The Haunting of Heck House (12 page)

“Wait.” Cheryl frowned, sifting through hours and hours of monster movie flotsam that had settled in her brain. “Aren't there legends that tell of stone carvings— household guardians—that come to life after sundown?”

“You got that from an old Saturday morning cartoon show!” Feedback protested.

“Well, where do you think
they
got the idea from?” she shot back.

“Right. Okay. Y'know what?” Feedback said, trying to be casual, but edging along the wall toward the open door that led out into the corridor. “This was fun. But I'ma gedoutta here …”

Ramshackle issued what sounded like a warning growl, deep in his throat.

“Oh, relax, Feedback.” Tweed rolled her eyes and slipped her knapsack off her shoulders. She fished out a bag of Fancy Beast Seafood Deelite Kitty Treats she had stashed in there for (sort of) just such an occasion. When
the girls had expanded their sitter services to include pets, they'd stocked up and always carried a bag or two in their supplies, just in case.

“So …” She raised an eyebrow at Artie. “Ramshackle, huh?”

She tossed a fish snack toward the beast and he leaped for it, snapping it out of mid-air with his sharp beak. But one batwing flapped awkwardly, and a clumsy attempt at a barrel roll ended with him cartwheel-crashing to land in a heap. The little monster lurched to his feet and shook his head, with an expression on his face like a cat who, having done something dumb, adopts an “I meant to do that” kind of air. He licked his beak and purred, “Rrr-yumm.”

Artie shrugged. “Kind of fits, right?”

They could see that the membrane that stretched between two of the critter's wing points was ragged along the edge.

“He's got a bum wing,” Artie said. “I think he musta been hit by lightning or something when he was stone and it chipped his flipper.”

“Poor little guy,” Cheryl said, kneeling down so Ramshackle could amble over and sniff at her outstretched hand.

“Poor little guy?!” Feedback sputtered. “He's a monster! And … and … impossible and stuff! You all know that, right? I mean—how is …
that
… even possible?”

“Well …” Tweed tried to phrase her answer carefully
so that Feedback wouldn't freak out any more than he already had. She exchanged a glance with Cheryl, who nodded for her to continue. After all, they were, it seemed, in this together. And withholding vital information from Feedback wasn't fair. “Remember when you said you thought Cindy and Hazel might be pranking us on all this stuff and we said—”

“This house is
not
haunted!” he protested before Tweed could even bring up the idea. “There's no such thing!”

“Well, see …” Cheryl grimaced. “That's what I said, too. But
that's
the trap. In every haunted house movie ever made, someone always says, ‘That's impossible! There's no such thing!' which, of course, is always the dead giveaway that it
is
possible and there
is
such a thing.”

“But …”

“We've fallen for the oldest horror movie trope on celluloid.” Tweed sighed. “We're Freddy and Marlene on a trip up into the attic during a power failure.”

“You're who?” Feedback blinked in confusion.

“We are indeed, partner.” Cheryl nodded sagely. “Oh, the irony.”

“
Seriously
.” Feedback turned to Artie. “What are they talking about?”

“Beats me.” Artie shrugged. “But whatever it is, they're probably right. I say go limp, roll with it, do whatever they say. With luck, the scales and fangs disappear in time for dinner. Or, maybe, bedtime!”

“I … I don't even …”

“If our working theory is correct and this is, in fact, a haunted house, then that”—Tweed pointed to Ramshackle—“being one of the gargoyles from the roof of the house, is equally haunted. Or, at least, animated by some kind of residual essence of the structure.”

“Okay. That's it.” Feedback began his doorway-bound edging along the wall again. “Like I said, it's been fun, but I'ma
really
gedoutta here!”

“MMRroowr-rrgg …” Ramshackle suddenly sprang to his feet, growling and hissing, staring at the empty air just to the left of where Feedback was slowly making a break for it.

SLAM!!

The door slammed shut and the sound of a key turning in a lock echoed loudly in the wake of the noise. Feedback lurched for the door handle but it wouldn't budge. He put an eye to the keyhole and hollered for Cindy and Hazel to cut it the heck out and open the darn door! When that didn't work, he ran through the French doors and out onto the balcony. The twins could see him peering into the darkness below. After a few minutes of pacing and peering, he came back in, a defeated slump to his shoulders.

