Danger at the Fair (3 page)

“Spirits?” Ellen said. “What spirits?”

“The beings who live among us, unseen.”

Ellen said nothing.

“You look doubtful,” The Great Sybil said. “Most people willingly accept that other beings may live in outer space. So why not here? If spirits can exist on Mars or Jupiter or in between and beyond, why can’t they exist here on Earth, as well? Just because we can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t here. We don’t see television transmissions, either, but we turn on our sets, confident that there will be a picture.”

Maybe Caitlin was right, Ellen thought. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this.

The Great Sybil smiled at her. “Do not be nervous,” she said. “The spirits are kind and loving. There is nothing to fear. Close your eyes, please.”

Ellen did.

“Breathe deeply. Relax.”

Ellen took a deep breath and then another, feeling the tension ease out of her shoulders.

“That’s right. Clear your mind. Think only of the sky and the clouds and the sunshine. Open your heart to whatever message the spirits might have for you today.”

The woman’s voice was low and soothing. Ellen tilted her head back slightly as she imagined blue sky and clouds like fat cauliflowers overhead.

“Loving spirits,” said The Great Sybil, “come to us today. Look down on your friend, Ellen, who seeks wisdom and understanding.”

Behind her closed eyes, Ellen imagined a gathering of angels, like the three painted on The Great Sybil’s trailer, floating over the fairgrounds toward them.

“Oh, spirits,” droned The Great Sybil. “We give you our love and friendship. What message do you have for Ellen today?”

The trailer was still. None of the sounds of the midway seeped through. Ellen, feeling half-asleep, waited.

“Ellen is ready, spirits,” whispered The Great Sybil. “Ellen is open to receive her message.”

Whack!!

Ellen’s hands jerked upward and slammed the notebook onto the tabletop. Her right hand stiffened on the pencil and
the pencil raced across the paper. Startled, Ellen opened her eyes and stared at her hands. The pencil moved rapidly across the notebook page but Ellen had no idea what she was writing. She tried to stop writing but the pencil continued its hectic scribbling. It was as if her hand belonged to someone else.

When the notebook slammed onto the table, The Great Sybil opened her eyes, too. Ellen heard her draw in her breath, as if in astonishment.

It lasted only a few moments. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the pencil stopped writing and Ellen’s hand relaxed.

“What happened?” Ellen said.

“What did you write?” The Great Sybil asked.

“I didn’t write anything. I mean, I don’t know what I wrote.” She squinted at the paper but in the dim light she could not make out the words. “The pencil just started moving and I couldn’t do anything about it. It was as if my hand belonged to someone from outer space and wasn’t connected to my brain at all.”

She stopped. Maybe this was a prearranged trick, something that happened to everyone who paid to have their fortunes told. Yet, the woman looked genuinely surprised.

The Great Sybil put her hands on the table and, leaning toward Ellen, whispered, “So. You are one of the gifted ones.”

Ellen said nothing. If this was all a show, the fortune-teller was a terrific actress.

The Great Sybil flung her arms wide, as if to embrace the entire room. “Thank you, spirits,” she said. Her vibrant voice sounded tinged with awe. Clearly, she had not expected this to happen. “Ellen and I thank you for your kindness.”

Ellen’s pulse pounded in her throat.

The Great Sybil said, “You have received a wonderful gift,
Ellen. In all my years of fortune-telling, this has never happened before. You are able to open the channels of communication between this plane of existence and the next. The spirits can speak through you.”

Ellen felt goose bumps rise on her arms.

The Great Sybil’s eyes glowed; her excitement filled the room. “Let us read the message the spirits sent you.” She rose and turned the lights brighter.

Ellen looked at the piece of paper. “It isn’t my handwriting,” she said. “The words lean backwards, the way a left-handed person’s writing sometimes does.”

“Of course, it wouldn’t be your handwriting,” The Great Sybil said. “
You
wrote nothing. One of the spirits wrote the message, using your hand—your body—as a tool. It’s called automatic writing; psychics can sometimes do it.”

“I’m not a psychic,” Ellen said.

“Many people have talents of which they are not aware. What does your message say?”

Ellen looked at the paper again. At the top of the page in her own, round script, it said, “Helene: wise and understanding. Light in the dark.” Below those words, in the odd slanted script, was the message.

Ellen read aloud:
It is for you to know that the smaller one faces great danger. He will pay for his mistake. It is for you to know that the paths of destiny can be changed and the smaller one will need your help to change his. You will know when it is time. Do not ignore this warning.

She finished reading aloud and then quickly read the message again, to herself.

“May I see it?” The Great Sybil asked.

Ellen’s hand shook slightly as she tore the slip of paper from
the notebook and handed it to The Great Sybil. “What does it mean?” she asked.

“Is there a young child in your care?”

“No.”

“Do you do baby-sitting, perhaps?”

“I baby-sit for my neighbors sometimes but they have two little girls. The message is about a boy.”

“Who are you with today?”

“My friend Caitlin. We’re looking at the exhibits and going on the rides and . . .” Ellen stopped. “My brother came, too,” she said. “Corey.”

“Your younger brother? A small boy?”

“He’s nine. He came with his friend Nicholas, and his friend’s mom.”

“Perhaps there is danger ahead for Corey.”

Despite the warm room, Ellen shivered slightly. She remembered her mother saying, “Trouble always comes in threes.”

“I advise you to keep a close watch on Corey for a few days.”

Ellen thought, that’ll be a switch; usually he spies on me. Aloud she said, “I’ll try.”

