For Regina56, who wanted a scary story for Halloween.

Boooties for Walter

The first chilly winds of autumn rattled still-green leaves against the windows of the Ingleside living room. After a sweltering summer, Anne welcomed the change in temperature, which heralded wooly sweaters and mugs of cocoa and the imminent return of a certain stork who would, she hoped, find them easily enough despite the recent change of address.

Earlier that afternoon, the Blythes had made a little ceremony of lighting the first hearth-fire in their new home under the watchful eyes of Gog and Magog. Ingleside would never be the House of Dreams, but an applewood fire in the grate was quite as nice as driftwood, in its own way. Little Jem had been particularly taken with the pinecones heaped in the kindling box, and was now happily engaged in swatting one back and forth with the First Mate on the braided rug before the fire, gurgling with delight.

"Drat!" Anne muttered, dropping her crochet hook in frustration.

Gilbert looked up from his newspaper, eyebrow raised. "Everything alright, Anne-girl?"

It was not possible for Anne to take a deep breath, not with Jem's not-so-little sibling having expanded its domain into her ribcage these past few weeks, but she sighed as deeply as one so afflicted can sigh.

"It's just these booties," she groaned. "The thread is so fine and the pattern so devilishly tricky . . ."

Gilbert smothered a grin. "Picking up Susan's swears, Anne? Tsk tsk."

"Oh, devilish isn't swearing," Anne objected, though a pink flush rose under her freckles. "Though if anything could make me swear, it would be these booties. I'll never finish them in time."

"So don't finish them," Gilbert shrugged. "Jem had enough of them and they're hardly used up."

Anne contemplated the tiny oval in her hand. She had already done the sole and most of the foot, but the intricate pattern of the lacy uppers was testing the limits of her skill. Oh, Mrs. Lynde had described the pattern as "simple" when she sent it along, but that would only heighten the disgrace of quitting. No chance of Mrs. Lynde not noticing their absence either; she would come with Marilla in a few weeks to poke through the scrap pail and lament the cost of heating such a large house and take a very thorough inventory of the new baby's dresser drawers. Besides, every baby should have something new for its own precious self, even if it did come along before its older sibling was weaned. No, Anne could not quit the booties. But she could leave them for a while.

"I think I ought to take Jem up to bed," she said, laying the hook aside.

Gilbert set aside his paper. "Let me . . ."

His offer was interrupted by the trilling of the telephone in the hall. Gilbert winced, then dashed off to answer it, returning in a moment with his features rearranged into the sober mask of the doctor.

"There's been an accident in the Upper Glen," he said, already slipping into his coat. "I hate to leave you here alone with Susan away for the night, but I must go."

"Of course," Anne said, struggling to her feet. "Jem and I will be perfectly alright."

"If you need me, call up to Joe Burr's. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Don't worry over us, darling. Go."

He did, pausing only for a swift kiss, a ruffling of Jem's red curls, and a stern admonition to little whatsit to stay put in current accommodations.

"Dada!" Jem waved happily after him.

Anne banked the remains of the fire, then gathered her son onto her hip as best she could. He was such a cheerful, friendly little chap, all the more so now that his words were starting to come in. The first had been Mo'er, to Anne's immense delight, followed by Dada and NO. A recent visit from John and Sarah Blythe had added Nana to his vocabulary, much to the enchantment of every white-haired lady in Glen St. Mary who found herself greeted thus. Jem had caused quite a commotion in church just last week, wriggling out of Anne's arms during the sermon and scooting down the aisle, blowing kisses to every "Nana!" he encountered along the way.

"Tweet itty wee singie," Anne crooned, taking advantage of Gilbert's absence to lavish Jem with baby talk. "Come upstaiws wif muzzer and snuggle."

It was not easy to balance Jem with one hand and carry a lamp in the other, but Anne managed, puffing by the time she reached the top of the stairs. The circle of golden lamplight reached only halfway down the hall, throwing the closed doors of unused bedrooms into stark relief. One day, they would be full of childish giggling and whispered confidences, but at the moment, they were unlit and unfurnished, and Anne found herself wishing there were not quite so many of them.

Foolish. They were just empty rooms.

Still, Anne hustled down the hall to the nursery with enough speed to make Jem demand More! More!