“We're really high up,” he said. “And there's a killer thorn hedge all the way along under the balcony. We're stuck.”

“Yup.” Artie nodded sagely. “In a definitely haunted house.”

An ominous rumble of thunder sounded in the distance outside and a freshening breeze blew the curtains and rattled the windows.

“Haunted.” Feedback shivered. “That's heavy. I mean … I've never even had a measly déjà vu, let alone a full-on paranormal experience.”

“No problemo.” Cheryl clapped him on the shoulder. “We'll talk you through it as we go.”

“You guys sound like this kind of thing happens to you all the time.”

“Recently?” Tweed shrugged.

Cheryl nodded. “Yeah. It's kind of a long story. Speaking of which, why
are
you dressed up like that, Shrimpcake? And how'd you get in here?”

“I got into the house in the first place down one of the chimneys,” Artie explained.

“You what?”

“Yeah. All the outside doors and windows were locked up tight, but we figured if you guys had found a way in here, so could we.”

“Who's ‘we'?” Cheryl asked.

“Me an' Armbruster.”

“Pilot's here?!” the twins exclaimed in tandem.

“Oh, sure,” Artie said. “We shimmied up a drainpipe, straight up the side of the house to an old widow's walk
on the roof, and then Pilot lowered me down through a chimney flue with a rope. I landed in a big old pile of soot and was black from head to toe, so I popped into the first bathroom I could find and had a quick bath.”

“You had a bath in a strange house?” Cheryl asked.

“Well, it's not like I used bubbles or nothin',” he protested.

Tweed rolled her eyes. “Well, I guess that makes it perfectly normal, then.”

“Right?” Artie looked to Feedback for support. “Only … when I got out of the tub, all my clothes were gone. Shoes, everything. I locked that door—I swear I did. But suddenly it was wide open and there I was, with not a stitch to preserve my modesty except these snappy duds I found hanging in the closet in the adjoining room. Pretty swell threads, huh?”

“So what were you doing out on that balcony then?” Tweed wondered.

“I went out to signal up to Pilot that I was in and stuff, but I couldn't see him,” Artie said. “And then I got stuck out there when the doors closed shut and locked behind me!”

Cheryl walked over to the hall door and jiggled the handle. Still locked. “Am I the only one who feels like we're babysitting for a buncha spooky little brats who like to play games?” she asked.

Before anyone could answer, they were startled by noises that sounded like they were coming from inside
the wall. Cheryl ran back and picked up her trusty putter from where she'd left it over by the trap door and hefted it like a club. Tweed crouched over her knapsack and emptied it out to find her Nerf crossbow. Together, the twins took up defensive postures in front of the empty bookcase that seemed to be the source of the sound. Artie motioned for Feedback to take cover and assumed his best approximation of a karate stance.

Silence fell on the room.

Then came a sound like a lever tripping. The bookcase wall suddenly shifted and moved, sliding to the side, and a cold shaft of moonlight illuminated a figure standing on a hidden spiral staircase.

A figure wearing a baseball cap and a wry facial expression.

“Well,” Pilot said, “at least you didn't lie about hanging out with other sitters tonight … you just lied about where.”

 

9
SPEAKER
OF THE
HOUSE

‘‘W
e didn't lie!” Cheryl protested. “We just … er … took creative licence with … um … a few key details.”

Pilot just shook his head at her.

“Hey, Yeager!” Feedback bounced forward, grinning widely with relief. “Am I ever glad to see you!”

“Hey, Karl,” Pilot returned the greeting. “Howzit going?”

“Well, y'know … interesting …”

“Yeah. It usually is where these two are concerned.” Pilot glanced pointedly at the twins.

“Hey, Armbruster!” Artie stepped forward, hands on hips. “How'd you get inside? I don't see you covered in a chimney's worth of soot!”

“Nope.” Pilot brushed at his sleeve. “Just splinters and sawdust. After I lowered you down, the roof where I was standing gave way and I wound up crashing into the attic. That's where I found the top end of this staircase.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the wrought-iron spiral hidden behind the bookcase.

