A TALE OF THE HOMELESS DEAD

Ten year old Stevie Treadwell burst out of his home after dinner like a shot into the still, bright summer evening, only a following yell from his mother to remind him of any limitations.

"Be back by dark, Stevie!"

"I will, Mom." His little boy's voice faded into the cloudless sky as he ran from her. His mother, Anne Donner Treadwell, followed him briefly with her eyes before turning back into the house.

The boy jogged across the two lane road in front of their new home and headed south about a hundred yards, then turned left on to Courthouse Road at "The Intersection"—-the only one of any importance in town. There he slowed to a trot, looking curiously at the assorted nineteenth and turn of the century white wooden buildings. There was the one room box of a library whose rotund, bearded librarian, Mr. Bond, he'd met yesterday; the courthouse, which was the biggest and most impressive looking building; the museum a little ways south on two-oh-eight that he'd seen last Saturday with his mother and father, and some other, as yet unidentified structures. And then there was the graveyard, only a few hundred yards down Courthouse Road and just beside the 7-11. Not a bad assortment of things to see and do for a young newcomer to the little Virginia town of Spotsylvania.

He made for the graveyard. He and Mrs. Treadwell had discovered it that afternoon when coming back from Fredericksburg—-the big town up north on the interstate—-after shopping for things they were needing getting settled into the old wooden house they'd moved into only days before. A fortunate thing, too, because Stevie's father, Christian Treadwell, was doing a bit genealogy, where you found out about dead relatives by visiting graveyards and courthouses. You couldn't get much better than Spotsylvania for that sort of thing, since here they had a courthouse and a cemetery practically on top of each other.

Before going to the graveyard, he popped into the 7-11 to get an ice cream sandwich. Then he strolled the fifty or so yards to the cemetery entrance along the roadside, left hand jammed into the pocket of his blue shorts, right hand clutching his dessert. Whenever a car whizzed by he stepped off the pavement and tried to catch the license plate. He'd grown up in Rockville, Maryland, so Virginia plates weren't anything new to him, but had been wondering when his parents were going to get their own, and looking at other's tags gave him a satisfying foretaste of things to come. Somehow, moving to a new place could never be complete without new license plates, he thought.

He and his mother had been able to spot the graveyard here because of the sign. Actually, there weren't any graves in sight from the road, just a fence and a thin forest of young pines. But standing at the head of the narrow lane that veered perpendicular off Courthouse Road into the trees was a rusty metallic white sign with black letters: "Confederate Soldier's Cemetery" it said.

He glanced at this as he turned off the main road onto the rutted dirt drive. "This should be neat," he said to himself, and started down the road.

Stevie had been in plenty of graveyards before, especially since his father, who used to teach Civil War history at the University of Maryland in College Park, developed an interest in their own family history as it related to the war. Most of the Treadwells and their kin, it turned out, had been on the losing side, a lot of them having lived in Fredericksburg and Spotsylvania County. Despite his status as a cemetery-combing veteran though, Stevie always felt a few butterflies when adventuring into a new site, especially when alone. It wasn't that he was so afraid of ghosts—-vampires were ten times worse, he thought-—but how could a living boy, and a little one at that, feel safe in a place chock full of dead people?

A five minute walk down the road brought him out of the woods to a t-intersection. From where he stood it appeared the new road he'd happened on wound a circle round most of the grounds. At least that's how it looked from where he stood.

Humming a note of "Clementine," he started off to the right, stopping to kick here and there at the gravel or fling a stone at a tree. He followed one thrown rock in the direction of a large grave and a moment later stood in front of the lichen-eaten stone. He read, with difficulty:

Andrew Hannister
June 8, 1844-January 2, 1864
May the angels of God protect him

Huh, Stevie thought to himself, only twenty years old.

He paused at the next grave and found Andrew's older brother, Roy. He had died in 1863, aged twenty-five.

Stevie read several more, wondering all the while what these people had looked like and what they had done for fun and whether they would have liked him or he them. Graveyards bred daydreams in him like the yard of their house bred dandelions, and sometimes, in other graveyards Stevie had been to with his folks, he'd wandered off and gotten lost concocting stories about all those dead people he'd never met.

It turned out not everyone was a Confederate soldier. But most were. Some of the stones said "He fought for freedom," or "He died in the service of God." And a lot of them were too black and worn to say anything. There were Pitroys and Handys and Blackwells and Cottons and—-

"Hello mister," he said, suddenly taking notice of a most unusually dressed gentleman who sat leaning against a gravestone. He had a pale complexion, short, red hair and a flamboyant handlebar mustache, and was clad in a stained and ripped up gray uniform of some kind. What appeared to be a brown leather gun holster hung at his right hip. A ragged, gray cap was perched at an angle on his head and suddenly Stevie knew what he was.

"Hey, are you a soldier?"

The man seemed to have been unaware of Stevie's approach and first words. Now that the boy stood right in front of him asking questions, he perked up, nodding his head down at the boy.

"Well I'll be damned. Someone finally takin' note a me."

"Are you a soldier, sir?" Stevie repeated.

"That I'd be. Colonel George Walker of President Davis' 16^th Virginia Regiment. But I'm retired now."

"Who's President Davis, mister? Don't you know Bill Clinton is president now?"

"Is he a Yankee, boy?"

"No, sir. He's from White Water, Arkansas."

"Well bless my stars. A southern man at last in that goddamned White House. If only I'd lived to see the day!"

"Mr. Walker. Do you live around here? And why are you standing out in the middle of a graveyard?"

"Gads, boy! Hold your horses! This ain't no interrogation of enemy prisoners." The Colonel straightened up, stretching out his hand to pat Stevie on the head.

Stevie felt a cool wisp of air flutter in his hair.

"Yep," the man said quietly and mostly to himself, "I had a few of my own once. Little Daniel. Little Hilda..."

"So Mr. Walker—"

"That'd be Colonel Walker, boy. Keep it in mind." Stevie felt again the flutter of cool air as the Colonel patted him a second time.

"Yes, sir. What are you doing here and why are you dressed up like a Confederate soldier?"

"Well, my boy-- Ah, what is your name? We may's well be on first name basis."

"Stevie Treadwell, sir."

"Hm. Stevie it is then. I, Colonel Walker, am at your service." And he bowed low and very gentlemanly to the boy, sweeping off his hat with his right hand. Stevie attempted an awkward bow, then, not knowing what else to do, added a salute like he'd seen in war movies.

"Well, my young man. Treadwell and Walker. We can go places together, wouldn't you say?" He laughed, though Stevie missed the joke. Clearing his throat, the Colonel continued. "I's here for this is my home, boy. For now, at least. And I's dressed like a soldier 'cause I am a soldier. Nothin' could be simpler now, could it?"