Instead, she changed him into his long nightie and settled into the rocking chair to nurse him to sleep. Gilbert would have frowned over that as well, but he wasn't home and Anne found her nerves soothed by the familiar pull at her breast and the sleepy pats delivered by a warm and dimpled hand. She placed Jem into his cot, limp and dreaming, and stood over him a long while, reluctant to brave the shadowy hall alone.

In the middle of the night, Anne woke with a start. The pillow beside her was undisturbed; the night black as a coal-hold.

And someone was speaking.

Anne froze, sorting through the sounds of wind-rattled panes and creaking branches to focus on the distant rise and fall of a human voice. When she caught it again, her shoulders slumped in relief.

Only Jem.

He was babbling in his cot down the hall, the string of nonsense occasionally punctuated by a shriek, which must have been what woke her.

Anne settled back onto her pillow, resolving that she would catch up with sleep before it had gotten much of a head start. Jem was safe and warm and would drift off again once he had grown tired of talking to himself.

Unfortunately, no mother in the last month of her pregnancy can rest easy once awoken. After a quarter-hour's fretful tossing, Anne finally gave in and admitted that there would be no sleep for her until she visited the bathroom.

She tiptoed to the door, hesitating a moment on the threshold as the light from her lamp rippled down the empty hallway. It seemed longer than it did in daylight, the pairs of dark, closed doors stretching on beyond the lamp's power. Halfway along, the balusters threw a stark pattern of bars across the quaint window on the landing, gradually disappearing into the cavernous dark of the ground floor.

Nothing moved but the wavering light.

There's nothing out there, Anne chided herself. Only Jem chatting to himself.

Still, she scampered the last few feet to the bathroom — if one in her condition can be said to scamper — and conducted her business as swiftly as possible.

Coming back, Anne slowed outside Jem's door to listen to his bright gurgling . She really should not go in — neither would ever get back to sleep if she did — but they were both awake already, weren't they? Perhaps it was silly to be afraid and sillier to look to an infant for comfort, but logic was no match for Anne's overpowering need to have her baby in her arms.

"Mo'er!" Jem burbled at sight of her, lifting his arms over the cot rail.

Anne lifted him out and he nuzzled into her shoulder, repeating Mo'er! Mo'er! at intervals. Anne held him close, rocking gently as Jem continued to babble unintelligibly.

All at once, he reared up and leaned over Anne's shoulder, waving his pudgy hands.

"Nana! Nana!"

An icy chill slithered down Anne's spine. Certainly there was no one else in the room, whatever Jem seemed to think.

"No, sweetheart," she said with a quaver in her voice. "Nana's not here."

"Nana! Nana!"

When they were little girls, Anne and Diana had imagined a host of ghastly specters into the Haunted Wood in Avonlea. There had been a white lady who wailed as she walked along the brook, a headless man who stalked the paths, and a little murdered child who crept up behind unwary travelers and lay its cold fingers on their hands. Ever after, Anne had been too frightened to walk through the Haunted Wood when the shadows lengthened. There was nothing to fear, she knew, not among the gloomy spruces and not here in Jem's snug, tidy nursery, but oh, how she wished she had never imagined those ghosts into existence!*

Very slowly, Anne turned around, heart tripping along unevenly, breath shorter than it should be even with constricted lungs.

She screamed.

Her own reflection in the dresser mirror screamed back.

Oh, goodness! It really was only her reflection. Long white nightgown, stretched to unfamiliar proportions by her distended belly, gray eyes huge in a grayer face. But yes, it was only herself, Anne Blythe, staring back at her. Foolish. Was her nose really so swollen these days?

Jem had not liked the scream. He buttoned up his eyes and wailed.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," Anne soothed. "Muzzer didn't mean to scawe oo."

Jem was not appeased, his heaving sobs sending real tears flowing down his plump cheeks. He was too upset even to nurse in the chair. Anne bounced him for a while, but twenty-five pounds of struggling toddler were too much for her back and she resolved to carry Jem to bed with her.

"No!" Jem protested when Anne carried him from the nursery. "Nana! Nana!"

With firm resolution, Anne closed the door behind her and shuddered. She was quite sure the nursery was empty, and yet . . .