“How'd you guys even know we were here in the first place?” Tweed asked.

“I went back to the Drive-In around dusk to help Pops finish up with the projector repairs, and he mentioned that you two were off to a ‘sleepover sitter seminar' with Hazel and Cindy. And seeing as how I happen to know just how likely
that
scenario is, I figured you'd done exactly what you said you wouldn't do … and so I came here to talk some sense into the two of you before you got yourselves in any real trouble!” Pilot descended a few more steps and paused. “Of course, first I had to stop off at the Gas & Gulp to get a map because I never even heard of an Eerie Lane in Wiggins. That's where I ran into Artie, and I figured I might need a bit of backup if you two were already in some kind of a fix. Which I somehow suspected you might be when we got here and found your bikes by the gate but all the doors and windows locked up tight!”

Cheryl stuck out her chin mutinously. “We can totally handle ourselves just fine, Flyboy.”

Tweed squared her shoulders. “That's right. This situation is
totally
under control.”

Pilot blinked at them and then tilted the brim of his cap back. “Oh,” he said. “Well, okay. I guess we'll just totally leave you to it then. C'mon, Art-Bart—”

“Wait!!” the twins cried out as Pilot started partway back up the spiral stairs.

Pilot stopped and turned, waiting.

“Um,” Cheryl murmured reluctantly. “Maybe you guys should hang around for a bit. Um. Y'know. You don't want to miss out on the … er … fun?”

“If by ‘fun,' you mean getting the heck outta this creepy old pile of bricks, I'm all for it!” Pilot yanked his cap back down on his forehead and descended the stairs. “Well, c'mon, then,” he said, heading toward the door to the hall. “Let's get—”

“NOOO!!” Cheryl, Tweed, Artie and Feedback all lunged forward as Pilot stepped off the last stair and into the library, and the bookcase slid closed behind him. Pilot spun back around but he wasn't fast enough. They could see no mechanism for opening the door on that side of the bookcase.

“I guess we probably should have mentioned that, along with totally being able to handle ourselves … we're also totally trapped in this room,” Tweed said dryly.

“Right.” Pilot gritted his teeth. “Yeah … that might've been useful to know.”

He walked over to the door and tried the handle. Then he walked out onto the balcony and looked down. Then he looked up. Then he walked back into the room, sat down in the leather chair Feedback had recently vacated, turned his hat around backward like he always did when he needed to concentrate and sighed deeply. The pilot's wings pinned to his hat glinted in the moonlight coming in through the window.

When Ramshackle, seeming to sense that the newcomer to the situation needed a bit of consoling, came out from where he was crouched in the shadows under the desk and rubbed against Pilot's leg, Pilot absent-mindedly reached down to give what he thought was a house cat a head skritch.

The others watched him silently for a moment.

Cheryl bit her lip to keep from giggle-snorting as Pilot's fingers registered the presence of stubby little horns on the ‘kitty.' His hand froze. His eyes went wide.

Ramshackle made an enquiring “Mrrr?” and ruffled his wings.

“WHOA!!” Pilot leaped from the chair and backed into the middle of the room.

“He likes you!” Artie grinned.

“Is that …?”

“A gargoyle?” Cheryl finished Pilot's question for him. “Yeah. You might just wanna roll with this one, Flyboy.”

“MRrrwff?” Ramshackle tilted his head.

“He says he likes your wings,” Artie said. When Ramshackle issued forth another little burble of noise, he turned to him and nodded. “Yup, he flies, too. Just like you. Except he has to use a plane.”

“Um, Artie?” Tweed raised an eyebrow. “You do realize that you're talking to a gargoyle, right?”

“What?” He blinked. “Oh! Huh. How 'bout that. I guess my supernatural translating powers are still in good working order! That Zahara-Safiya was a real peach!”

“Do I even want to know what he's talking about?” Feedback asked warily.

“Artie got himself cursed by an ancient Egyptian mummy princess named Zahara-Safiya a while back and she made him her minion translator.” Cheryl shrugged. “So, in answer to your question, no. Probably not.”