Horror at the Haunted House (2 page)

“And scream,” said Corey.

“There’s a meeting of all the volunteers,” Grandma said. “You’ll be told then exactly what you’re supposed to do.”

“Maybe a movie producer will come,” Corey said, “and he’ll see me get my head chopped off and he’ll hire me to scream in a horror movie.” He raised his arms, with his hands like claws, made a horrible face, and lurched around the room.

“Mom and Dad won’t let us go to horror movies,” Ellen said, “so I doubt if they’d let you be
in
one.”

Corey quit lurching. “They might, if I got paid thousands of dollars.”

“The Historical Haunted House will be open from seven to ten for five days before Halloween,” Grandma said, “so it will take quite a lot of your time. On Halloween night, it will be from six to midnight.”

“I have to miss trick or treat,” Corey said. “But it will be worth it.”

Ellen agreed to help at the haunted house. It would be fun,
especially if she got to work with a celebrity like Mike McGarven. She could hardly wait to tell Caitlin. Ellen had never met anyone famous and she was quite sure none of her friends had, either.

Mrs. Streater came home then and heard all the details. While Grandma (and Corey) talked, Ellen wondered which celebrity would be in her scene.

“We get to scream,” Corey said again. “Ellen screams while she burns and . . .”

“I don’t think Joan of Arc screamed,” Mrs. Streater said. “She prayed.”

“Well,
I
get to scream while they chop off my head. The louder, the better.”

“Just don’t scream
after
you’re supposedly beheaded,” Grandma said. “Once the blade drops, you must lie completely still and be quiet.”

“That’ll be a first,” said Ellen.

“It should be quite an event,” Mrs. Streater said. “With so many radio and television personalities participating, the haunted house is certain to get lots of publicity.”

“Mrs. Whittacker thinks the Historical Society will raise all the money they need to rewire the mansion,” Grandma said. “We also hope that when people realize how many unusual items are in Clayton House—the furniture and the Wedgwood collection and all the rest—they will want to come back when the museum opens to see everything when it’s properly lighted and displayed.”

“What if the magic trick doesn’t work right,” Corey said, “and Ellen really catches on fire? The people watching would think Ellen’s screams were part of the act. What if nobody untied her and . . .”

“Stop it,” Ellen said, “or you’ll
really
get your head chopped off.”

“Nothing will go wrong with the magic tricks,” Mrs. Streater said. “A real fire would be too dangerous; it will be a fake fire.”

Ellen went to the kitchen to get a snack. As she took the first bite, Corey screamed—a shrill, bloodcurdling shriek that lasted several seconds.

Ellen jumped and dropped her banana. Prince, the Streaters’ dog, whined and ran into the living room, sniffing the floor.

Ellen heard Grandma say, “Land’s sakes, Corey! You scared me half out of my skin.”

“Just practicing,” Corey said.

“This family,” said Mrs. Streater, “will be the death of me.”

“Next time,” said Grandma, “warn me before you practice.”

Better yet, thought Ellen, don’t practice at all.

“The orientation meeting is next Saturday morning,” Grandma said, as Ellen returned. “I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock. Mrs. Whittacker said if I bring you to the meeting, we can come early and she’ll give us a personal tour of the mansion before the others arrive.”

Ellen was glad to hear that Grandma would be there, too. Corey didn’t mean to act up in public but he was so unpredictable. She never knew what he would say or to whom. If Ellen was going to be introduced to a lot of TV stars, she didn’t want her little brother embarrassing her by making up one of his stories—or by deciding to practice his screaming in the middle of the meeting.

E
llen peered through the windshield, eager for her first glimpse of Clayton House.

“I’ve driven past the Clayton property dozens of times,” Grandma said. “I never thought I’d be on this side of the iron gates.”

The long, curving driveway wound past a fountain. Water sprayed ten feet into the air while a sculpted cherub danced in the mist. Flower beds overflowed with gold and rust chrysanthemums; ducks and geese swam lazily on a pond.

“It’s like a park,” said Ellen.

“Forty acres,” said Grandma.

“There’s the house!” yelled Corey.

Grandma parked the car and they all gazed at the mansion.

As Ellen looked at turrets, gables, and several different kinds of chimneys, she felt a quick pang of apprehension. Clayton House seemed grim and unapproachable.

“It will be a perfect haunted house,” said Grandma.