"You mean you live in this graveyard, sir? Are you like one of those bag people in Washington?"

Momentary confusion came over the Colonel's face. He squinted slightly and said, "You don't quite get it, do you son? I mean, can you see me all right? Like normal folks?"

It was Stevie's turn to be confused. "I don't wear glasses or anything, Colonel Walker, if you're talking about my eyesight."

"Well, look at this." The Colonel bent over for Stevie's easy viewing and pointed to a rip in his uniform.

"It looks like a hole. Is that blood?" the boy asked as he poked his outstretched index finger into the Colonel's coat—-

And right through the Colonel himself.

"Ahhhh!" Stevie gasped and staggered backwards. "A ghost!" Knocking into a tombstone, he fell over hard on his rear. But he didn't feel the pain. Leaping up as quickly as he could, he wheeled around at the same time and sped off the way he came.

He ran all the way to the t-intersection of the road, then stopped and looked back. There was no pursuit. He stood panting for several minutes, listening to the pounding blood in his ears. He wondered just how fast a ghost could run—-or fly—-and he guessed he'd licked this one. He had never run so fast in his life.

A ghost! A real live ghost, he thought, not considering what a contradiction that was. But then as he thought some more, he realized he'd not actually been so scared, just surprised. After all, the ghost-—or whatever the heck it was—-hadn't actually threatened him, had actually been very friendly. He started to think maybe he should go back and check this out, but just be really on guard. He knew if his friend Mitchell were there he'd be saying: "Come on. I dare you. I double dare you!" and he'd have to go back or lose face. If he didn't go back, then Mitchell would call him a "wimp," and he really hated it when Mitchell did that. But Mitchell wasn't there. He was alone and new in town, so he wasn't going to be quite so cavalier about something like this.

He picked up a good size stick and swung it a few times, liking the way it whistled in the air. Stevie wasn't big for his age—-he was rather on the small side, in fact—-but he knew even a grown man would hurt if he got walloped with this stick. Now, then, he had the gumption to go back and spy out whoever—-or whatever—-had given him such a scare.

Stevie was used to playing army, so he slunk back in the Colonel's direction, keeping himself hid behind headstones and trees. The stick he carried in his right hand. Finally the spot where he'd met the Colonel came in view, and peeping out from under an azalea bush, Stevie saw him. He was turned toward Stevie, and looking carefully the boy realized he could see right through him. So he was a ghost! Then he caught the ghost's eyes, and they were looking straight into him.

His fear threatened to resurface, but Stevie remained crouched in his hideout under the bush. He wasn't going to be a wimp this time.

"What are you mister?" he called out, sounding like a sentry on duty. "Are you a ghost, or what?"

The Colonel was sitting on the gravestone he had occupied earlier. His arms were folded, and his mouth was turned down in a scowl.

"What'd you go boltin' for the moon for, boy? I ain't gonna hurt you. Why, it's damn sure amazin' you can even see me."

"Just tell me what you are, sir. Are you a ghost?"

"Well, I guess I gotta call a spade a spade, huh? Yeah boy, if it makes ya feel any better to know, I'm a ghost all right."

"Wow," Stevie said to himself. "I don't believe this." Eyes peeled wide and mouth hanging open stupidly, fascination now overcame the boy's fear.

He sucked in a breath and rose slowly from his crouch. "It's jut like in stories," he whispered.

"Well, are you gonna stand there in the bush 'til nightfall talkin' to yourself, or are you gonna come talk with me civil like?"

Stevie didn't respond, but crept warily over towards the ghost, still clutching the stick.

"I ain't gonna hurt you," the ghost assured him. He gestured to a stone nearby. Stevie leaned up against it, facing the ghost.

The boy cleared his throat. "So is that your grave or what?"

Colonel Walker scooted off the headstone—-slowly, so as not to frighten his guest. "Oh yes. It'd be that all right." He squatted down as Stevie approached to read, the boy bent over with hands on knees, but still gripping the stick in his right hand.

"Lookee here." And pointing to the inscription, the ghost read it off.

"Colonel George Thomas Walker
16^th Virginia Regiment
Born April 7, 1820
Died December 13, 1862
Battle of Fredericksburg."

Stevie read the faded letters over to himself, then straightened up, shaking his head. "I just don't believe this. Man, my friend Mitchell in Rockville would flip out. Were you really in the Battle of Fredericksburg?"

"Honest to ya, Stevie," the ghost said, rising. "Fought there and I died there."

"How did you die?" the boy asked, his curiosity overcoming his fear of being bad mannered.

The Colonel's pale face took on a serious expression, his eyes lancing out into the dusk. Stock still he stood, like he was waiting for a cue, and when he started to speak, his voice was low and distant.

"It was on Marye's Heights, just west of the town, morning of December 13, 1862. It was cold, real cold, with a hard frost the night before. Heavy fog lay on the plain between the Heights and the Rappahannock. All to our left and right Lee's army extended, a good five miles of lines.

"After reveille and an early breakfast of bacon and cornbread, I mounted my horse to inspect our section of the line. The Federals had crossed the river the night before in force on pontoons, and lay a-waitin' in the city streets and on the edges of the field, south of the city.

"By noon the fog had cleared and you could see the blue clad enemy arrayed for battle."

Stevie tried to visualize what the ghost was recollecting, but it was hard, given so many unfamiliar terms. He was hoping the Colonel would just get to the crux of it all, like who won?, because Stevie couldn't remember and glancing up at the ghost's face he didn't dare say a thing.

There was a far away look in the dead soldier's eyes, like he wasn't seeing anything in the world, at least not anything that was there just then. Only his lips moved, and his voice droned on; he seemed unconscious of his audience.

"...A brisk skirmish fire could be heard down in front of us and a Federal column emerged from one of the town streets. They came on at a double-quick, cryin' 'Hi! Hi! Hi!' We could hear 'em sharp and clear even up on the Heights, a quarter mile off. They crossed the canal at the bridge, still mostly hid from sight by a bank covering their low ground. It was half past noon and we knew we was gonna get it hot and heavy.

"Then the enemy showed himself above the crest of the ridge, comin' on in columns of brigades and we opened up on 'em then and there with solid shots and shells.

"But I gotta say, even then, in the thick of the fight, I couldn't help but wonder at how beautiful their blue lines were, ranged across the field, their glistenin' bayonets lookin' like a long serpent of steel.

"They leveled the fences and ran across the field, never stoppin', though I could see our shells burstin' in the their ranks and cuttin' great gaps among 'em. But still they came on like madmen for the battle..."

Unfamiliar terminology or no, Stevie now watched in rapt wonder as the ghost's eyes glowed like hot coals and his hands sliced and chopped the air, directing unseen forces.

