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Everyone knows the pond in Teppit’s Wood is haunted. A young nursemaid once drowned herself there. She had done it early one evening, with the sun sinking in the red sky, and the smoke from the burning house drifting through the trees.

They say she had slipped out to meet her sweetheart, and left the two little children alone, with the fire blazing behind its guard in the nursery grate. Burnt to cinders they were, the poor little ones, and the young nursemaid, mad with the guilt and grief of it, had done away with herself.

But she still can’t rest, the tale goes; and at sunset, you’ll see the smoke drifting through the trees, though a hundred years have passed since the big house burned down. Then, if you’re wise, you’ll run! For that’s when the poor crazed ghost rises up, all wet from the dark pond, and goes seeking for the dead children. Searching and searching all through the woods for the little children. . . . Take care she doesn’t get you!

Meg Thompson, who was eleven, thought perhaps she was too old to believe in ghosts. Her brother William believed in them, but he was only eight. Aunt Janet seemed to, but perhaps she was only pretending, just to keep William company, so that he need not feel ashamed.

Even in full daylight Aunt Janet would hold their hands and run them past the pond, chanting the magic charm:

“Lady of the little lake,
Come not nigh, for pity’s sake!
Remember, when the sun is high,
We may safely pass you by.”

And they would race up the hill through the trees, until they arrived home, laughing, breathless, and safe.

They loved Aunt Janet, who had looked after them ever since their mother had died. Unfortunately, a neighbor’s brother, come visiting from Australia, loved her, too, and carried her back to Adelaide as his bride.

That was when Aunt Gertrude came. She was as different from Aunt Janet as a hawk from a dove. Thin and hard and sharp, she seemed to wear her bones outside her skin and her eyes on stalks. She could see dirty fingernails through pockets, smuggled bedtime cats through blankets, and broken mugs through two layers of newspaper and a garbage-can lid.

“I’m up to all your tricks,” she told them, with a smile like stretched elastic.

She only smiled when their father was in the room. There were many things she only did when he was there, such as calling them her dears, and giving them biscuits for their tea, and letting them watch television. Just as there were many things she only did when their father was out, such as feeding them on stale bread and margarine, slapping and punching them, and locking them in the cellar as a punishment.

They did not mind being shut in the cellar. They played soldiers with the bottles of wine, or cricket with a lump of coal and a piece of wood. Or they sat on empty crates and planned vengeance on Aunt Gertrude.

“I’ll get a gun and shoot her,” William said. “I’ll cut her up into little pieces with the carving knife and feed her to Tiddles.”

“You’d only get sent to prison,” Meg objected. “I’m going to write a letter to the Child Welfare and tell them about her, and they’ll put her in prison.”

“They won’t believe you,” William said, “any more than Dad does.”

Meg was silent.

“Why doesn’t Dad believe us?” William asked.

“Because she’s always nicer to us when he’s here. Because she doesn’t hit us hard enough to leave bruises. Because she’s told him we’re liars.” Meg hesitated, and then added slowly, “And because he doesn’t want to believe us.”

“Why not?”

“She’s our last aunt. If she went, he wouldn’t know what to do with us. He might have to send us away, and that would be worse.”

William looked doubtful, but before he could say anything, there was the sound of a door shutting upstairs.

“She’s back! Look sad, William,” Meg whispered. They did not want Aunt Gertrude to find out they did not mind being locked in the cellar. She’d only think of another punishment. One that hurt.

“Meg,” William whispered anxiously, “you haven’t told her about the haunted pond, have you?”

Meg shook her head.

“She’d take me down there, I know she would. At sunset,” William whispered, his eyes huge with fear. “At sunset, when it’s dangerous to go.”

“I won’t let her,” Meg said.

*  *  *  *  *

In September their father had to go to Germany for a month on business. They both cried when he left, and this made Aunt Gertrude angry. As a punishment she sent them to bed without supper, locking their rooms so that they could not sneak down in the night to steal food from the kitchen.

“I’m up to all your little tricks,” she told them.

They were so hungry the next day that they were almost glad it was Wednesday. For every Wednesday, Aunt Gertrude took them to tea with a friend of hers, who lived in Eggleston Street, three miles away by road and no buses. Mrs. Brown was as square as Aunt Gertrude was angular, but otherwise seemed to be made of the same material. Granite. But at least they got sandwiches and cake there, and could shut their ears to the insults the two women aimed at them.

“The trouble I’ve had with them,” Aunt Gertrude started off.

“I don’t know what children are coming to, I’m sure,” Mrs. Brown agreed. And they went on and on until at last it was time to go.

The walk back was all uphill. Usually Aunt Gertrude would stride ahead, and shout at the children when they lagged behind. They never complained when their legs ached and blisters burst on their heels. They did not want Aunt Gertrude to find out about the shortcut through Teppit’s Wood. But this Wednesday, as they were getting ready to go, Aunt Gertrude said that she was tired.

“Looking after these two wears me out. I must tell John he’ll have to buy me a car. It’s a long walk back up Eggleston Hill. . . .”

“Up Eggleston Hill?” Mrs. Brown repeated, surprised. “Don’t you take the shortcut through the wood?”

