The Little Girl from Tobin Hill

By William M. O’Brien, Jr.

Historian John MacReady found exactly what he wanted, peace and quiet. He had never been good at working amidst a ruckus, for example, a Starbucks Coffee Shop or any other gathering place where people are talking, laughing, etc. The working life of a misanthrope is what he needed. Now, in the middle of his current work on the Alamo and its archaeological investigations over the years, he needed both space and quiet to work.

His living arrangements were ideal for him. The entire attic of a huge rambling old house on Craig Street suited his purposes exquisitely. There was even a balcony where he could sit in the open air, sip a drink, and contemplate his strategy on a history work that grew more complicated by the day.

Mrs. June Lowery, his landlady, did not allow pets or children in this house, saying that both could easily damage the property, and that a pet allowance was a hassle to deal with. There were only a few stray cats that made their way through the large, old pecan trees to John’s balcony where he fed them; unbeknownst to Mrs. Lowery, of course.

The old lady was so happy to have a scholar working under her roof that she did little favors for John. Often she would show up in the morning with a carafe of coffee and a few donuts or rolls. Of course John was most grateful for these little favors and did what he could to help out around the place, for instance taking the garbage can to the street. John accomplished this on his Thursday evening walk to the liquor store close by for his weekly quart of whiskey.

One Friday evening he found that one dig at the Alamo had its paper work lost; therefore, he would have to have at least one interview for the info. This to John was a brick wall. He sat, frustrated, sipping Jim Beam and wondering how he could possibly find a way around a snag without going to Denver, Colorado, for an interview. Cursing under his breath, he poured another drink and sat back, when he heard it, a soft sigh, close by.

Immediately, he sat up and looked around. Of course there was no one there. But this was something he had never heard before. Then he was struck by a freezing cold that pervaded the entire room. He had turned his window unit to low cool to handle April’s humidity, but this was something else.

He rose and walked to his air conditioner, thinking that something may have happened to it to turn it all the way down. But it was still on low cool. John switched it off, but the cold was still in the room. After opening the two windows in the room he walked into his living room. Even though it was stuffy, he hadn’t been running the window unit in there.

“What the hell?” he muttered to himself.

Then the cold was gone, and his office/workroom returned to the usual warmth when the air conditioner had been switched off.

“What in the name of God is going on in here?” He sat back in his chair, hesitating to restart the air conditioner because it was the only logical source of the cold in the entire apartment. The open windows, however, offered a fairly cool breeze.

Only when he retired at twelve-thirty did John close the windows and turn the window unit back on.

At three-thirty the next morning he was awakened by the return of the freezing cold. Shivering under his sheet, he rose to put blankets on his bed. He was pulling blankets down from a wardrobe in the next room when he heard it—the soft sounds of a child crying.

Still half asleep, he wondered if he was dreaming. A child? But Mrs. Lowery said there were no children in this house.

He quickly spread his covers on the bed and then began to try to pinpoint the source of the crying. It would definitely be in another apartment. But the crying, as long as he heard it, was in his attic. However, soon it stopped. And the cold also vanished.

The next morning John confronted Mrs. Lowery on the front stoop.

“I could have sworn I heard a child last night crying,” he said, hands in pockets.

“A child?” The old lady turned to him and raised her eyebrows. “You know there’s no child here, Mr. MacReady.”

“I know that. But I tell you I heard it as plain as day.” Suddenly John began thinking he might have dreamed it.

“Well, the Basticos in apartment two are older people. I’ve never heard of them entertaining anyone with a child.” The old lady looked around the front yard and stepped down to the next step. “And apartment three is empty.” She turned to John.

“I’m thinking now, Mrs. Lowery, that I might have dreamed that.

Satisfied that he had only dreamed what he heard, John returned to his work upstairs. He needed to contact the archaeologist concerned with the dig he was currently working on, but there was no e-mail and no phone. He tried to find him online and found a series of photographs of a dig in Illinois. And he found a phone number of a museum in Springfield.

