Horror at the Haunted House (10 page)

“Is it X-rated?” asked a voice from the back of the school bus.

Caitlin giggled but Ellen glared out the window. Moments earlier, she had been the center of attention as a group of boys who had gone through the haunted house asked her opinion about which scene was the fake one. Now Corey was spoiling it. She would have to ask her parents to keep Corey away from the bus stop until she was off the bus and it had left. The other kids must think she came from a family of circus freaks.

She stepped off the bus but before she could speak Corey said, “The video shows all the scenes from the haunted house. It has me screaming and you getting burned at the stake.”

“Whose video is it?”

“Grandma brought it.”

That surprised Ellen. Her grandparents had refused to come
to the haunted house because Grandma said she couldn’t bear to watch Ellen and Corey in such dangerous situations, even when she knew they weren’t real.

“Did Grandma and Grandpa look at the video?”

“Not yet. They’re going to watch it with us. Grandma says she thinks she can stand to watch me get my head chopped off on screen if I’m sitting beside her, perfectly safe.”

Ellen laughed.

“Maybe a Hollywood producer will see it and offer us movie contracts.”

“I doubt that.”

“Grandma said they might use part of it on TV on Halloween night, to advertise the haunted house. If they choose our scenes, a producer might see us. Mighty Mike’s going to advertise us on the radio, too.”

Despite her annoyance at her brother, Ellen walked faster. It would be fun to see a video of the haunted house, especially the Joan of Arc scene.

“Here are the stars of the show,” Grandpa said, as Ellen and Corey got home.

“Where did you get the video?” Ellen asked.

“Mrs. Whittacker had a copy made for us. Someone from the staff of Sheltering Arms took it last night, so they can show it to Mr. Clayton, and Mrs. Whittacker thought we would enjoy having a copy to keep.”

“Mr. Clayton?” Ellen said. “What Mr. Clayton?”

“Edward Clayton. The man who gave the mansion to the city.”

“He’s
alive
?” Ellen had assumed the mansion was willed to the city when the last of the Claytons died.

“He’s in a nursing home, Sheltering Arms. He’s quite old and unable to care for himself. He had private care at home for some years but he said he missed talking to people his own age so now he’s at Sheltering Arms. The Director of the nursing home had the haunted house filmed for him.”

“Let’s look at the video,” Corey said.

As scenes from the haunted house appeared on the television screen, Ellen’s mind was in a whirl. It had not occurred to her that one of the Clayton family was still alive. She wondered if Lydia had ever appeared to him. Perhaps he knew things about the long ago hauntings—family stories that would not be in a published biography of Lydia.

Corey’s bloodcurdling scream on the video brought Ellen’s attention back to the screen.

“Good heavens,” said Grandma.

“Rewind it,” said Corey. “Let’s play that part again.”

Grandpa reversed the video and played Corey’s part again. This time, everyone except Corey covered their ears.

Corey said, “Do it again.”

“Later,” Grandma said. “We want to see Ellen’s part.”

When the video showed King Haakon the Great of Norway being murdered by his soldiers in a pigsty, Corey declared, “That’s the fake scene. What would a King be doing in a pigpen? Maybe I’ll win the money.”

“Mrs. Whittacker said the actors are not allowed to enter the drawing,” Ellen said.

“I know,” said Corey. “I tried. So I told Nicholas about the pigpen and he entered the drawing and if he wins, I get half.”

“Shh,” said Ellen. “Here’s my part.”

The screen now showed the village square and the distant
crowds. The shouting was clearly heard as the camera moved closer to Joan of Arc: “Witch! Heretic!” The flames leaped and hissed.

Grandma reached for Ellen’s hand. “I’m not sure I can watch this,” she said.

“Too bad they couldn’t get the smoke smell on video,” Ellen said. She felt like she was watching someone else, not herself. Joan had her eyes closed and her head back so her face tilted toward heaven. Her lips moved slightly, as if in silent prayer. People standing near the video camera could be heard saying things like, “Oh, that poor girl. Imagine what it would feel like.”

Ellen blinked and leaned closer. A chill ran down the back of her neck. “Stop it for a minute,” she said. “Please.”

Grandpa hit the
pause
button.

Ellen stared at the screen. She saw herself, lashed to the stake, with the fake fire at her, feet. And beside her on the platform, she saw Lydia.