A porch with fancy pillars wrapped itself around the front of the house and a matching porch hugged the left side of the second story. A small balcony with an ornate wrought-iron railing extended from an upper room on the right side.

Grandma said, “Either the architect had a restless imagination, or else the house was designed by committee. The back doesn’t seem to match the front and the sides are completely different from each other.”

“I wish we lived here,” said Corey. He pointed to the room with the balcony. “I’d take that room so I could sleep outside all summer.”

Despite the parklike grounds, Ellen was glad she didn’t live in Clayton House. But Grandma was right—it would be a great haunted house.

Mrs. Whittacker met them at the door. She led them into the great entry hall, where a huge staircase curved upward, its banisters intricately carved to resemble swans and cherubs. Sunlight streamed through a large stained-glass window, painting colored designs on the polished wooden floor. The walls were of wood, too, and all were carved in various designs.

“Samuel Clayton made his fortune in lumber,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “When the mansion was built, his lumberyards were right next door.” She waved her hand at the decorative woodwork. “He was one of the first to use steam-powered woodworking machinery. Previously, this sort of thing had to be done by hand. The machines made it so easy that Mr. Clayton got a bit carried away. He used fine wood throughout the house. Rosewood. Mahogany. Even satinwood.”

“I never heard of satinwood,” Ellen said.

“It’s an East Indian tree.” Mrs. Whittacker pointed to a yellowish-brown panel. “This is made of satinwood. Feel it.”

Ellen touched it. The wood felt smooth and rich.

“Where do the wedge trees grow?” asked Corey.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The wedge trees. That the Wedgwood comes from.”

Mrs. Whittacker managed not to laugh as she explained that Wedgwood is a fine earthenware, made by the Wedgwood Company in England.

“You mean
dishes
?” Corey said.

“That’s right. You’ll see the Wedgwood when we go upstairs, including some pieces which were made in the eighteenth century.”

“Some are two hundred years old,” said Grandma.

“Even older than you,” said Corey.

“The Wedgwood collection is worth more than $200,000,” said Mrs. Whittacker.

Ellen imagined living in such a building. The entryway alone was larger than the Streaters’ entire house. It may be elegant, she thought, but it certainly isn’t very homey.

All her life, Ellen had experienced strong feelings for places. When she went into a house, she knew if the people who lived there loved each other or if they were angry or afraid or sick. It wasn’t something she could explain—in fact, she had never tried—but her feelings were invariably correct.

She had always disliked visiting a particular aunt and uncle because whenever she was in their home, it seemed filled with anger and the feeling made her uncomfortable. When the aunt and uncle divorced last year, her parents and grandparents were shocked. Ellen wasn’t surprised; she sensed years ago that Uncle Ted and Aunt Cheryl did not like each other.

When she was only six, Ellen told her mother that a neighbor, Mrs. Lantow, was sick. When Mrs. Streater inquired, Mrs.
Lantow cheerfully said her health was fine. Months later, the Streaters learned that Mrs. Lantow had undergone chemotherapy treatments for cancer but had told no one.

Clayton House didn’t contain feelings of anger or illness but Ellen sensed no love or joy, either. Despite the comfortable temperature, the house felt cold; with all the elegant furnishings, the mansion seemed empty. Something sinister hung in the air, as if the walls knew a secret evil that was not apparent to visitors.

Corey and Grandma were awed by the splendor; Ellen felt vaguely uneasy. She pushed the feeling aside and concentrated on Mrs. Whittacker’s voice.

“The house was built in 1864,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “At that time, Mr. Clayton used the lower level for his business. He had an office, meeting rooms, and a display room. The servants’ quarters were also on this floor, along with a small kitchen and dining room. The main kitchen and dining room are upstairs, where the Clayton family lived.”

Ellen had never heard of a house with more than one kitchen.

“There are four fireplaces on the lower floor,” Mrs. Whittacker continued, “each one different.” She guided them from room to room.

One fireplace was made of black and gray marble, imported from Italy. Another was a pale blue onyx, so translucent it seemed to be formed of wax. A third was surrounded by satinwood, heavily carved. Ellen’s favorite was the one made from Mexican silver, with a hearth of white mahogany.