Excited, he dialed the number, and received the answer that Dr. Brinkman was currently living in Denmark and they had no way to reach him.

“Shit!” Loud enough for Mrs. Lowery to hear, he stormed into the kitchen and, with slashing hands, made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The dig in question had produced a few human bones, which made it one of the most important ever done at the Alamo.

After his lunch he lay down for a nap, trying to calm down. He needed to get up at three to return to work but he did not set his alarm.

In a dream, he looked down to the street from a front window of his apartment to see a girl ride by on a bicycle. She was the only person he could see on the street. How strange, he thought, I’ve never seen her before. He turned away from the window and awakened.

“How long have I been out?” he asked aloud. He turned to his clock nearby; a quarter to five. “Damn, damn, damn.” He stumbled to his desk and began rummaging through some papers on a dig done early in the twentieth century by some locals.

After rearranging part of his manuscript and having a few drinks, just before seven o’clock, he decided to walk to a nearby restaurant for supper. When he returned, he was surprised to find some of the papers on his desk disturbed and a copy of the first history he had written out of the bookcase and on his desk.

“What the hell…” he exclaimed. The only one he could think of was doing this was Mrs. Lowery, who did, after all, have a key to his apartment. “What’s she doing in here?”

He decided not to bring the old lady to task, but instead poured himself a drink and returned to his local dig, from which there were not many results. From there he went to a dig in the nineteen seventies which had discovered parts of the old west wall. Shortly after nine o’clock, he stopped work and sat away from his desk, drinking and reading.

At a little after one, he was nodding off when he looked up to see, across the room, a young girl. She was standing in the doorway to his living room, staring at him. And the excruciating cold had returned.

“Wha…Wha… in tha’ name o’ God?” He rose and started for the door but stumbled over a pile of books and fell, face downwards. When he recovered from the fall, the girl and the cold were gone and John, who was clearly drunk, retired to his bed and collapsed.

When he awoke the next morning at nine, he lay in bed and tried to remember the strange dream he thought he had had. The cold disturbed him. He had been freezing cold earlier when he had been sober. Was it a dream? He had never, as far as he knew, remembered dreams from drunken sleep, but the occurrences of last night were vivid in his mind.

And the little girl. Was she real? Strange things had been happening in his apartment in the last few days even when under the influence of Jim Beam.

He walked to the door of his living room and looked around. Books lay scattered about where he had fallen.

John shook his head violently. “I gotta stop this shit,” he said, trying once again to clear his head. He leaned against his door frame and looked all around his living room. Nothing in there seemed amiss. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the girl again in his mind, but his phone ringing startled him awake.

He picked up his house phone receiver to Mrs. Lowery. The old lady, apparently in good spirits, offered to bring him a thermos of coffee to sip on as he worked.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lowery, I certainly appreciate it. By the way, were you in my apartment yesterday, by any chance.”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, a couple of things here were out of place. A book of mine, for example, was out on my desk and I don’t remember putting it there.” John stopped for another thought. “Were there, by any chance, repair people in here? Maybe Mrs. Watson in here cleaning?”

“Why, no. Not that I know of.”

“Well, I guess I’m getting more absent minded the older I get.”

Mrs. Lowery chuckled. “It happens to all of us, Mr. MacReady.”

“Unfortunately, yes.” John smiled. “And thanks ever so much for the coffee.”

“Oh, you’re so welcome. I’ll have Mrs. Watson bring it right up.”

Ms. Phyllis Watson lived across the street in a two- and- a- half story house which she had occupied all her life. Her parents had bought the house before she was born and she had grown up there. Even during her brief marriage, she had occupied the house. Now she and Mrs. Lowery were close friends who did small favors for each other.

John received a knock on the door sooner than he expected. He opened the door to Ms. Watson, thermos in her hand. She looked younger than Mrs. Lowery, so John figured this was because Mrs. Lowery weighed much more than Ms. Watson did.