The children looked at each other in alarm.

“What shortcut?” Aunt Gertrude demanded. “I didn’t know there was a shortcut. Nobody told me. . . .” Her eyes looked around for someone to blame, and found the children. “Did you know about the shortcut?” she asked angrily.

“Of course they knew. Everyone knows,” Mrs. Brown said. She looked at Meg and William and smiled nastily. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to pass the haunted pond? I thought only babies were afraid of ghosts!” The sinking sun, shining through the window, flushed her face as if with wine. “Never mind,” she said, her voice as falsely sweet as honey from a wasp, “I’m sure your dear Aunt Gertrude will cure you of such silly fancies.”

William clutched hold of Meg’s hand.

“I’m not going through the wood! I’m not! You can’t make us! Not at sunset!””

Meg put her arms around him. She could hear Mrs. Brown telling Aunt Gertrude about the ghost of the young nursemaid, and Aunt Gertrude laughing scornfully.

“So you’re frightened of ghosts, are you?” she said to the children, after they had left the house. “You’d let your poor aunt walk two unnecessary miles because of some stupid old wives’ tale. Your poor aunt who works so hard while you spend all day playing! I’ll soon see about that.”

She grabbed them each by a wrist with her hard fingers, and dragged them down the path into the woods. The trees closed around them in a dark, whispering crowd, seeming to murmur, The sun is setting . . . keep away, keep away!

William began to struggle and kick. Aunt Gertrude let go of Meg and hit William so hard that he was knocked right off the path. He fell into a deep drift of dead leaves, which rose up like brown butterflies and settled down on him, as he lay whimpering.

Meg ran to comfort him, “You’ll have a bruise,” she whispered softly. “You’ll have a big bruise to show Dad when he comes back.”

He smiled through his tears.

“What’s that? What are you two plotting?” Aunt Gertrude asked sharply. “Any more nonsense out of you, and there’s plenty more where that came from. Well? Are you going to behave?”

She stood over them, tall and thin and hard as an iron lamppost, with the setting sun seeming to glow redly in her hateful eyes.

“Meg,” William whispered, his arms around her neck, “I think she’s a witch. Don’t you? Meg, d’you think she’s a witch?”

“No,” Meg whispered back, more decidedly than she felt. “Come on, we’d better do what she says. Don’t be frightened. I’ll look after you, William.”

So they walked down into the sighing woods. Their aunt marched behind them, throwing a long shadow that struck at their feet. William held tight to Meg’s hand, and as soon as the dark pond came into sight, they began to chant under their breaths the words of the magic charm.

“Lady of the little lake,
Come not nigh, for pity’s sake!
Remember, when the sun is high . . .”

“What are you two whispering about?” Aunt Gertrude demanded.

“Nothing,” they answered.

For it was no good, the magic charm. It only worked in daylight, when the sun was up. Now the sun had fallen into the trees, and the sky was on fire.

“Look!” William whispered.

Between the trees, pale wisps of smoke came curling and creeping over the ground, like blind fingers searching. . . .

“It’s the smoke! Meg, it’s the smoke!” William screamed.

Aunt Gertrude grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

“Stop that din! Making an exhibition of yourself! It’s only mist rising from the water. Come, I’ll show you.” She started dragging William toward the pond. Meg grabbed him by the other arm, and for a moment they pulled him between them, like a cracker. Then Aunt Gertrude hit Meg hard on the ear, and Meg let go, putting her hands to her ringing head.

Aunt Gertrude forced William to the very edge of the dark pond.

“There! Look down, there’s nothing there, is there, you stupid little coward? Answer me! There’s nothing there, is there?”

She was looking at William as she spoke. She did not see what both the children saw. She did not see what rose out of the pond behind her.

It was something dark and wet, a figure of water and weeds. Green mud clung like flesh to its washed bones. A frog crouched like a pumping heart in its cage of ivory. Its crazed eyes, silver as the scales of fishes, glared down at Aunt Gertrude as she hit the terrified boy. It reached out. . . .

Aunt Gertrude screamed.

William pulled away from her and ran. Blind with fear, he raced past Meg without seeing her, and disappeared into the trees.

Meg could not move. She crouched down on the damp, leafy ground and watched in terror. Dark water was torn from the pond in creamy tatters as the two figures struggled together, the screaming aunt and the other one, all water and weed and bone. Its silver eyes glinting, it fastened its ivory fingers like combs into Aunt Gertrude’s hair. Down, down they sank in a boil of bubbles.

“Meg! Meg!” William’s voice called from among the trees, and Meg, as if released, leapt to her feet and ran after him, leaving Aunt Gertrude in the pond.

William had fallen over. His knee was bleeding, his bruised face wet.

“Come on, come on, hurry!” Meg said, catching hold of his hand and dragging him after her.

For there was someone following. Running through the trees behind them, twigs snapping, leaves crunching under invisible feet.

“Run, William, faster, faster!” Meg cried.

“I can’t!”

“You must! Run, William, run!”

It was nearer now, and nearer, following fast, bounding in huge leaps over the rotting branches and white nests of toadstools.