When Mrs. Whittacker led the way to the next room, Ellen lingered behind, admiring the silver fireplace. She wondered if the Claytons ever actually lit fires in their exquisite fireplaces. Flames would look lovely, reflected in the gleaming silver.
Lightly, she ran her fingers over the shiny metal, marveling at its beauty.

“Don’t touch that!”

Ellen jerked her hand away and turned toward the harsh voice.

A middle-aged woman stood behind her.

“Silver tarnishes,” the woman said.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tarnish the silver. It’s just so beautiful and I . . .”

“Well, keep your hands to yourself from now on,” the woman snapped.

Ellen swallowed and twisted her fingers together, not sure if she should answer or not. She stared at the woman’s excessive green eye shadow.

Grandma, Mrs. Whittacker, and Corey returned. “Oh, it’s you, Agnes,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “We heard voices; I thought perhaps Ellen had bumped into Lydia.” She laughed, as if she had just told a joke.

The woman smiled graciously. “Your friend and I were having a cozy little chat.”

Ellen quickly crossed the room and stood beside her grandmother. If that was a cozy little chat, she thought, I’d hate to have an argument with this woman.

Mrs. Whittacker said, “This is Agnes Munset, a talented artist who specializes in ceramics. She’s agreed to be curator of the museum’s Wedgwood collection.”

“Don’t you own the Potlatch Gallery?” Grandma asked, after the introductions were finished.

“Yes.”

“I’ve been there many times,” Grandma said. “I especially like your pansy vases. I’ve given several as wedding gifts.”

The woman who had scolded Ellen was all sweetness and charm as she discussed her gallery and her art work. Ellen couldn’t believe the transformation. Agnes even asked Corey how old he was and then told him he looked much older.

Corey beamed.

When Mrs. Whittacker led them upstairs, Ellen was glad Agnes Munset didn’t follow.

As they neared the top of the stairs, Corey said, “Who’s Lydia? You said you thought maybe Ellen had bumped into Lydia.”

“I was just teasing Agnes,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “Lydia is our ghost.”

“Your
what?”
said Grandma.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? The mansion really
is
haunted.”

“Now, Marie,” said Grandma, “be serious.”

Mrs. Whittacker winked at Ellen and Corey. “There
are
stories,” she said, “that the ghost of Lydia Clayton, Samuel’s first wife, was often seen around Clayton House in the years after her death.”

“I hope I see her,” Corey said.

“You might,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “Lydia’s ghost was here just last month.”

“Have you seen her?” asked Grandma.

“No,” Mrs. Whittacker admitted.

“I didn’t think so. Has Agnes?”

“Agnes refuses to discuss the ghost. She says such supernatural prattling is beneath a woman of her talent and education. But the electrician who came to measure the dining room and give us an estimate for upgrading the wiring and installing spotlights swears he felt her presence.” She paused and then added, “Of course, the electrician is also a member of our Historical
Society and he just happens to be in charge of publicity for the Historical Haunted House.”

“And it would certainly be good publicity,” Grandma said, “if rumors of a real ghost should start to circulate.”

“Wouldn’t it, though?” said Mrs. Whittacker.

“I hope I see Lydia,” said Corey. “If I do, I’ll ask her how it feels to be a ghost. Does it hurt when she goes through walls? Do ghosts ever eat? Are there animal ghosts, or only people? If I see her, I’m going to ask her if I can dress up like a ghost, in a sheet or something, and go with her to see where all the ghosts live. I bet she’d let me, if I promised to be really quiet for the whole day, so nobody noticed me.”

There is no way, thought Ellen, that her brother could ever be really quiet for a whole day.

What did Mrs. Whittacker mean when she said the ghost was felt? Exactly how does one
feel
a ghost? Ellen frowned. She already sensed something menacing about the mansion. Her encounter with the museum’s curator was upsetting, too, and now there was talk of a ghost. The huge old house, beautiful as it was, gave her the creeps.

“If you see the ghost,” Corey said to Ellen, “send her to me. I’ll ask her to visit my class at school.”

“You are not going to see any ghost,” Grandma said.

Ellen hoped she was right.

F
airylustre. A perfect name, Ellen thought, as she gazed at the exquisite octagon-shaped bowl. The outside of the bowl showed a castle, with a bridge and archways in black, purple, green, and gold. The inside depicted winged fairies, outlined in gold. The fairies flew through the air, perched on toadstools, and hid from imps and other tiny people.