“Ladies, I want to thank you ever so much. This is going to come in very handy.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. MacReady. We both know you’re very busy.”

“What are you researching, Mr. MacReady, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m working with the Alamo, Ms. Watson. All of the archaeological work that has been done there over the years.”

“Oh, when Margaret told me you were working downtown by the Alamo, I assumed you were researching the Menger hotel. There’s so many delightful ghost stories connected with the Menger.”

“That’s very interesting, Ms. Watson. But the Alamo itself is my game now.”

“I had a friend who was pinched in the lobby down there.”

“Ha…Ha…That’s funny, Ms. Watson.”

“And my friend Casey Zorn’s daughter, Tammy, got a snoot full in the bar and while she was sitting in a room off the lobby, she saw a ghost.”

“Ha…Ha…Ha…That’s funny, too, Ms. Watson. I hope she wasn’t too scared. But, you know, if she was that snockered, she probably thought it was just another hotel guest.”

At that they both laughed and Ms. Watson said goodbye, turned and made her way down the stairs.

John sat down at his desk and thought. God, seeing a ghost when you’re drunk. He laughed again and went back to work. A thought of recognition struck John, but he paid it no mind and went on with his work.

After a sandwich for lunch, John lay down for a nap, after which he read for some time. It wasn’t until almost dusk when he decided to go back to work. He poured himself a drink and then walked to his living room window which looked out on Craig Street. There was the little girl and the bicycle from his dream, but this time she wasn’t riding; she was stopped and looking up at his window. He wondered who she was. “Probably new to the neighborhood,” he muttered to himself. Surely, he had seen her some other time besides his dream.

Until almost midnight, he worked steadily on the nineteen twenties efforts to excavate the Alamo property and found that he could almost make three chapters out of it. But when he rose to go to bed, he heard it again—the crying. This time it sounded like it was coming from his bedroom at the back of the apartment. And the cold seemed to creep up on him.

On instinct, he switched off his window unit in the living room, and walked to his bedroom. He entered his room, looked around, but didn’t see anything. Then he felt two hands on his back.

“What the fuck!” Instantly he turned around but did not see anything. What was there, if anything was there, was gone for the cold was evaporating, too.

Wide-eyed, John looked carefully around the entire bedroom. “What in the name of God was that?” He picked up his bedclothes from his crumpled bed as if looking for something underneath them. He gulped the last of his drink and then poured himself another one.

“Am I going crazy or what?” he muttered. Jim Beam had always soothed his nerves but now it didn’t. “There’s something in here with me, damn it.” Again, this time carefully, he looked around his apartment.

Growing very sleepy with drink, and it was late, he decided not to return to work, but lay down on his bed. He thought again about what had happened in his apartment. Maybe it’s the booze, he thought. I have been hitting it pretty hard lately. Maybe I was more drunk than I thought I was. That’s got to be it.

At half past nine the next morning, he awoke from a deep sleep in which he had dreamed but couldn’t remember anything about his dream. He usually didn’t dream at all, but last night had been another exception. After violently shaking his head and splashing cold water in his face, an image emerged from his dream. There were two little girls calling him “daddy.”

“Daddy? Shit! What’s that supposed to mean?” he muttered, sitting at his desk and playing with a backscratcher. “I’ve never been a daddy.”

He tried to return to work but was too stirred up to concentrate. Instead, he rose and made his way to the front window in his living room. There, on the sidewalk, was the same little girl from the previous day. Again she was stopped on her bicycle and was staring up at his window. This time, however, John felt there was something sinister about this little figure on the sidewalk below his window.

He turned and raced down the stairs to the second floor and then down another flight to the first. Bursting through the front door, he turned to his right, but the little girl was not there.

“What the hell…” he muttered.

Hearing something stirring behind him, he turned to discover Mr. and Mrs. Bastico in the porch swing. “Did you see a little girl just now on the sidewalk?” he asked.