Anne dashed across the hall and closed the bedroom door firmly behind her, lamenting that she had deemed it unnecessary to install a deadbolt. The chair from her vanity would have to do. Anne deposited Jem on the bed and shoved the chair under the doorknob, immobilizing it.

This was absurd. In the first place, she did not believe in ghosts. In the second, a door would provide no barrier to a determined phantom, locked or not! Still, Anne felt better with the barricade in place. She would just get into bed, nurse Jem back to sleep, and wait for either dawn or Gilbert to relieve the dismal solitude of the too-big house. With shaking hands, she pulled back Mrs. Lynde's exquisitely-crocheted coverlet and climbed in, settling Jem beside her.

Jem had evidently decided that being welcomed into Mother and Dad's bed was enough of a treat to merit good behavior, and had left off wailing. He nestled in beside Anne's rounded belly and latched easily, calming by inches until he snuffled himself into a warm and milky slumber. Anne pulled the blankets close around them and waited.

"Anne? Anne!"

The rattling of the bedroom door roused Anne once more. Morning light streamed through the windows and Gilbert was at the door, unable to gain entry.

"Anne, are you in there?"

"I'm coming!" she squeaked, lumbering from the bed to pull aside the barricade.

Gilbert was pacing before the door, rumpled and frantic in the clothes he'd worn all night.

"Are you alright?" he asked, pulling Anne into a hug and then stepping back to scrutinize her from tip to toe.

"Quite alright," she assured him.

"Is Jem with you?"

Anne looked over her shoulder to the bed, where Jem lay on his back, sprawled like a beached starfish.

"Yes, he's in bed with me. I . . . oh Gilbert, I've been such a goose!"

Gilbert's fear dissolved, replaced by a look of utter exhaustion. He wrapped a strong arm around Anne's shoulders and led her back into the room. "What happened?"

In the clear light of morning, it seemed awfully foolish even to put the events of last night into words. Anne tried, apologizing at every turn.

"I feel terribly silly," she ended.

Gilbert had enough energy for one more smile and to drop a kiss on the top of Anne's silky red head. "It's that imagination of yours, Anne-girl. Don't tell me the nursery will be off-limits forevermore?"

"Indeed not!" she smiled. "I think we'll have need of it for a long while yet."

Jem stirred, opening one hazel eye and stretching like a cat.

"Morning, young sir," Gilbert smiled, reaching over to rub the round little tummy.

"Dada!" Jem grinned, clambering into Gilbert's lap and giving him a sloppy kiss. "Dada! Mo'er! Dada!"

"Give him here," Anne said after pulling on her dressing gown. "You get some sleep and I'll go make something tasty for when you wake."

Gilbert yawned. "Thanks. East, west, hame's best."

Anne kissed him gently, lingering a moment to enjoy the prickling of his all-night stubble against her lips.

"You're sure you have to go?" he smiled languidly.

"I'm afraid I travel with quite the retinue at the moment," Anne laughed, adjusting Jem on her hip. "Get some rest, darling."

She shut the door behind her — for sound, not safety — and padded down the stairs in slippered feet. What would Gilbert most like when he awoke? Would he be in the mood for flapjacks and bacon? Or ought she skip right to lunch? Susan would be back from tending her ailing cousin Sophia this afternoon, but in the meantime, it was nice to have charge of the Ingleside kitchen for a little while.

Anne set Jem down beside the cat, who enjoyed her morning greetings somewhat less than Gilbert had. There was tea to brew and apples to slice and porridge to make. Anne hummed to herself as she poured and stirred, ensuring that there were no lumps to choke little Jem.

When the porridge was nearly ready, she looked up to see Jem's trailing nightie disappear around the corner, evidently headed for the living room. Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, Anne followed her son, catching him up just as he scooted toward the fireplace.

"Careful, sweetheart," she crooned. "We can't have you falling . . . into . . ."

She stopped.

Jem squirmed in her arms, but Anne did not move.

It was impossible.

Jem protested, wriggling until Anne set him down abstractedly, her eyes never wavering from the table.

There, beside the crochet hook, were the booties. They were finished, perfect to the last stitch.

Notes:

*Anne of Green Gables, chapter 20: "A Good Imagination Gone Wrong" and Anne of the Island, chapter 2: "Garlands of Autumn"