was becoming irritated with how Old Geoffrey kept repeating what Michael said. He tried just looking at the grizzled sexton, letting the silence give his words truth.
Old Geoffrey sighed. "What did they look like?" he asked.
Michael had been expecting a difficult question, but this one was easy.
"They didn't look like anything," he answered confidently.
"Then how d'yer know they was ghosts?"
"What do ghosts look like?"
"It don't matter, if yer don't see 'em."
There was a trick in this reasoning, Michael realized, but he didn't know what it was. Then it struck him.
"That's how I know they were ghosts!" he shouted, "They were invisible!"
"Then how d'yer know they was there?"
This was much more to Michael's liking.
"Because they spoke to me."
Old Geoffrey's look was less parental now, and more interested.
"They spoke to yer?"
Old Geoffrey was repeating what Michael said again, but now it was not in that irritating way that merely echoed Michael's speech. His tone was more that of somebody trying to be sure he had heard correctly.
"Yeah, they spoke to me."
Old Geoffrey's focus on Michael was intense.
"They said 'God bless,'" Michael told him.
" 'God bless?'"
"I sneezed."
"And where was this?"
"I told you, in our shed."
"And what was yer doin' in the shed?"
"Hiding."
"From the ghosts?"
At this point, Willow joined in.
"He was hiding from me," she said, "But it wasn't a good hiding place. It was the first place I would have looked, if he had been in there, and if I had been looking."
Old Geoffrey looked at Willow.
"But he weren't in there?"
"No, he was outside the shed, kicking it."
Old Geoffrey looked at Michael.
"Kickin' it? Why?"
Michael felt foolish.
"Because I couldn't get in. I was in, then I sneezed and someone said 'Bless you,' and I fell out, and I couldn't get back in." It sounded feeble when he said it.
"The lock was jammed," Willow explained.
Michael was sure, though, that it wasn't. He insisted this to the others, adding, "Something was holding the door shut. Something was keeping me out."
Old Geoffrey gazed into the distance for almost a minute. Michael and Willow waited for what he would say. They knew Old Geoffrey, and when he gazed into the distance for almost a minute, he almost always had something important or interesting, or both, to say. At last he looked at them with a little grim smile on his face, as though he regretted having to say what he was thinking.
"It ain't ghosts," he said ruefully, "I almost wish it was. Don't get me wrong. Ghosts ain't no laughin' matter, and I wouldn't wish 'em on no one. Take me at my word on that." He gave a motion with his head, to indicate the graveyard as evidence that he had quite a bit of unpleasant experience with spirits in his job.
"How do you know it isn't ghosts?" Michael asked, still hoping, despite Old Geoffrey's obvious preference otherwise, that he had ghosts in his shed.
"Because ghosts can't hold doors shut." He lowered his voice to nearly a whisper, as if to avoid curious ears from eavesdropping from any nearby graves. "An' they don't like it, let me tell yer. The thing is, ghosts is good at bumpin' things, an' pushin' things, an' makin' bangin' noises an' that." He lowered his voice even more. "But they ain't got no grip." He made an exaggerated grabbing motion with his hands. "They can't hold onto things. They just push." He made a shoving motion, with his palms raised. "So that can't be ghosts in yer shed. Not that they'd have no reason to be there, no-how." Old Geoffrey seemed almost to make this comment to himself, but Michael wasn't sure. Michael was too disappointed at not having ghosts.
"Why do you wish it was ghosts?" Willow asked Old Geoffrey. Michael had missed that point.
"Because of the alternative." There was a mix of matter-of-factness and mystery to the way Old Geoffrey said this.
"The alternative?" Michael and Willow asked as one.
Again Old Geoffrey was silent for a long while. This time, Michael knew, Old Geoffrey wasn't gazing into the distance in deep thought. This time, Old Geoffrey was building the suspense. He was building it a bit too much, actually, in Michael's opinion. Willow seemed to agree.
"What alternative?" she demanded.
"Goblins," Old Geoffrey replied, and although he obviously enjoyed the way that Michael's and Willow's mouths opened in bafflement, the tone of his voice had an edge that told them that the subject of goblins brought Old Geoffrey no pleasure.