“No. Only one we’ve seen is Ms. Watson in her front yard.” Mrs. Bastico gestured at the house across the street.

“I could have sworn I saw a little girl down here not two minutes ago.”

“Nobody’s been around that we’ve seen.” Mr. Bastico, who had been reading the paper, folded it, and set it down beside the swing.

Frustrated, John returned to his attic apartment and began sorting through handwritten notes, searching for another “dig” taking place during the nineteen twenties. “She was down there, goddamnit,” he muttered. “There is no way I can go crazy. I’m too logical.” He tossed the stack of handwritten pages on the floor and leaned back in his chair.

After walking in circles for a few minutes, he decided to return to his material on the West Wall and this he worked on for the rest of the day.

At dusk, he poured himself a drink and walked slowly around his apartment, stilling thinking about “seeing things.” He had always prided himself on his practicality and his “no nonsense” attitude toward just about everything he did. But something seemed to be testing that attitude here.

He stopped in front of the full length mirror in the hallway just outside his bedroom. For once it didn’t have the usual shirt or jacket draped on it.

“Do I look like an idiot to you?” he addressed the mirror. He tossed down the remainder of his glass and then walked to his desk and poured himself another. Sipping this drink he returned to his living room.

At the large front window he looked down, and there, as he knew she would be, was the little girl.

“You’re not there, goddamnit!” he screamed.

Quickly, he swallowed the remainder of his glass and looked again. She was gone.

Slowly, he walked to his desk and sat down. “Am I cracking up? Am I going bonkers?” Again he wondered if it was the alcohol causing him this trouble. But he had never had any trouble with it in the past. However, frustrated by his research, the absent material he needed, and these visions, he had become a better friend than usual to Jim Beam.

He rose, returned to the living room, and peered out the window again. There was no little girl down on the sidewalk. He returned to his office and out on his balcony. There he checked the sidewalk all the way up to Main Avenue. The little girl, if she was ever there at all, had vanished.

For now, he was safe. He was back in a sane frame of mind.

After pouring himself another drink, he returned to his work.

Now it was growing late, but he had no desire to stop work. Although he had a full glass, he was feeling the drinks he had had.

Swiveling around in his chair, he eyed his bed through his bedroom door. For the first time he wondered what awaited him in sleep. Was it the little girl he’d seen? Or something worse.

Maybe if I go to bed drunk I won’t dream, he thought. He turned back to his desk, took a sip and closed out his work for the time being.

Then he stripped down to his underwear in which he always slept and climbed into bed. The room seemed to be spinning around him.

By God, he thought. I’m going to sleep well tonight. The air conditioner in his bedroom was turned to low cool and everything seemed comfortable for the night. John turned off the lamp on his nightstand and rolled over.

At three AM he was dreaming that a woman was running her fingers through his hair and scratching his scalp. He awoke suddenly to the same sensation. He sat up in bed, only to feel a cold so fierce that it could have only come out of the Arctic.

“What the hell is this now,” he said, scrambling for the quilt and bedspread he always kept on the bed.

A strange light in his hallway turned his attention there. He started to get up, but when he did, out of the mirror stepped the little girl he was now very much familiar with.

She advanced toward him, staring straight into his face.

“Jesus, what in the…My God what is this Who are you…And why…”

The specter said not a word; just stared at him. And kept coming.

John scrambled to the top of the bed, the bedclothes clutched tightly in his hands.

In the meantime the girl had advance to his bedside. She was a fairly large girl, larger than John had thought she was. Now she was bending over the bed and reaching her hand out. Her vacant eyes just stared, but as quickly as she had come, she vanished.

John sat for a number of minutes in the same position. Suddenly a humorous thought occurred to him. “You stupid bastard! Haven’t you ever seen a ghost before.”

He adjusted his bed and prepared to get back in it. But now without apprehension. Now he wondered where the specter was. The cold was gone so he figured the girl was gone, too.