“Good. The spirits occasionally use automatic writing when they have an urgent message to communicate,” The Great Sybil said. “It is not wise to ignore the spirits.”

“What spirits?” Ellen asked. “Who sent this message?”

“I don’t know that. Your guardian angel, perhaps, or a spirit who loves you, or one who loves the small person who will be in danger. The important thing is not who sent the message; it is what you do about it. You have been offered a chance to change the small one’s destiny. Perhaps, even, to save his life.”

“But the message is so indefinite. I don’t know for sure who
the small one is or what the danger is or when it’s going to happen. How can I help someone when I’m not even sure who I’m supposed to help?”

The Great Sybil gave the paper back to Ellen, pointing at the line that said,
You will know when it is time.
“You will know when it is time,” she said. “Trust the spirits.”

“I would be more trusting if I knew who the message was from.”

The Great Sybil said, “Have you lost a loved one recently? Someone who would feel close to you, even though they are no longer with you?”

Grandpa.

The word exploded in Ellen’s brain, sending fragments of fresh grief through her entire body. Her eyes swam with tears.

“You have,” The Great Sybil said.

Ellen nodded. “Grandpa,” she whispered.

“Perhaps your message is from him.”

Ellen stared at the woman. Was it possible? Could the odd warning somehow be a message from Grandpa?

“Sometimes a loved one who has recently gone on tries to contact those who are left behind, to let them know that he or she still exists. In your case, perhaps your grandfather sees a danger that could be avoided and he wants to help.”

Images flashed through Ellen’s mind: the look on Dad’s face when he told her and Corey that a drunk driver had hit Grandpa’s car; Grandma crying at the memorial service; the hollow feeling Ellen got when she saw Grandpa’s favorite chair, forever empty. She was not yet used to having him gone; the idea that his spirit might have written her a note was more than she could face.

Snatching the piece of paper from the table, Ellen sprang to
her feet. Caitlin was right; she should not have come here.

“Wait!” said The Great Sybil, as Ellen rushed out the door. “We must talk further.”

Brushing tears from her cheeks, Ellen stumbled down the trailer’s steps.

The Great Sybil called after her, “Please come back! I can help you. We’ll do another reading, for no charge.”

Ignoring the woman’s words and the startled man in the ticket booth, Ellen ran away from the trailer.

CHAPTER
3

THE FERRIS WHEEL
stopped with Corey and Nicholas in the top bucket. “Hi, clouds!” yelled Corey. “Hi, sun! Look at us: we’re on top of the world!”

He leaned forward to look down on the fairgrounds, causing the bucket to sway. Nicholas gripped the bar and pressed his back stiffly against the seat.

Below the Ferris wheel, crowds of people moved in all directions, eating, talking, enjoying the fair. “Maybe I’ll see Ellen down there,” Corey said. He turned sideways and looked over, causing the bucket to sway even more.

“Sit still,” said Nicholas.

Corey craned his neck, searching in all directions for a glimpse of his sister. She was always too wimpy to go on the Ferris wheel and he wanted her to see him way up here in the sky, like a bird. He tucked his hands in his armpits and flapped his elbows up and down, like wings. “I’m a woodpecker,” he said. “No, I’m an eagle, flying to my nest.”

“Hold still,” said Nicholas.

“Nicholas, look!” Corey stopped flapping and started to stand up as he pointed over the edge of the bucket. Nicholas grabbed Corey’s shirt and yanked him back down.

“That man stole a purse!” Corey cried. “He took it out of a baby stroller.” Corey’s voice rose and he talked faster in his excitement. “I saw him! Look! There he goes! The woman must have left her purse in the stroller basket and that man with the shopping bag helped himself and he put her purse in his bag and now he’s going to get away. She doesn’t even know he did it.”

Details, Corey reminded himself. Good witnesses have specific details. He tried to see what it said on the man’s shopping bag but the man was too far away.

Corey waved both hands over his head and yelled at the man who ran the Ferris wheel. “Bring us down! Hurry!!”

Nicholas had heard Corey tell wild stories too many times to believe him without questioning what Corey said. “The man was probably the woman’s husband,” Nicholas said. “Maybe he’s going to buy their lunch.”

“He isn’t. He’s a thief. I’ll bet there are police and F.B.I. agents all over the fair, looking for him.”

The Ferris wheel began to turn but it stopped again with Corey and Nicholas in the nine o’clock position. Corey still hung over the edge of the basket. “He’s getting away,” he said. “He’s clear over there now, by the stand that sells pineapple on a stick. He went in that big building.” He waved at the Ferris wheel operator again. “Hurry!” he shouted. “We have to get off! We have to catch a criminal.”

The basket finally stopped at the bottom and the attendant pulled back the bar so Corey and Nicholas could get off.
“Why didn’t you bring us down sooner?” Corey demanded. “Couldn’t you hear me yelling?”

“You and thirty others.” The operator turned to an older couple who stood in line to get on the Ferris wheel. “Kids,” he mumbled. “They can’t wait to get on a ride and then they can’t wait to get off.”

“Maybe that woman is a wealthy princess and there were millions and millions of dollars in her purse,” said Corey, as he and Nicholas went through the exit gate for the Ferris wheel ride. “Maybe she’s a rich movie star or a famous singer. When we identify the thief, she’ll probably give us a big reward and we’ll go on every ride six times and have money left over.”

The boys went toward where Corey had seen the man take the purse. A group of people crowded around a woman who held a toddler. She was talking to a uniformed fair security guard.