Douglas backed off and stared at his companions, who had heard the voice from below and were now frozen, not knowing what to do.
‘You got nothing more to say?’ called Grandpa from down below. ‘Well, maybe not here. I’m gonna get going; you know where to find me. I’ll expect you there soon.’
‘Yeah, yes, sir.’
Doug and the boys were silent as they listened to Grandpa’s footsteps echo throughout the haunted house, along the hall, down the stairs, out onto the porch. And then, nothing.
Douglas turned and Tom held up the burlap sack.
‘You need this, Doug?’ he whispered.
‘Gimme.’
Doug grabbed the gunnysack and scraped all the chess pieces up and dropped them, one by one, into the sack. There went Pete and Tom and Bo and all the rest.
Doug shook the gunnysack; it made a dry rattling sound like old men’s bones.
And with a last backward glance at his army, Doug started down.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Grandpa’s library was a fine dark place bricked with books, so anything could happen there and always did. All you had to do was pull a book from the shelf and open it and suddenly the darkness was not so dark anymore.
Here it was that Grandpa sat in place with now this book and now that in his lap and his gold specs on his nose, welcoming visitors who came to stay for a moment and lingered for an hour.
Even Grandmother paused here, after some burdensome time, as an aging animal seeks the watering place to be refreshed. And Grandfather was always here to offer cups of good clear Walden Pond, or shout down the deep well of Shakespeare and listen, with satisfaction, for echoes.
Here the lion and the hartebeest lay together, here the jackass became unicorn, here on Saturday noon an elderly man could be found underneath a not too imaginary bough, eating bread in the guise of sandwiches and pulling briefly at a jug of cellar wine.
Douglas stood on the edge of it all, waiting.
‘Step forward, Douglas,’ said Grandfather.
Douglas stepped forward, holding the gunnysack in one hand behind his back.
‘Got anything to say, Douglas?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Nothing at all about anything?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What you been up to today, son?’
‘Nothing.’
‘A busy nothing or a nothing nothing?’
‘A nothing nothing, I guess.’
‘Douglas.’ Grandpa paused to polish his gold–rimmed specs. ‘They say that confession is good for the soul.’
‘They do say that.’
‘And they must mean it or they wouldn’t say it.’
‘I guess so.’