“I think this merits a trip to the city archives,” he muttered to himself. “Something’s gone on here that caused this and I’m going to find out what it is.”

With that comforting thought, John slept soundly until the morning sun woke him at eight o’clock.

That next day, after an all day search through newspaper archives, John found a story about an eleven year old girl who had been struck and killed by a truck on Main Avenue on May 3rd, 1958, just around the corner from Craig Street. The girl had been riding her bicycle and had been struck from behind and knocked several feet over the curb. The girl’s name was Karen Squires and she had lived on Craig Street. There was no picture in the article, and John wondered if he could find another source that would have one. Then he remembered Mrs. Watson.

John ate supper on the way home, parked his car in the parking garage and then headed for Mrs. Watson’s house across the street. Mrs. Watson spent most of her time with Mrs. Lowery across the street, but John was hoping he could catch her at home this evening at dusk. In all the time he had lived on Craig Street he had not visited Mrs. Watson, but had always talked with her at Mrs. Lowery’s. Tonight, though, he needed to catch her at home away from Mrs. Lowery. He need not worry, though, for she opened the door to his first knock.

“Mr. MacReady, what a pleasant surprise. Come on in.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Watson. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.” John followed the lady into a large living room decorated with antiques, family portraits and old prints. Two large, long haired cats lounged on one of three couches; John took a seat on a second one. “I was doing some research downtown and I ran across something you might know about.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Watson seated herself beside John on the couch and turned toward him. “Something about the Alamo?”

“No, this is a little closer to home.” John gazed about the room and then faced Mrs. Watson. “This is in regards to a little girl named Karen Squires.”

The old lady screwed up her face. “Squires…Squires…Yes. That was George Squire’s daughter who used to live a few houses down. She was killed in an accident, I believe.”

“Yes, she was hit by a truck on Main Avenue, right around the corner down there.”

“Oh, my God. I was eighteen years old at the time and about to graduate from Jefferson High School. I remember what a tragedy that was.”

“Yes, it was a tragic event.” John thought a minute about mentioning the ghost and then decided not to. “Anyway, living in the same neighborhood as the accident, even just a few feet from where it happened, I found the item interesting and knew you would know about it.”

They talked for an hour about the neighborhood and John filled Mrs. Watson in on what he was currently writing about the Alamo, and then he excused himself and returned to his apartment.

Walking in his front door, John came face to face with something he was not ready for. Scrawled across the top of the doorway from his living room to his office were the words: I want my father to go to jail.

He recognized the writing as the work of a large marks lot he kept in a top desk drawer. Also, he knew, without even thinking about it, that this was done by the phantom girl he had seen. But what did she mean? Was her father a criminal? The only way he could get answers would be to visit Mrs. Watson again.

But what about the girl herself? Could she talk? He had heard her crying. And wasn’t this the next best thing to talking? John vowed the next time he saw her he would speak to her.

Two weeks passed with no sign of the girl and John wondered if she were gone for good. He had removed the writing from the wall as best he could, not wanting to earn the ire of Mrs. Lowery should she see it. Could this be the reason for the girl’s staying away?

As he worked and closed out one section of his history to begin work on another, he began thinking about Mrs. Watson’s friends’ experience with ghosts at the Menger Hotel. He had his own ghost right there, but where was she? She had left him a cryptic message and vanished, not even to be seen on her bicycle again.

April turned into May which brought heat, and John moved to his balcony, typing on a lap top on a card table and entertaining at least three cats. One big black and white female seemed more tame than all the others, so much so that John wondered if she belonged to someone around the neighborhood. She would lie by his chair while he worked on the balcony for hours on end. Sometimes she would follow him into his apartment and John would give her a bit of food. Then, she took to sleeping during the day on John’s bed.

He named her Theodora, after one of his favorite characters in fiction, and vowed to be discreet with her, knowing what Mrs. Lowery thought about pets in the apartments. All things considered, Theodora would vanish toward evening along with the other cats that had come around during the day.