“What are you looking at?” said Corey.

Ellen glanced at her grandparents and Corey. They were watching the same television screen she was. Didn’t they see the ghost?

“Do you want to look at this part again?” Grandpa asked.

“No,” said Ellen. “For a moment, I thought I saw someone else on the platform with me.”

She held her breath while the others looked at the screen.

“Nobody there but Joan,” said Corey.

“You probably got a glimpse of one of the painted figures in the backdrop,” said Grandpa. “Do you want to see the rest now?”

Ellen nodded but she barely watched the rest of the video.
She had never sensed Lydia’s presence during the Joan of Arc scene yet the ghost evidently had been there with her while the video was taken. How many other times was Lydia with her and she didn’t know it? It was creepy enough to have a ghost appear out of nowhere; it was even creepier to think that the ghost was following her around when she wasn’t aware of it.

Why couldn’t anyone else see her? If the ghost got captured on film, then everyone who looked at the film should be able to see her. Yet, Ellen was the only one who did.

When the video ended, Grandpa and Grandma applauded.

Corey said, “Let’s look at it again.”

“We’ll leave it here,” Grandpa said. “Your parents will want to see it when they get home and you can look at it as much as you want.”

“I’ll fast-forward it to the part with me and Mighty Mike,” Corey said. “Maybe I can use it to demonstrate when I give my screaming lessons.”

Ellen saw Grandma and Grandpa exchange an amused glance but neither of them asked Corey what lessons he meant.

“Do you know if Mr. Clayton can have visitors?” Ellen asked.

“I could find out,” Grandma said. “I have a friend at Sheltering Arms, recovering from a broken hip. I’ve been meaning to go and visit her.”

“Maybe I could go with you,” Ellen said, “and if Mr. Clayton can have visitors, I’ll talk to him.”

“That’s a lovely idea,” Grandma said. “So many patients in nursing homes never get visitors.”

“Why don’t you go now,” Grandpa suggested. “I’ll stay here with Corey.”

Ellen and Grandma looked at each other and nodded agreement. Ellen was afraid Corey would want to go along, but he preferred to stay home and watch himself and Mighty Mike on video.

Ellen had never visited a nursing home so she wasn’t sure what to expect. Sheltering Arms was spacious and bright, with bouquets of flowers in the lobby. Several elderly people in wheelchairs sat just outside the front door, enjoying the sunshine.

Grandma inquired at the desk and learned which room her friend was in. The nurse said that Mr. Clayton could have company. He was in Room 4, just down the hall.

Ellen hesitated in the doorway of Room 4. The door was open but the old man in the bed had his eyes closed. She didn’t want to awaken him. As she wondered what to do, a nurse’s aide bustled past. “Mr. Clayton,” she called cheerfully, “you have a visitor.”

The eyes opened at once and Mr. Clayton looked at Ellen. “Do I know you?” he asked.

“No,” Ellen said.

“Good. I was afraid I was supposed to recognize you.”

Ellen introduced herself and said she had a part in the haunted house.

He chuckled. “They showed me the movie,” he said. “I hardly recognized the place. Looked like I hadn’t hired a housekeeper in years.” He squinted at Ellen. “Which part did you play?”

“I was Joan of Arc.”

“Ah, yes. And a fine job you did of it.” He motioned to the single straight chair in the room. “Have a seat. I’d offer you something to drink but this is the butler’s day off.” He laughed at his own joke and Ellen relaxed.

She looked around the small room. Mr. Clayton had a bed, a nightstand, and a small dresser with a television set on it. There
were no rugs, no pictures on the walls. The spare furnishings were a sharp contrast to the elegant mansion.

“Do you miss your house?” she asked.

“No. It was too much for me. I loved it all my life but it is time to let someone else maintain it. Too bad I never married. Never had any children to pass it all on to.”

“It was nice of you to give it to the city,” Ellen said. “This way, lots of people will enjoy it.”

“I hope so.”

Ellen wondered how to approach the subject of Lydia.

“I can still go back, you know,” Mr. Clayton said. “In my mind. I’m lucky that way. Some people my age have memory trouble but I can still go back and visit Clayton House, anytime I want. In my mind, I can wander from room to room and see all the furniture and remember the good times, when I was young.”