"...They came on once and fell back, sufferin' all that mortal men are able. Again at two o'clock they advanced and there seemed no end to 'em, but our fire bore down on 'em without mercy.

"On they came, to within five and twenty paces of the road, and from there their sharpshooters opened up on us and we started to catch it. Many a proud Virginia boy I saw go down, and it 'bout broke my heart. Then I went to reload, and just as I dropped the butt of my gun, I felt the sting of death right here-—" His voice dropped to a whisper as he grasped at the bloodied hole in his uniform. "Right here, and I..."

The ghost fell silent, his hand pressed against his gut, seeming almost catatonic.

"Colonel Walker, sir!" Stevie cried. Finally dropping his stick, he grasped for the ghost's hand but his own went right through it like it was a cloud of steam.

"Colonel Walker!"

The ghost blinked and shook a little, then tweaked his mustache. Clearing his throat, he looked down at the worried boy and smiled. "That's how it was, Stevie. Just like that—-in the blink of an eye."

"That was real interesting, sir," said Stevie, and he meant it.

The ghost nodded, apparently out of words.

Stevie thought for a second, then remembered a question he'd been meaning to ask. "So what do you do here all day long?"

The Colonel responded slowly. "See that house over there, boy?" He gestured to a rooftop that could be seen just above the pines. Stevie had seen the house across the street from the cemetery entrance on his way in, but hadn't paid much attention to it.

"Yeah, you mean the roof?"

"That's the one. They's fixin' it up, and it's a goddamn, cryin' shame."

"Why's that a shame?"

"That's the house I was born in, Stevie. I grew up there. My daddy died there and it's rightly my home. Fact is, until two months ago I lived there—-had lived there for thirty-one years—-courtesy of a fine old widow I shared the place with. But she died, passed on to Lord knows where, and then these goddamn Yankees with their loudmouthed bastard children moved in, fixin' it up and all. How's a ghost supposed to suffer through that I'll never know. Hell, even gettin' killed wasn't so bad."

"Well, sir, you could try scaring them out. I mean, you are a ghost."

The ghost scratched at his mustache thoughtfully. "No experience in that department, my boy. I'm a soldier, an officer in the army of President Davis. I'm no spook or practical joker, and I don't aim to be one."

"Well, where were you before you came to the house?"

"Why, Fredericksburg Battlefield, of course."

"I've been there. Went last week with Dad."

"I'm sure you have been," the ghost sighed, a hint of disgust in his voice. "Seems like half the goddamn world been there. Ever since the Sixties when those real estatists and business wormies came in, developin' everything, sayin' 'See this! Buy that!", had too many people footin' their way 'cross the fields there. All peace and quiet up and went. So I followed suit and came back home. Now all I got's a goddamned tombstone to sit my ass on."

They fell into a glum silence; Stevie felt awkward and didn't know what to suggest, and the Colonel seemed preoccupied by his memories and a situation obviously not befitting an officer and a gentleman.

Finally Stevie said: "Maybe you should meet my Dad, Colonel Walker."

The ghost took a moment to shake from his reverie. "What makes you think that?"

"He really likes the Civil War. He's a professor and all that. But he's on sabbatical for a year." Stevie felt good throwing that word out; he'd learned it only recently. "Maybe he can help you find a home."

"It's really difficult, my boy, the livin' meetin' the dead. Don't usually go over so well."

"How come? I mean, I can see you all right, and you're pretty nice and all."

"Well, it's a might strange you can see me. Most people just walk through me like I was a fart in thin air. Seems though a few folks can get a fix on me. Like the old misses that lived in the house there. Now she was a special fine woman. One of a kind. We had a good arrangement, she and I. Just I made no loud noises and did nothin' strange when guests was about and all was fine and dandy. Then there's you... But sure as shootin' none of them damn Yankees over there now can see me. Much is the pity. They'd probably run like shit through a goose if they caught a glance 'a me. Don't you think, boy?"

Stevie gave a quick nod and with a glance at his watch announced it was time to go. He and the Colonel said goodbye. "Now you come on back here, and visit me, Stevie. You don't want me getting' down and lonely, do ya?"

"No, sir."

"All rightee. I'll be lookin' for ya."

And Stevie headed home.

* * * * * * *

"Oh, there you," Mrs. Treadwell sighed with obvious relief as her son's blond head poked in the door of his parent's bedroom.

"Back, Mom," he announced.

He closed the door just as Mr. Treadwell snuck up on him from behind in the hallway.

"Boo!" his father yelled, grabbing Stevie by the waist.

Stevie jumped and spun around.

"So how's the graveyard, Stevie?" Mr. Treadwell asked. Mrs. Treadwell opened the bedroom door to join in hearing about their son's expedition.

"Oh, it's really cool! You're gonna love it Dad. Lot's of graves, really old ones. Mostly soldiers."

"Uh-huh," his father said reflectively, stealing a puff from his pipe. "Did you see any Blackwells there, Stevie?"

The boy thought for a second. "Can't remember. But I saw some Cottons and Handys and some others, too. Are any of them related to us, Dad?"

"The Blackwells are, I'm pretty sure."

"Oh, also, I saw a...a man named Colonel George Walker—-"

A look of sudden recognition flashed on Mr. Treadwell's face. "Walker?"

Stevie nodded.

"Hmmmm. Well if there's a Walker grave there, I've definitely got to go see it. You know, dear," he said, turning to his wife, "I think the Walkers might be one of our lines, back from the time of the Civil War. According to the Bible I found in Dad's library collection it was a Walker who married Rudy Blackwell." Mr. Treadwell's brow was all knitted up as he took a long and reflective puff from his pipe.

"You mean the Blackwell who tried buying his way into the Virginia governorship?"

"That's the one. According to family lore it's on account of him that we're Treadwells. Though that's not proven definitely, yet. I still have some checking to do. But according to the story, his son Michael was so ashamed he changed his name. Thought he'd be unable to practice law in Virginia if he were a Blackwell."

Mr. Treadwell had plainly misunderstood Stevie. After all, it was a ghost he'd met, not a tombstone. But he also felt a little relieved. And family history was interesting, so he asked: "You mean we would have been called Blackwell?"

"Yep—-if it's true. You could have been Mr. Steven Julius Blackwell. What do you think of that?"

"I think I like Treadwell better."

"Me too," Mrs. Treadwell said with a grin.

Mr. Treadwell laughed. "Well then, it's unanimous. That makes three of us!"

* * * * * * *

Next day after lunch, Stevie skipped over to the cemetery. Even though he knew the Colonel was harmless, he still felt a few butterflies in his stomach as he walked among the gravestones.

It took only a little time to find Colonel Walker's grave, but when he did the ghost was nowhere about. So he started wandering around aimlessly reading grave inscriptions.