One Friday evening nearly three weeks after the disappearance of his phantom visitor, John took off work early and thought he would spend the evening watching movies. Given the fact that these were rare evenings for John, he did enjoy himself with Jim Beam and various snacks he had around the apartment. At eleven o’clock, however, pleasantly drunk and comfortable in his apartment, he retired to bed.

Around three A.M., however, he was awakened by a knocking that he thought had come from the Bastico’s apartment. He sat up in bed and listened for ten minutes, but the knocking never re-occurred. Finally, he returned to a deep sleep.

In a dream he awoke to find Theodora in his bed with him. He wondered how she had gotten in because the balcony door had always remained locked at night. He was about to get up and check when the cat sat up and turned toward him.

“My father touched me. I want him to go to jail,” it said, in a slow even voice. The large cat swished its tail and stared at John.

John threw his legs over the bed to rise and the effort woke him. Slowly, he got out of bed and headed for the balcony door to find it ajar and the big cat asleep in his desk chair.

“How in God’s name did this happen?” he said aloud. He knew he always checked the balcony door before retiring but he wondered if, probably because of Jim Beam, he had failed to do this the previous evening.

And the cat. Where had she come from?

He checked the time-not quite five o’clock in the morning. Wide awake now, he wondered how he would fill the time before daylight, as he never rose from bed before daylight.

And the knocking he had supposed had come from the Bastico’s apartment. Did that have something to do with the opened balcony door?

John switched on a lamp on his desk and sat down by it. This is just plain fucking creepy, he thought.

The cold, colder than any meat locker, returned suddenly. John sat up and looked around. He sensed something behind him.

Turning abruptly, he confronted the girl, not four feet from, and staring down at him.

“Wha…Wha…What are you doing here?” John was clearly shaking and felt a need to jump up and run out of the room.

But then the specter spoke, her lips barely moving.

“My father touched me. He hurt me. I must tell mother. I want him to go to jail.”

Theodora, eyeing the specter crept toward the balcony door, all the time emitting a low whine.

“How…How did your father hurt you?” Now John felt trapped.

The girl stepped closer. Now almost on top of John, she bent over at the waist, staring into John’s face.

He wanted to scream, but somehow kept himself from doing it.

“My father is a criminal. He must go to jail.” And just as suddenly as she had appeared she was gone. And, of course, so was the cold.

“What the hell am I supposed to do about this?” John muttered. He was still shivering even though the room had returned to its nighttime coolness.

The balcony door and eastern window showed dawn breaking through the pecan trees. Somehow a great deal of time had escaped him. Now the only thing he could do was wait until later in the morning and confront Mrs. Watson again, to try to find out what was going on

A little before nine John cleared the stairs in two steps and headed for Mrs. Watson’s. He must catch her before she made her way across the street to Mrs. Lowery.

As before she answered his knock abruptly.

“Why, Mr. MacReady, you’re up early.” The old lady moved aside to let John in. “I was just sitting down to breakfast. Would you like to join me?”

“Oh, thank you Mrs. Watson. I’m not that hungry. But I will take a cup of that delicious coffee you make.”

Sitting in a well sunlighted breakfast room off the kitchen, John sipped coffee and wondered what he was going to say. In the back of his mind was what Mrs. Watson had said about ghosts at the Menger hotel previously.

“I wanted to talk to you some more about the Squires.” John sat back in his chair. “Something has come up that has a direct bearing on this family.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Watson put down her coffee cup and folded her hands in front of her.

“Yes. What happened to them after their daughter died?”

“Well, George Squires died in nineteen eighty-one. Or was that eighty-two?” She looked up at John and smiled. “My stars. Time flies so fast I don’t see how anyone keeps up with it.”

“It sure does. Half the time I feel like I’m working against a deadline.” John chuckled. Then he took a deep breath. “This is kind of hard to believe. I can hardly believe it myself. I am a practical man, but some things have been happening across the street that defy rational explanation.”