“Faster!” Meg cried, looking fearfully over her shoulder at the shaking bushes, not seeing the twisted root that caught at her feet. She fell, bringing William down with her.

Aunt Gertrude burst through the bushes.

How strange she looked! She had run so fast that the clothes had dried on her body, and her cheeks were pink. Her hair, loosened from its tight knot, was tumbled and tangled about her head.

The children cowered away from her as she came up and knelt down beside them.

“Are you all right, my little dears?” she asked softly. (Dears?) “That was a nasty tumble! Why, you’re shivering, Miss Margaret! And Master William, you’ve cut your poor knee.” (Miss? Master?) “If you’re a brave boy and don’t cry, I’ll give you a piggyback home, and there’ll be hot chocolate and cherry cake by the nursery fire.”

They stared at her, trembling. The look in Aunt Gertrude’s eyes was soft and kind. The smile on Aunt Gertrude’s mouth was wide and sweet. What was she up to? What cruel trick was she playing now?

They were silent as Aunt Gertrude carried William up the hill to their home. There, as good as her word, she gave them hot chocolate and cake, and sat them on the sofa while she bathed William’s knee.

When she had finished, she stood up and gazed at the empty grate in the living room, while they watched her silently. Then she left the room. They sipped their hot chocolate, sitting side by side, listening. They could hear her going from room to room all over the house, as if looking for something.

“What’s she up to?” William whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see it? Did you see it . . . in the pond?”

“Yes.”

“What happened, Meg?”

“Aunt Gertrude fell in,” Meg said, and shivered.

“Why is she so . . . so different?”

“I don’t know.”

“I wish Daddy were back,” William said, and his lip quivered. Meg put her arm around him, and they were silent again, listening to the footsteps going around and around the house, slowly, uncertainly, as if Aunt Gertrude had lost her way.

*  *  *  *  *

There was no doubt that Aunt Gertrude was a changed woman since she had fallen into the pond. Perhaps the water had washed the nastiness out of her. The house had never been so bright and cheerful. Their meals had never been so delicious. She made them apple pie and cherry cake, and let them lick out the bowls. She played leapfrog with them in the garden, and never minded running after the balls at cricket. She told them bedtime stories and kissed them good-night.

William started calling her Aunt Trudie, and would often hold her hand, taking her to see some treasure; a large snail with a whirligig shell, a stone with a hole right through the middle or a jay’s feather. Meg followed them silently, watching and listening. Once, when William did not know she was behind them, she heard him say, “Aunt Trudie, you mustn’t call us Miss Margaret and Master William, you know.”

“Should I not, Master William?”

“No. Just plain Meg and William.”

“William, then.”

“That’s better. And when Daddy comes home on Saturday, you must call him John. Can you remember that?”

She smiled and nodded.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll look after you, Aunt Trudie.” Then he caught sight of Meg behind them, and said quickly, “We’re just playing a game. Go away, Meg! We don’t want you!”

“Now, Mas-— Now, William, that’s no way to speak to your sister,” Aunt Trudie said gently. “Of course we want her.” She smiled at Meg. “We are going to see the kittens next door. Come with us, Meg.”

Meg shook her head and walked back to the house. She went up to Aunt Gertrude’s bedroom and looked around. It was bright and clean, and there were flowers on the dressing table. There was no smell, no sense of Aunt Gertrude in it anywhere. It seemed like another person’s room. Meg sat down on the bed and thought for a long time.

Aunt Trudie found her there, when she came in from the garden, flushed and laughing. She hesitated when she caught sight of Meg, then called over her shoulder, “Just a moment, William! Wait for me in the garden.”

Then she shut the door and leaned against it, looking gravely and kindly at Meg.

“Will you be staying with us long?” Meg asked politely.

“As long as ever you want me to,” was the answer.

There was a short silence. Then Meg jumped to her feet and put her arms around the woman.

“We don’t want you to go, Aunt Trudie,” she said. “We want you to stay with us forever.”

*  *  *  *  *

It was three years before Meg ventured once more into Teppit’s Wood. She went in broad daylight, when the sun was high. It was curiosity that took her there, down the winding path to the dark pond at the bottom. It was a warm day and birds were singing in the trees. The pond looked peaceful. There was frog’s-spawn in the brown water, leaves floated on the surface like little islands, and a water-boatman sculled across, leaving a silver wake behind him.

Meg stood a safe distance away and waited.

Bubbles began to disturb the quiet water. Small fish darted away and hid under the weeds. Now a scum of mud and filth rose slowly up from the bottom of the pond. It spread round a clump of frog’s-spawn, which shook and seemed to separate, and then reform into the shape of a hideous, scowling face.

As she watched, Meg thought she heard, faintly, a familiar voice.

“Meg! Get me out! Get me out this minute! She’s stolen my body, that wretched servant-girl! Meg, if you bring her down here, I’ll give you a penny. I’ll give you chocolate biscuits every day. And roast beef! Just bring her down here and push her in! Meg, I’ll never hit you again, I promise, I promise, promise. . . .”

“Good—bye, Aunt Gertrude,” Meg said firmly, and left. That was the last time she ever walked in the woods around Teppit’s pond.