A sharp hiss exploded almost in his ears and he jumped back, his heart in his mouth. "Colonel Walker? Is that you?"

The Colonel's voice sounded out just to his left. "Treadwell indeed!" the ghost snorted. "You 'bout trampled my boots, boy!"

Stevie's heart was thumping even as his eyes searched in the direction of the voice. He couldn't spot the ghost.

"But it's good to see ya. Now lookee over here. Near that headstone you just passed."

Stevie turned, saw the stone, and stared hard, squinting in the bright sunlight. Vaguely he caught the dim lines of the Colonel's uniform and a hint of his handlebar mustache. The ghost seemed to be sitting on the headstone.

"Wow! Colonel Walker, you're hard to see. What happened?"

"Direct mid-day sunshine, my boy. That's why ghosts always givin' problems at night and getting' no attention in the day. Sunlight renders us kinda dim."

Stevie walked over to the ghost. They shook hands-—sort of. To Stevie it was more like a cool breeze on his palm.

Leaning against an old headstone, Stevie eyed the ghost carefully, trying to make out details.

"So what's it like to be a ghost, Colonel Walker?" He'd wondered about that all last night, even taking an old book of ghost stories down from his bookshelf and thumbing through it, hoping for insight. Entitled Ghosts, Ghosts, Ghosts, he kept it right next to a book called Witches, Witches, Witches. But all those stories had been about scary, make-believe ghosts. He thought he'd have to go to the library in Fredericksburg and get some serious books on the real thing if he really wanted to learn anything.

The ghost let out a mournful sigh. "I don't recommend it. Too much hangin' around. Kinda like standin' in line for rations and knowin' there ain't gonna be nothin' to eat even when you get to the pot. Only, ya never get to the pot. Ya just stand around, waitin' and waitin' 'til kingdom come, I guess."

Stevie could not be sure, but the handlebars definitely wiggled as the ghost pursed and puckered his lips. A dim hand reached up to stroke them back into place.

"Sounds kind of boring."

They were silent. Stevie looked around the graveyard, wondering.

"Are there any other ghosts here, sir?"

"Aw sure. But they don't have much life in 'em. I doubt if you'd find 'em as interestin' as I am."

"I didn't see any last night."

"That's what I mean. Even at night they's mostly invisible. During the day—-well, let's just say a fart's got more spunk to it than they."

Stevie laughed. "So do all people end up as ghosts?" His mother had always said she was "ag-nostic" and so didn't know what happened to dead people. Mr. Treadwell usually dodged the question, saying he just studied what dead people did when they were alive and didn't know about their travel plans. "Or do some go to heaven?"

Stevie saw the thin wisp of the hat drop off the ghost's head and bang somewhere in the region of his knees. It was hard to tell, but the ghost seemed to be scratching his head.

"I've wondered about that myself, Stevie. Course, our chaplain always said we should just trust the Lord and shoot straight. Said He'd take care of us. I always believed that. Never drank, never cheated on the wife, followed orders, said the Lord's Prayer... Can't reckon how I got here. Others in my regiment died, but they never showed up on the field again. Maybe it's something like what the Catholics talk about—-purgatory I think they call it. You know 'bout purgatory, boy?"

"No sir."

"It's like a restin' house. An in-between kinda place. You ain't so bad to go to hell and damnation, but not so good to walk through the Pearly Gates either. Guess it's a place they slowly clean ya up and get ya ready for better things. But nobody been 'round here to clean me up. Can't figure it."

Stevie watched the dim lines of the ghost's head shake, then said, "Colonel, sir, I read in a book last night some of the things ghosts do to scare people and I think you can try-- you can get your house back."

The ghost murmured "hmmm" and seemed to take some thought on the matter. At least, he didn't say anything, so Stevie figured he was thinking.

"You want your house back, don't you?"

"Why, sure."

"Well, I can tech you what I learned from this book and if you try it, and it works-—well, you'll have a home again."

"I don't know Stevie," the ghost said, shifting his seat on the tombstone, "scarin' and spookin' just ain't up my alley."

"Yeah, but it's boring here, isn't it?"

"I'd say so."

"Well then, come on and try," the boy implored.

The ghost threw up his hands. "All right. Whadya suggest?"

Just then a mountainous gray cloud drifted across the sun, turning the mid-afternoon light to an almost early evening dimness. The Colonel's pale form became a lot sharper. That was something of a relief to Stevie, as talking out in public with a practically invisible man didn't seem to be something he could get used to.

"Wow, I can see you better now, sir," Stevie commented. "Okay. Um, first try taking off your head."

"Like this?" the Colonel asked, and with a little pop plucked off his head with both hands. "Not bad, huh?" the head said.

Stevie started back, despite himself. One might imagine such a thing, or watch it in a cartoon, but to actually see someone pluck off his head just like a flower from a stem was shocking, if nothing else. Stevie was genuinely impressed. "Wow, Colonel, if you do that in front of those people in your house, they'll all run away for sure and never come back." He kicked a stone for emphasis and the ghost plunked his head back down into place.

"How about taking your eyeballs out?"

The ghost plucked out his eyes, one with each hand, adding an extra twist and yank just for show.

"Wow!" Stevie exclaimed, enjoying the scene more and more by the minute. "Now how about floating in the air while you juggle your eyeballs."

The Colonel's execution of every maneuver was as polished as any professional haunter's.

When the show was finished, Stevie commended the ghost. "Let 'em have it tonight, Colonel Walker. I think you'll get your house back real soon."

With all of Stevie's praise, the Colonel was feeling pretty proud. "I'll do just that, Stevie my boy. Thank you for your fine instruction. Tonight I'm gonna let those goddamn Yankee bastards have it. All the way to kingdom come. Just like we did at Fredericksburg."

* * * * * * *

Stevie twirled his fork around vertically on his plate, its pointy end caught in a mass of spaghetti noodles dripping with tomato sauce. With expert finesse he completed the maneuver, severed a few dangling ends with his knife, and then popped the whole wad into his mouth.

"How do you like it, Stevie?" his mother asked.

Somehow he managed a muffled "Great Mom" between chews.

Mr. Treadwell chuckled. "You shouldn't talk when you have a rat in your mouth."

Stevie carefully repositioned the partially masticated spaghetti in his mouth for easier speech, then said, "It's not a rat, Dad."

"Well I'm happy to hear that," his father said, casting a look of relief at his wife. Mr. Treadwell sliced his salad. "Guess what? I hopped over to the courthouse here in Spotsy and did some checking on my hunch. We definitely are related to the Walkers, and to this Colonel Walker Stevie mentioned."

"Why were you not sure before, dear," Mrs. Treadwell said.