Mrs. Watson raised her eyebrows. “What things, Mr. MacReady?”

“I’ve been seeing a ghost, Mrs. Watson. The ghost of that girl Karen.” Now John breathed easier. “I want to make sure it’s her. I was wondering if you had any pictures of her.”

“I believe I do. Taken by my father at my sixteen birthday party. Karen was nine then and I believe there’s a picture of her with me. There’s some other pictures to.” The old lady leaned forward over the table. “A ghost, Mr. MacReady? That is fascinating. You know, I absolutely believe all of that.”

“Don’t mention it to Mrs. Lowery. I wouldn’t want to upset her.”

“Oh, I won’t mention it. June’s a practical person, Mr. MacReady. Like you are.”

“Good. Good.” John put his empty coffee cup down.

“I’ll look for those pictures and when I find them, I’ll bring them to you.”

“That’s great, Mrs. Watson.”

John left Mrs. Watson and returned to his work, wary less his phantom visitor be somewhere about. Finally discovering a way to explore the human bones excavation without having to leave town, John was hard at work when he heard a soft knock at the door.

As she had said she would, there stood Mrs. Watson, a thermos in one hand and an old photo album in the other.

“I thought you might like another cup of my coffee, Mr. MacReady.” She looked around the apartment.

“I hope I’m not disturbing anything.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Watson. As a matter of fact, I’m glad you’re here.” John produced two coffee mugs and they sat down in the living room.

“Now here is the picture I told you about.” Mrs. Watson leafed through seven or eight pages in the album until she found the one she wanted. “This is me at eighteen and Karen Squires who was nine at the time.” She handed the book over to John.

Although the hair was different, John recognized the girl who had appeared before him a number of times now. It seems she was a big girl even at that age.

“That’s the one, Mrs. Watson. That’s my ghost.” John nodded his head and handed the book back to Mrs. Watson. “I wasn’t really sure if she was the one who had appeared around my apartment. But she did appear a few times on a bicycle, and she was killed on a bicycle, so I wanted to make sure.”

“A ghost, Mr. MacReady. A ghost of someone I knew. Right here in the neighborhood.” Mrs. Watson leaned forward in her chair. “Why do you suppose she’s still here?”

“I have a pretty good idea, Mrs. Watson.” Now John leaned back in his chair and took a sip of coffee. “She spoke to me this morning before dawn. She said her father had touched her, and he had hurt her. I take this to mean, and I’m pretty sure of it, that she was molested. And she was killed before she had a chance to report it. She said her father should go to jail.”

“Oh, my God, Mr. MacReady.” Mrs. Watson, truly astonished put her mug down in her lap, both hands on it. “George Squires. I saw him hit her once in the front yard of their home. But I wouldn’t dream that he would…” She shook her head slowly and looked toward the front window.

“Yes, ma’am. I heard her crying. And she told me her father should go to jail more than once.”

“Oh, Lord.” Mrs. Watson looked back across the room at John. “After George Squires died, his wife, Ruth, Karen’s mother, took the younger brother and moved back to Houston where she was born. Not too long ago, I heard that Ruth had died not too long after the Houston move. I don’t know what happened to the younger brother.”

“It seems to me that this has been a tragedy all the way around, Mrs. Watson.”

“You’re absolutely right, Mr. MacReady.” She rose from her chair. “I have to run, now. I have to be downtown by noon. There’s a couple a cups left in the thermos. Go ahead and keep it and give it back to me later.”

She left, leaving John sitting at his desk with his thoughts. He felt he had done right by the girl. Word of her molestation was now out; it had been reported. And those concerned implicated in it. One person the girl had known now knew the truth. Of course there was nothing to be done now. All concerned were gone.

But John felt good about the whole situation anyway. He swiveled in his chair around to receive Theodora in his lap, a habit she had started a few days before. Petting the large cat, he focused his eyes on the ceiling and tried to envision the final chapters of his work.

And the little girl of Tobin Hill? Only time would tell.

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