After breakfast, Gavin went out to help Luther, and Charlotte took Jefferson to her makeshift studio to give him his paints and brushes. I cleaned the kitchen.

When I was finished I went exploring through the house. Halfway down the corridor, I stopped because I thought I heard someone behind me. But when I looked, no one was there. Only . . a curtain swayed.

"Who's there?" I called. No one responded and nothing moved. It gave me goose b.u.mps, so I hurried to find Charlotte and Jefferson. On the way I discovered that Charlotte had painted the stems and blossoms of flowers after they had wilted, making them even brighter shades of pink and white, red and yellow, and then left them in vases everywhere. It was as if she were trying to bring rainbows into what had once been a dull and gray world.

I found Charlotte and Jefferson in a little room off the library. When I peered in, Charlotte looked up from her needlework and smiled. Jefferson was busy painting walls and fixtures. Already, his cheeks were streaked and his arms were full of paint up to his elbows.

"We're having fun," Charlotte said, her face beaming with joy, and then she quickly added, "Little boys are supposed to make messes of themselves."

"You're right about that, Aunt Charlotte. Aunt Charlotte, can you show me the room now where my mother lived and I was born?"

"Oh yes, yes, yes. That's the Bad Room," she said rising. "I was in it once, too."

"The bad room?"

"You'll see," she said and led me upstairs.

When I set eyes on the room, I understood immediately why it would be called "The Bad Room."

It looked like a prison cell. It was a small room with a narrow bed against the wall on the left. The bed had no headboard; it was just a mattress on a metal frame.

Beside it was a bare nightstand. On the stand was a kerosene lamp, but I could see it had not been used for years. There were spiders living in it. The walls were dark gray and there were no mirrors or windows. To the right was a doorway to the small bathroom. I saw that the fixtures were rusted and rotten. It had been some time since water had run in that sink, I thought.

Looking around this horrid room, I sensed some of the terror and sadness my mother must have felt being locked up in it and forced to give birth in such a hovel. How lonely she must have been, and how frightened all the time. With no sunlight, no fresh air, nothing but dreary colors to gaze at, she surely must have felt like a prisoner or someone evil being punished.

"You're right to call this the Bad Room, Aunt Charlotte," I said. And then I recalled what she had said before. "Why were you put here?"

"I was naughty, too," she said. "And had a baby growing in my stomach."

"A baby? What happened to it? Was it a boy or a girl?" I asked quickly.

"A boy. Emily said the devil took him home.

He had the devil's mark on the back of his neck right here," she said, turning around and pointing to the area.

"The devil's mark?"

"Uh huh," she said, nodding emphatically. "It looked like a hoof. And Emily said he was going to grow a tail soon, too."

"That's silly, Aunt Charlotte," I said, smiling.

"There really wasn't a baby, was there?"

"Oh yes there was. I'll show you where he lived for a while," she added sadly.

I followed her back down the corridor. As we walked, I couldn't help feeling someone was following us, but every time I turned around, there was no one there. Was it just because the house was so large and full of shadows that I had these feelings? I wondered.

Charlotte stopped and opened the door to what had apparently once been a nursery. There was a crib at the center of the room and in it was a doll with a faded blue blanket drawn up to its chin. It gave me the chills. Had Aunt Charlotte really had a child or was this all some invention of her childlike imagination?

"How old was your baby before . . before the devil took him, Aunt Charlotte?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"I don't remember. One day he was here and then one day he wasn't. Emily never told me when he was taken off. One day I looked in and found he was gone," she said, looking at the doll.

"And Emily told you the devil took him?"

"Uh huh. One night, she saw the devil enter the nursery and then she heard the baby laugh. By the time she came to the door, the devil had taken my baby and flown out the window in the form of a black bird."

"How could you believe such a silly story, Aunt Charlotte?"

She stared at me a moment.

"My baby was gone," she said conclusively, her eyes beginning to tear. I looked at the crib.

"Who put that doll there?" I asked.

"Emily did because I was so sad and crying so much," she said. "Emily said, make believe that's him and don't complain or the devil might come and take you, too."

"But what about the baby's father, Aunt Charlotte? Wasn't he upset?"

"Emily said the devil was his father. She said the devil came into my room one night while I was sleeping and made the baby grow in me."

How horrid of her, I thought, to frighten simple, sweet Charlotte like that and convince her of so many frightening things.

"Emily must have been the devil herself to do all these horrible things to you and to my mother. I'm glad I never had to meet her," I said.

"Well don't be bad and you'll never meet her,"

Charlotte said. "If you're bad, you'll go to h.e.l.l and Emily is the one who greets people at the door. That's what Luther says."

I took another look at the doll in the crib and thought what a strange and evidently horrifying history was locked and hidden in the walls of this old plantation house. Perhaps it was better not to dig so deeply or ask so many questions, I thought and then followed Aunt Charlotte out.