"Because I didn't use to have access to any records before Nathan Treadwell." Mr. Treadwell shoved a manageable fork load of spaghetti into his mouth. "But in the collection of books Dad left me I found Rudy Blackwell's old family Bible. In that was a record of Nathan's marriage to Gail Luiss. Rudy himself wrote the entry, and he was still calling his son Blackwell, even though Nathan had already changed his name. Later, when Nathan inherited the book, he crossed his old name out and put in the name Treadwell. Nobody in our family was sure of the Blackwell-Treadwell connection—-at least there wasn't any proof, it was just a rumor—-but now I've pretty much proved it. So to confirm all this, I went to the courthouse here and looked up both the Blackwell and Treadwell lines and sure enough—-Nathan Treadwell was originally Nathan Blackwell. And his mother, Rudy Blackwell's wife, was Hilda Walker, the daughter of Colonel George Walker. Which makes him my great great great grandfather. Is that all clear as mud?"

"It's pretty clear to me, Christian," Mrs. Treadwell said. Suddenly she appeared to remember something. "But if I'm not mistaken, Stevie said he actually saw George Walker."

Stevie stopped chewing.

Mr. Treadwell was taken aback. "I think he told us he saw Walker's tombstone. Didn't you, Stevie?"

Stevie nervously dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Well, not exactly, Dad. You didn't let me finish yesterday..."

"Well, I'm sorry. I got excited. I must have misunderstood you. What were you going to tell us?"

"Well, there was a man there. Dressed up like a Confederate soldier. He said his name was Colonel George Walker."

Mr. Treadwell looked simultaneously baffled and amused. "Huh? Colonel Walker's been dead since the Civil War. It was probably just someone from a battle reenactment. He saw the Colonel's tombstone and for kicks told you he was the Colonel."

"This man really claimed to be George Walker?" Mrs. Treadwell asked.

"Yeah Mom, but he was kind of...weird. Maybe he was going to a costume party or something. Or maybe he escaped from a mental hospital."

"Have you met this man again since the first time?" Mrs. Treadwell asked.

Stevie's eyes darted back and forth between his mother and the spaghetti on his plate. "Uh-huh. But just once."

Mr. Treadwell asked: "Well then, was he wearing a Confederate uniform both times you met him?"

"Uh-huh."

"He must be an actor in a battle reenactment," Stevie's mother said, looking back at her husband.

Stevie kept quiet.

"You met him both times in the graveyard, right?" she asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, then, Stevie. Listen up." His mother put down her fork and waved a finger for emphasis. "I don't want you to go to that cemetery anymore. Not by yourself. You don't know what kind of strange people are around."

"That's a good idea, Stevie," his father agreed, starting up again on the remnants of his spaghetti. "We'll go over there together sometime in the next couple of days. You can show me the Colonel's grave."

Mrs. Treadwell tweaked Stevie on the chin. "Got it, kiddo?"

"Okay, Mom."

* * * * * * *

"You know, Colonel Walker, I could get in big trouble for being here."

It was after dinner, three days later, and Stevie had finally given in to the itch to check up on the old, dead soldier. He found him in the same place as always, this time pacing about, oblivious to whatever object he walked through. Headstones, bushes, trees—-the ghost never bothered to look where he was going or broke his step, but passed right through everything like a man through mist.

The ghost hardly acknowledged him. All Stevie heard was a quiet grunt.

The boy glanced over at an elderly couple some twenty yards away. It was the first time he and the ghost had had company. The man had a little pad of paper in his hands and was writing stuff down while his wife looked on silently. Every now and then they glanced over at Stevie, who sat on a worn stone that lay flat on the ground.

If the ghost wasn't paying Stevie much attention, he was totally unaware of the old couple.

Stevie spoke more loudly. "Colonel, sir. Did you hear what I said?"

The old couple shot him a quizzical glance. Stevie felt embarrassed. But at least the Colonel seemed to take notice now.

"Hm? What's that? What'd you say, boy?"

"I said, 'I could get in big trouble for being here.'"

The ghost shook his head. "Why's that?"

"I told my Mom and Dad a little about you and they think you're some kind of psycho. Like maybe someone who kidnaps children and holds them for ransom. It happened to Mel Gibson's son."

"You been standin' in the sun too long, boy?" The ghost guffawed and drummed his fingers on his chest.

Stevie caught a suspicious look from the couple. He went on in a quiet voice, and pretended to study a tombstone. "I think you're related to us, Colonel sir. I mean, you are. For sure."

"Whadya mean by that?" the ghost asked, finally standing still and clasping his hands behind his back. He stood in line between Stevie and the old couple, but Stevie could see them easily right through the ghost. He made a face at them and the two shuffled away embarrassedly.

Stevie filled the Colonel in on his father's research.

"So you're my great great great...great grandfather. Pretty incredible, huh?"

The ghost took on a livelier expression-—as lively as a dead man might. "Well, I'll be damned and confounded. So you ain't no bastard Yankees after all. Wish I'd some brandy to drink on this one."

Stevie smiled up at him, relieved the ghost was at last escaping his dour mood. "So maybe you should meet my parents," he suggested.

The ghost struck a thoughtful pose, stroking his flaming red handlebars. "Well, I'll give it a few nights consideration and let you know, my boy."

Then Stevie popped the question he'd really come to ask: "So what happened with the people in your house?"

And immediately saw he shouldn't have asked it.

The brightness vanished from the ghost's face. If he was pale before, now he looked like ash.

"They hardly noticed," the ghost murmured. "Them folks didn't see a hair o' me 'ceptin' maybe a shadow. Didn't hear nothin' either. Set the baby to cryin' and the dog to howlin', but other'n that I'd say they had a good night's sleep."

Stevie stared down at his dusty tennis shoes, feeling his friend's disappointment. He knew people killed themselves because of stock market crashes or their wife or husband ran off or because they failed exams or any number of other personal calamities. He'd even had a friend in Rockville whose older brother shot himself after flunking out of university. But it was starting to seem to him now like death was definitely not a solution to anybody's problems.

"Colonel Walker, I'm sorry. I thought for sure they'd be scared. Anybody would be."

"Well you ain't scared of me!"

"But you're my great great great great...great grandfather," the boy said, losing track of how many "greats" there were supposed to be. Stevie hesitated, searching for a way to excuse himself. "Besides, ghosts never really scared me, only vampires."

The ghost pursed his lips and tugged on his mustache.

"So what are you gonna do, sir?"

"Reckon there ain't much I can do. Got any suggestions, be sure and inform me."

Stevie wrinkled his brow, wondering what could be done. Then a thought dawned on him. He looked at the ghost.

"Colonel Walker, sir. I've got an idea."

The ghost hmmmed doubtfully. "What'd that be?"

"Well, you've got to wait. I can't tell you now. Just don't go away. I'll be back tomorrow. Okay?"