“I like the Mexican silver fireplace,” Ellen said.

Mr. Clayton smiled. “So many treasures,” he said.

“I like the Fairylustre, too.”

“Oh, the Fairylustre. That was always my favorite. In fact, I acquired most of the Fairylustre pieces.”

“Tell me more about it,” Ellen said.

“It’s odd,” Mr. Clayton said. “The appreciation of the Wedgwood seems to be something you are born with, like an ear for music. Certain people love it immediately; others are unimpressed with even the most beautiful pieces.” Ellen thought of Corey.

“Neither of my parents particularly cared for it,” Mr. Clayton went on. “As far as they were concerned, the Wedgwood was just some dusty old dishes that Great-grandmother Clayton had been fond of. But even as a small lad, I loved it. Too much,
it seems, for I have the distinction of being the only person to break one of the original pieces. I was only three or four at the time but I can still remember the horrified reaction of my nanny when she discovered that, while she was chatting with one of the maids, I had removed a creamware plate and dropped it, smashing it into a dozen pieces. When I was older and my business was prospering, I sought out several fine old pieces. That’s when I bought the Fairylustre.”

“My favorite is an octagonal bowl,” Ellen said. “It has a castle on it.”

“I know which one you mean. I bought that for myself for my fortieth birthday present. More than forty years ago.”

He laughed at Ellen’s surprised expression. “When you don’t have any family, sometimes you have to buy your own birthday present,” he said.

“You picked a good one.”

“Why did you come here? A pretty young girl must have plenty to do besides visit an old codger like me.”

“I wanted to know more about your house and the Wedgwood. And . . .” She blurted it out before she lost her nerve: “I wondered if you know anything about the ghost.”

“Ah. So that’s it. The ghost stories are circulating again. I suppose that’s to be expected when the whole building’s been turned into a haunted house.”

“I wondered if—if you ever saw her.”

Mr. Clayton looked at Ellen so intently that Ellen dropped her eyes. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “You’ve seen her?”

Ellen nodded. “At least, I’ve seen some ghost and I think it’s Lydia.”

“When? What happened?”

It was a relief to talk about it. Once she began, the words came quickly, and the whole story poured out: the mirror, the floating hands, the night visits, and Ellen’s belief that Lydia was trying to tell her something or show her something.

“I have the feeling she wants me to help her,” Ellen said, “but I don’t know what she needs or how I can help.”

When she finished, Mr. Clayton said, “She isn’t a bad ghost, you know. She’s never hurt anyone. She only appears when something is wrong or when she’s worried.”

“Do you think she doesn’t like the haunted house?”

“More likely, someone is disturbing the Wedgwood. My instructions to the city made it quite clear that the Wedgwood collection is to be displayed on the same dining-room shelves where it was when I moved out. The pieces are not to be moved.”

“That’s where it is,” Ellen said, “in the dining room. They’re going to install some brighter lights but the shelves aren’t being changed.”

“And no one is rearranging the Wedgwood or handling it?”

“Only Agnes.”

“Who?”

“The curator of the museum. She’s a potter, with her own gallery, and she’s been doing some repair work on the Wedgwood.”

Mr. Clayton frowned. “What kind of repair work?”

“She took home the little octagonal bowl that I like so much. It had a small chip and she fixed it.”

Mr. Clayton’s voice rose. “Someone chipped the Fairylustre? How? They aren’t allowing the public to handle it, are they?”

“No. The area is roped off, to keep people back. I don’t know how it got chipped. I only know that Agnes took it home to repair it.”

Mr. Clayton thumped his fist on the bed. “When I turned that collection over to the Historical Society,” he said, “it was in mint condition. If they’re being careless with it, I may have to enforce my right to rescind the agreement.”

Ellen licked her lips. She hadn’t meant to stir up trouble or upset Mr. Clayton. She only wanted to learn about Lydia. “Did you ever see the ghost?” she asked.

“Twice. Both times when I was just a lad.” He smiled, remembering. “The first time, I had picked some flowers in the garden and needed a vase to put them in. I went to the dining room and reached for the first piece of Wedgwood on the shelf. Instantly, I felt a chill and had the sensation of cold hands on my arm, restraining me. It frightened me so much, I ran out of the room and put my flowers in a glass jar from the kitchen.”

“What happened the second time?”