As we went down the stairs, I turned and thought I saw a shadow move across a wall, but I didn't say anything to Charlotte. I was sure if I did, she'd only tell me it was the ghost of her evil sister Emily.

When the grandfather clock bonged twelve, Charlotte put down her needlework and announced it was time to make lunch for the men. I helped her prepare the sandwiches and shortly afterward, Luther and Gavin came in. One look at Gavin told me he had really been doing hard work. His clothing was full of pieces of hay; his hands were streaked with dirt and grease, as were his neck and face, his hair was disheveled, and he looked red with fatigue.

"I'd better wash up first," he told me and then added in a whisper, "He wasn't kidding about the hard work. I'm earning our keep."

"Luther," Charlotte said after we had all sat down to eat our lunch, "can Gavin take time off now to go up into the attic and find things for him and Christie and Jefferson to wear?"

Luther looked up from his plate.

"You be careful up there," he told Gavin.

"Some of those floorboards might not be worthy anymore, hear?"

"Yes sir," Gavin said. I could see that anything looked better to him than going out to work with Luther. The idea of exploring an old attic and sifting through ancient things excited Jefferson too, and he was willing to put aside his paint and brushes to go up with us.

Charlotte led the way. She talked an incessant blue streak as she shuffled along with her hands folded over her stomach and her head down like a geisha girl. She described how she would play up in the attic when she was a little girl.

"All by myself and never afraid," she added and paused at the end of the corridor at a narrow door. It opened to a dark stairway lit only by a low-wattage bare bulb dangling from a thick wire. The stairs creaked ominously as we followed Charlotte up.

"No one cared how long I stayed up here," she told us. "Not even Emily," she said and followed that with a little laugh before she added, "because I was out of everyone's hair." She stopped at the top of the stairway and looked back at us. "That's what Momma used to tell me. Charlotte, she would say, stay out or Everyone's hair. What a silly thing to say. I never got into anyone's hair. How could I?"

Gavin smiled at me and we waited as Charlotte contemplated the attic.

"There are no lights up here," she said. "Just the light that comes through the windows and the light from lamps you bring. I keep one over here," she said and lit a kerosene lamp that had been left at the top of the stairway. We followed her quickly.

It was apparent that no one had been in the attic for ages. Thick cobwebs crossed the top of the stairway and dangled from every nook and cranny.

The dust was so heavy that we could see our footprints on the steps and floor. Gavin, Jefferson and I paused at the top and gazed ahead at the long, wide attic that ran nearly the full length of the great plantation house. The four sets of dormer windows across the front provided some additional illumination and in the rays of sunlight that filtered through, we could see the thick particles of dust stirred by the breezes that seeped through cracks in the walls and cas.e.m.e.nts. I felt as if we had entered a tomb because the air was so stale and heavy, and everything looked so untouched and buried for years and years.

"Careful," Gavin said as we all stepped forward. The floorboards creaked ominously.

"Look!" Jefferson cried and pointed to the right where a family of squirrels had made themselves a comfortable home. They peered at us, twitched their noses arrogantly, and then scurried into corners and behind trunks and furniture. There were old sofas and chairs, tables and armoires, as well as dressers and headboards from beds. There were more old portraits, too. One in particular caught my eye because it was a picture of a young girl not much older than I was, her face caught in a soft, almost angelic smile. In none of the other portraits did the subjects even crack their lips. Their expressions were usually severe and serious.

"Do you know who this girl was, Aunt Charlotte?" I asked, holding up the silver-framed portrait.

"She was my mother's youngest sister," Charlotte explained. "Emily said she died giving birth when she was only nineteen because her heart was too soft," Charlotte recited.

"How sad. She looks so happy and so beautiful here." Every family has its own hexes, I thought.

Some make their own happen, but some just wander into curses like wandering into a storm. The girl in the picture looked like she never even had a nightmare, much less imagined herself dying so tragically. Was it better to live with fear or pretend the world was full of rainbows, like Charlotte was doing? I wondered as I put the portrait back on the dusty shelf.

"I can't believe all this stuff," Gavin said, looking from one side to the other. "There must be years and years and years of things up here."

"My daddy and his daddy and daddy's daddy saved everything," Charlotte revealed. "Whenever something was replaced, it was brought up here and stored just in case. Emily used to call this the household graveyard. Sometimes, she would try to frighten me and look up at the ceiling downstairs and whisper, 'The dead are above us. Be good or they'll come down during the night and peer in at you through windows.' "

"Peer through windows?" I repeated. Gavin raised his eyes, expecting I would talk about what I had thought I saw and felt last night.

"Yes," Charlotte said. "Emily hated coming up here. That's why I played up here all the time. Emily would leave me alone," she said and laughed. "And I didn't have to do all the ch.o.r.es she wanted me to do."