Without waiting for the Colonel's reply, Stevie struck off for home.

* * * * * * *

"I thought we told you not to go over to the cemetery on your own, Stevie."

Mrs. Treadwell held her boy's hands in her own while she lectured him. "You've seen the news—-children disappearing, all sorts of people who do bad things to kids. It's not made up."

"I know. I know. But Colonel Walker isn't like that. He's—"

"Stevie," Mr. Treadwell said. He was sitting in a nearby easy chair, reading a newspaper. "Colonel George Walker has been dead a hundred and thirty-five years. It's somebody pretending to be him. He's some kind of practical joker. Trouble is, you don't know what someone like that might try. He hasn't suggested you go anywhere with him, has he?"

"No," said the boy. "But he's my friend. Can he come here? Can he come for dinner or something, Mom?" Stevie turned his tearful eyes from the floor to his mother's face.

"For dinner? Well, I don't know, Stevie. We've got to think about that."

Mrs. Treadwell turned to her husband. "What do you think, dear?"

Mr. Treadwell removed his pipe from his mouth. "Actually, that's not a bad idea. We can see who this guy really is that way."

Stevie cleared his throat, getting their attention. "Um, actually, maybe he shouldn't come for dinner. I think he doesn't eat very much, so you'd better not waste your time, Mom."

"Well, we can meet him, can't we?"

"Yeah, sure. But maybe just...like...after dinner. Something like that. I don't know. Maybe he can eat pie or something."

"Okay then. Pie it'll be. How about Saturday night around seven?"

"Okay, Mom. I'll bring him then."

* * * * * * *

On Saturday at 6:50 PM, Stevie ambled alongside a reluctant spirit on Courthouse Road, heading for home where his mother and father waited, hot apple pie ready in the oven.

"Don't worry, sir, it'll be great. Once they get used to you being a ghost, they'll like you just as much as I do." But Stevie's chatter had the sound of a self-administered pep talk, and the Colonel maintained grave doubts.

The ghost just nodded his head occasionally, muttering, "Well, I don't know," but saying little else.

In another ten minutes they arrived at the house.

Stevie gave a warning shout of "I'm back!" as he pushed through the door with hardly a pause. Colonel Walker followed.

Casting a reassuring glance behind him, Stevie could see the Colonel's dim form. Dim, but still plainly visible—-at least to his eyes.

Just then Mr. and Mrs. Treadwell filed into the entrance hall and Stevie beckoned toward the ghost. Colonel Walker stepped forward and removed his hat.

"This is Colonel Walker, Mom, Dad."

"Right pleased to meet you ma'am," the Colonel said. "An honor, sir." He gave a gentlemanly bow.

Mr. and Mrs. Treadwell looked expectantly at Stevie, looked at the open door as if someone was going to traipse in at any moment.

No one came.

Mr. Treadwell looked at Stevie and said, "Where?"

"Here—-" Stevie gestured to the ghost, practically putting his hand through him. He looked again for the Colonel-—still there. At his Mom. Mrs. Treadwell looked worried. Mr. Treadwell's brow was furrowed with concern. Stevie scratched his head.

"Stevie," his mother said, slowly, like she was talking to a very, very bad boy, "what's going on?"

"I—" Stevie pointed again at the ghost. His mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came out. His blue eyes were wide open, a hurt look in them.

The ghost shuffled uncomfortably, clasping his ragged gray soldier's hat to his chest, all too aware of what was happening. He hadn't felt so uncomfortable since the day he got shot.

Mr. Treadwell took Stevie by the shoulder and dragged him in the direction of the dining room. Plates and pie sat ready, but Stevie hardly noticed.

"I think we've got to talk, young man," his father said. Mrs. Treadwell followed, as did the ghost at an unseen distance.

Everyone took a seat except Colonel Walker, who stood gazing at the spectacle of the living before him. Each seemed waiting for someone else to speak and finally Stevie turned his bleary eyes toward the ghost.

"Tell 'em like it is, Stevie my boy," the ghost urged him. "Go ahead."

Stevie nodded and turned to his mother and father. Each had noticed his momentary distraction and followed his gaze. Maybe they saw a shadow or light or nothing at all. They quickly looked back at their boy.

Stevie spoke: "Mom, Dad, I know you aren't going to believe this, but Colonel Walker isn't a person—-not an ordinary person, that is..."

Unseen, the Colonel blanched.

"What do you mean?" his mother asked.

"I mean—" The boy sniffled. "I mean, he's a ghost." Stevie nodded his head. "He's a ghost."

"I think you'd better start from the beginning," Mr. Treadwell suggested, and so Stevie did. Every detail he could remember, which was quite a lot.

"He's just looking for a place to live," Stevie said, finally finishing his account. "I wanted to help him."

Mr. Treadwell just shook his head, a grim smile on his face. "That's quite a story, Stevie. But, I have to confess, I have a hard time believing it. I mean, I'm open minded, but this one really pushes the limits. Your mother and I have never known you to lie, so it's really tough to say what we should do at this point."

"I've got something to say," Mrs. Treadwell put in. "Stevie, are you really lonely here?"

"No, Mom."

"Because, I know you miss your friends back in Rockville. Is this...uh, ghost, just a special friend you've made up?"

"No, Mom."

"Then, Stevie, are you lying to us?"

"No, I'm not." Stevie turned to look for the ghost, but there was no sign of him. "He was here, but he's gone now," he whispered.

Mr. Treadwell stood up. "I tell you what, Stevie: Let's all go to the graveyard right now. I want to see what started this whole affair."

And so they went. And when they got there and stood in front of the Colonel's tombstone, Mr. Treadwell read the inscription aloud and then turned to his wife. "That's my great great great grandfather, all right. It's all just as the courthouse records state."

"Well, how did Stevie know?" she asked, gazing down at her son. The little boy’s head hung dejectedly.

Mr. Treadwell shrugged. "Lucky guess, I suppose."

Stevie looked up and turned, pointing at the roof of the house that stood in the dim evening light above the treetops on the other side of Courthouse Road. "That's where the Colonel lived. He was born there, too."

His father got a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Your friend told you that, right? Well, I'll just do a little more checking on this story. I'll look up the land records on Monday. We can find out who really lived there."

* * * * * * *

Mr. Treadwell walked in the front of their house, the screen door slamming shut behind him. It was late Monday morning. "Welp, he's right," he announced to Mrs. Treadwell as she looked up from a book.

"What?"

"That house is the former residence of Colonel George Walker. More exactly, of William Walker and his wife Patricia McKinney Walker. The Colonel's parents."

Mrs. Treadwell closed her book. "So what else did you find out?"

"That it was built by the Walkers in 1838, and that after the Civil War, with all the slaves gone, the family couldn't maintain it and the adjoining farm anymore. So they auctioned off about two thirds of the land. All the land from the intersection here way on down Courthouse road on the north side, maybe a mile or so, used to be theirs. Then in 1887, the house itself and all the remaining land were sold by Dwight Walker, the Colonel's younger brother. He was the last of our relatives to own it. Most recently, Iva Morris lived there, but she died last year and the house went on the auction block. They're doing renovation there now, but it's still in pretty good condition, considering how old it is. Question is, how did Stevie know what he knew?"

"Maybe he's telling the truth," Mrs. Treadwell said, smiling. "Maybe a ghost really did tell him."

Mr. Treadwell sat down in his chair, laughing quietly. "I don't know. But the world is a big place and there's definitely a lot I don't understand."

"You don't actually believe him, do you Christian? I think he's just a little lonely and his imagination's acted up. I bet it'll all go away when school starts up."

"If it's just his imagination, yes."

"You really sound like you believe him."

"Well..."

"Well what?"

"Well, there should be some way we can prove or disprove his story absolutely. We just have to find the right way to do it."

* * * * * * *

Stevie sat in his room, turning the pages of a book called Games Galore. It was a thin, hardcover volume, filled mostly with crossword puzzles, word searches, optical illusions, and riddles. He'd gotten it for his tenth birthday a few months earlier, a gift from his friend Tommy Ewers, and though he'd uncovered many of its secrets, whenever he leafed through it something new always managed to pop up.

With the crossword puzzle on page thirty-eight finished as much as patience and present knowledge allowed, he flipped the pages slowly, looking for some fresh distraction. A picture of a duck on page fifty-nine caught his attention. What was it with the duck? Can you find the rabbit and the duck hidden here? the caption teased.

The duck was easy enough—-that's what first caught his eyes. But a rabbit? He tried hard to see it. Squinted. Turned the book upside down. Blocked the top half off, then the bottom half. No duck. Then—

Ah! The duck!

There it was. Yes. Duck-rabbit; rabbit-duck. Kind of like the poster of little fish within bigger fish within giant fish tacked to his wall. Depending on how you looked at it, you saw either a school of fish or—-

That was it! If the caption had said nothing about the rabbit, Stevie knew he would never have found it. If you didn't believe something was there, how could you possibly see it?

Believing is seeing. That's what the sign out front of that church on two-oh-eight said, wasn't it? And Stevie, just then, knew it was true.

* * * * * * *

"There you are!" A bright smile lit up Stevie's face. "Where've you been?"

Almost a week had passed since the apple pie night disaster, and after all of Stevie's searching high and low for the ghost, here he was, sitting on a tree stump in the middle of the graveyard, looking rather doleful.

"Hmph. Tried livin' a few days in my former residence, keepin' company with them goddamn Yankees. No endurin' that, 'tis for sure."

"What happened?"

"Kid screamin' like a banshee. Bitch dog always sniffin' me out and yowlin'. Black boxes makin' an ungodly racket they referred to as music. So I'm back here again. Least it's quiet."

The Colonel's glum mood, though, was not enough to throw Stevie off.

"Colonel, sir, you've got to tell me: What were your mother's and father's names, and the names of your sisters and brothers?"

The ghost looked annoyed. "What're you after now, boy?"

"Please, sir, I think I can help out things with my parents. If I can just make them believe you're real..."

The Colonel snorted. "I reckon I know what you're thinkin', but I doubt you'll get any farther than your mouth for all your troubles."

"Come on, Colonel Walker. Please."

"Oh, all right." The ghost stood up and started pacing about. "Father's name was William, mother's Patricia. She was Irish, but a mighty fine woman, nonetheless." He halted and peered suspiciously at Stevie as the boy scribbled on a notepad. "What're you doin', boy?"

"Just writing everything down. I might not remember it."

"Hm. Well, as I was sayin'." The Colonel began pacing again. "No older brothers, but two younger, Dwight and Elroy. Elroy passed away when he was twelve. Snakebite. Dwight... He was a traitor to the Southern cause, though it pains me to say it. Got into law early on, then went up north. Worked first in Fredericksburg, then in Washington. Still up there, last I heard from him. Then there was Belle, and Melissa, my two sisters. Belle was the oldest, two years ahead of me, and Melissa the youngest. That enough for you?" The ghost stood still and looked at Stevie.

"I think so. I'll come back and tell you what happens as soon as I can. You'll be here, right?"

"Well I had a fancy to head for Paris on vacation, but I guess it'll have to wait. Yeah, I'll be here."

And Stevie was off.

* * * * * * *

"How do you know all this?" Mr. Treadwell asked Stevie. Mr. Treadwell leaned against the handles of an aging Sears lawnmower, stopped in its tracks halfway across the yard by Stevie's insistent calls for attention.

Standing there in the middle of the half-mown yard, Mr. Treadwell couldn't perfectly recall all of Colonel George Walker's relations' names, but a lot of what Stevie was telling him sounded right. It would be easy to check and see. So they did, and the boy was—

Exactly right. To a "t".

"Where'd you learn all this, Stevie?" They stood now by the open window of Mr. Treadwell's study.

"From the Colonel, Dad." Seeing the doubtful look on his father's face, Stevie went on: "I just met him in the graveyard. Just now. You gotta come. I know you don't believe me, but I just talked to him."

"You didn't go to the courthouse?"

"Come on Dad, gimme a break! I wouldn't know what to do in the courthouse."

Mr. Treadwell didn't know what to say. Either the boy was lying through his teeth, or everyday common sense had slammed into a brick wall of an impasse.

"Stevie," he finally said, "What exactly does Colonel Walker want?" For the moment, Mr. Treadwell decided he would play Stevie's pitch.

"I tried telling you and Mom before. He's a ghost. He's a hundred and thirty-five years old. He can't live in his house because of the people there. They make too much noise. So he sits around by his grave all day—"

"We went to his grave, Stevie. I don't recall seeing any ghosts there."

"You don't believe in ghosts, Dad, do you?"

"Not anytime recently, I haven't."

"Dad, my history teacher last year said the reason Einstein was a great scientist was because he had an open mind. He was willing to test theories nobody believed in. That's how he was able to find out new things nobody had ever even thought of. So if you can't even say something is maaaybe true, how can you expect to discover it when it is true? It's like Christopher Columbus: He was the only guy who thought the world was round, so he was the first to sail to America. If it hadn't been for him, nobody would have ever tried." Finishing his lecture, Stevie crossed his arms confidently, a look of touché on his face.

His father just shook his head, smiling. It'd been a long time since his son had trounced him like that.

"You have a point there," Mr. Treadwell conceded, grinning. "Okay, let's wait for your mother to get back from Food Lion." He glanced at his watch. "It shouldn't be long. But let me tell her what's going on, okay?"