Charlotte may be a child at heart, I thought, but in some ways, she was still very clever.

"Come on," she urged and led us toward the trunks to the right. "The farther in we go, the older everything is," she said.

We walked past rows and rows of cartons, some filled with old papers and old books, some filled with old dishes, cups and antique kitchen implements.

We found cartons of old shoes and boots, and cartons just filled with springs and screws and rusted tools.

Gavin found a box of old ledgers and took one out to look at it.

"This is amazing," he said. "It's a listing of slaves and how much was paid for each. Look."

I gazed at the open page and read, "Darcy, age 14, weight eight stone and four, twelve dollars."

Gavin continued to sift through the books.

"And there are ledgers describing the crops and what they got for them, things bought and how much they had to pay-it's all very historical and probably very valuable to a museum or something," he said.

Jefferson found an old rusted pistol, the parts locked by age and grime.

"Bang, bang, bang," he cried, waving it.

"Be careful, Jefferson," I warned. "You don't want to cut yourself on anything rusty."

"Christie," Gavin said after opening a small dark cherrywood chest, "look at this." I knelt down beside him. In the chest were all sorts of items from a woman's vanity table: pearl-handled combs and brushes and mirrors, some with cameos on the backs and handles. There was costume jewelry including strings of good imitation pearls and pearl earrings, pins and bracelets and a silver necklace filled with imitation rubies and emeralds. Everything looked handcrafted and in remarkably good shape, despite its age. It was as though this attic were truly a magical place that kept its contents frozen in time.

"It's all so beautiful," I said.

"It will look beautiful on you," Gavin whispered, his face so close to mine. It was as if a warm hand brushed across my breast. I felt myself flush and looked quickly at Aunt Charlotte, who was throwing open trunks and boxes, exclaiming excitedly as she made one discovery after another of things she had known as a child. For her it was like finding old friends.

"Here are some nice clothes, dear," Charlotte said, opening a large metal trunk. I found dresses with short bodices and gusseted skirts, dresses with bodices high at the neck and sleeves that were close fitting and gathered at puffs at the top. There were colored bodices with white skirts, some with colored waist-belts. Another trunk was filled with thinly padded petticoats.

Additional trunks had more late- and turn-of-the-century fashions. I unearthed cloaks and horseback-riding garments, bonnets and satin shawls, as well as velvet wraps. Jefferson found a trunk filled with parasols and another trunk full of high boots, the leather still in remarkably good condition. Meanwhile, Gavin wandered to the left and found trunks of men's clothing, from knickers to overcoats and army uniforms. He liked the World War One uniforms and tried on one with a jacket that fit him well.

Jefferson and I began trying things on and modeling for each 'other, laughing as we paraded about in the ancient garments and footwear. Even Charlotte joined in, donning a shawl or a jacket and laughing at her visage in one of the old vanity mirrors set back behind the trunks and cartons. Suddenly, we heard an extra laugh. At least, Gavin and I did.

Charlotte didn't appear to notice and Jefferson was far too occupied. I grabbed Gavin's arm and whispered.

"What was that?" We looked toward the other side of the attic, but saw no one.

"Just an echo, I suppose," Gavin said, but he didn't look too sure. We listened, but heard nothing more.

Finally, we gathered what we considered sensible garments and filled a trunk with clothing for Gavin, Jefferson and myself.

"We'll take all of it down and wash it," I said.

"Wait," Gavin cried. "I'd like you to wear this one this evening."

He had found a light pink ball gown with what looked like miles of crinoline. The lace-trimmed bodice was designed to be worn off the shoulder.

"And I'll wear this," he declared, holding up a tailcoat and trousers. The tails were narrow and pointed and reached below his knees. The sleeves were wide at the top and very tight at the wrist, but opened out to cover his hands as far as his fingers.

Then he reached down and produced a top hat. He dipped into the pocket of the tailcoat and fished out a black satin cravat with a bow in front.

We laughed. Aunt Charlotte clapped her hands and declared that she would find something nice to wear, too.

"We'll have a party. I'll make sweet jelly cookies and ask Luther to take out some of our dandelion wine. Christie will play the piano and we'll all sing. Oh, I'm so happy you're here," she declared, smiling widely and gazing happily at the three of us.

"It's like . . . like I was born again with a new family!"

While I worked on our new-found clothing, Gavin took Jefferson out with him to help Luther with the rest of the day's ch.o.r.es. Charlotte helped me with the clothes and I listened to her chatter away about the days of her youth. Every time I asked her about Grandmother Cutler, however, she would grow silent.

I had the sense she remembered more than she cared to tell me but whatever she remembered must have been unpleasant. Knowing what I had been told about Grandmother Cutler, it didn't surprise me.

Charlotte decided that it was an important enough occasion for us to have a chicken for dinner and she went outside to convince Luther. After she had left I heard the distinct sound of footsteps outside the washroom.