It was only fifteen minutes before Mrs. Treadwell returned. Stevie and her husband helped her unload the groceries, and then Mr. Treadwell informed her of what was going on. She looked disappointed.

"I thought we were through with this."

"Well," Mr. Treadwell said, "either Stevie has been accessing the courthouse archives, or somebody he's met did it for him, or I haven't a clue in the world about what's going on. Let's just give it one last try."

Mrs. Treadwell threw up her hands in resignation. "What else do I have to do with my time but go looking for dead in-laws? All right!"

* * * * * * *

They didn't see the ghost, but Stevie did. In the same place, on the stump. Looking bored as ever. But the Colonel stood up as three of the living approached, and respectfully removed his cap. To Stevie he looked nervous.

"Colonel, sir, you have to help me. I think if we can prove you're here, Mom and Dad might be able to see you. At least I hope so."

Mr. and Mrs. Treadwell exchanged glances. Here their little boy was, rambling on with the thin air like it was their next door neighbor. Mrs. Treadwell briefly wondered what sort of psychiatric facilities were available in the Fredericksburg area.

"I'll do what I can, boy." He turned his hat over and over in his hands, squishing and stretching it like a wet rag.

Stevie cocked his head to the side, rolling his eyes up thoughtfully. "Let's see," he said, a finger on his chin. "Who were the Confederate leaders at the Battle of Fredericksburg?"

The ghost knit his brow, remembering. "Let's see. There was Longstreet, Jackson, and Lee-—Early, Hood and Pickett—-McLaws..." The ghost rattled off the names in threes, which Stevie repeated to his parents. Mr. Treadwell nodded affirmatively at each, the look of amazement growing steadily on his face. Stevie had always liked books on ancient Egypt, Rome and Greece, but modern military history was not his forte. Except what he studied in school, Mr. and Mrs. Treadwell had never known him to bring home books on the Civil War. Much to Mr. Treadwell's disappointment.

When the trickle of names ended, Mr. Treadwell just said, "Right." He paused, thinking. Then he asked, "Okay, Stevie. What was Jefferson Davis' wife's name?"

The ghost gave the answer to Stevie and Stevie said, "Varina."

"In what Indian war did Jefferson Davis serve?"

"The Blackhawk War."

"What was General Longstreet's nickname?"

"Old Pete."

"Which Confederate General was at the bottom of his class at West Point?"

The ghost laughed at that one. "General George Pickett."

Mr. Treadwell was plainly stunned. "I don't believe this. Stevie—"

"Is everything he said right?" Mrs. Treadwell asked.

Mr. Treadwell nodded. "Yeah. Everything. So either our son has become a Civil War scholar overnight, or—" He looked at Stevie. "How do you know all this?"

The boy jumped with excitement. "Just look, Dad. Look real hard. Believe me. He's right in front of you!"

Mr. Treadwell shook his head. Squinted. "Who? What am I supposed to see?"

"Colonel Walker, Dad. Look!"

"Where?"

"About two feet in front of you. If you touch him it'll feel cold."

Colonel Walker turned a dark glare on the boy. "We've gotta try," Stevie adjured him.

Mr. Treadwell reached out cautiously. Yes, a distinctly chill, very localized patch of air was floating in front of him. It reminded him of times he'd swum at the beach and wandered in and out of a cold water current. He drew his hand back.

Mrs. Treadwell tried. "I can feel it," she said.

Mr. Treadwell began to circle around, testing the boundaries of the cold air.

Stevie caught the scowl on the ghost's face and waved his hands. "No, Dad. Don't! The Colonel doesn't like it."

Mr. Treadwell retreated. "Stevie—-" he started to say, but he never finished.

"Waahh!" he cried, throwing up his hands as if someone had jumped on him from behind a tree. His eyes bulged; his jaw dropped open.

Mrs. Treadwell seized his arm. "Christian! What do you see?"

"It's a ghost. It's a blooming ghost in a Confederate uniform!" He stared, blinking as if he expected the apparition to vanish.

It didn't.

"My God," he said to himself, shaking his head.

He glanced at Stevie, back at the ghost, then gave his wife an almost pitying look. "He's right in front of us!"

Mrs. Treadwell strained for all she was worth, eyes alternately squinting and popping open.

"It's not in the eyes, dear," her husband said. "Just tell yourself it's there."

And Mrs. Treadwell must have done just that, for suddenly a wordless shout erupted from her lips and she pedaled backwards, stumbling over a headstone and falling plunk on her bottom.

"Good heavens!"

Stevie looked at his Dad, a toothy grin on his face that quickly turned to laughter. Mr. Treadwell joined in and finally even Colonel Walker, despite knowing it was impolite to laugh at the expense of a lady. But after all, it had been a long, long time since he'd even had anything at which to laugh.

* * * * * * *

"So will he be able to stay with us, Dad? Mom?"

Stevie had asked the question repeatedly in the past few days, and finally his parents gave in and offered the Colonel a trial week of life in their home. In the end, Mr. Treadwell said he had no objections; the fact was, the idea secretly thrilled him. How many Civil War historians, he thought to himself, had eyewitnesses with which to consult when doing research? That was the best part, not to mention the fact that his informant would be his own great great great grandfather. Besides, he told his wife, ghosts take up very little space. And they're light eaters, too.

But Mrs. Treadwell still had objections. "What if someone wants to stay over?" she asked.

"No one will ever even notice him," Stevie said.

"Yeah, look how long it took us," Mr. Treadwell reminded her.

Finally, Mrs. Treadwell too said it was fine, and one of the two remaining bedrooms soon had a new occupant. An occupant who never tracked in dirt, never raided the refrigerator, and didn't up the utility bill. Colonel George Walker turned out to be a rather private and quiet ghost-—except Mrs. Treadwell never got used to his swearing—-and spent most of his time in Mr. Treadwell's study reading up on the war he died prematurely in, and on history Old World and New since that time. He became a comfortable and regular fixture in the Treadwell's world; enjoyed television—-especially football ("a real man's sport," he called it)-—read the evening paper, and spent many a long evening up late with Mr. Treadwell discussing military history, the Civil War and even modern politics.

And no one ever noticed that the Treadwell house was, technically speaking, haunted. Neither passerbys nor guests. All, in fact, thought the Treadwells a fine and friendly bunch of people, though it must be said not a few considered them a little queer. Too often one of them could be seen alone in the yard or on the porch, chatting about this and that, laughing or serious, loud or quiet, yet not a soul in the world could be seen anywhere about. It wasn't just once or twice, but a regular thing, and nobody could figure it. But since otherwise they seemed like everyday folk, people forgave them. Let's face it, they said, most people have their quirks. It probably runs in the family.

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