Ghost Town (8 page)

I certainly wasn't going to help him.

“Ta-da!” Dad swung open the door to the larger room on the third floor.

“No way!” I ran inside, bouncing with excitement. “This is perfect!” I flung my arms around him, inhaling his familiar woodsy smell.

“I hope I set it up correctly.” Dad beamed at me, clearly happy that I was happy.

How could I not be? He'd transformed the dusty room just for me. My computer rested on a white desk with a new photo printer. A huge wooden table painted a sunny yellow sat in the circular part of the room. All my crafting scissors and stencils, plus boxes of stickers, markers, and colored paper were arranged on the table. He'd painted one wall the same bright yellow and glimpses of the blue-gray water of the bay were visible through the many windows.

“Oh, it's so amazing! Thank you.” I hurried over to the desk. “I can't believe you got me a photo printer.”

Dad came up behind me. “I knew you wanted one.

Maybe it will help you pass the rest of the summer—”

“It totally will!” I bent over its shiny black surface. “Can I see how it works? Is it wireless?”

“Of course.” Dad busied himself with unwinding cords. He loved this kind of stuff—putting things together, fixing things that were broken. “I had this old house hooked up to the Internet while you were out exploring on your bike the other day. Not easy, believe me.” He pulled out the printer's cord and knelt below the desk. “Hmmmm . . . that's the curse of an old house.”

“Curse?” I asked.

“This enormous room has only one outlet. And if you plug in your computer, printer, and the two lamps, you'll overload the circuit. An overload could burn the whole house down.” He lifted himself up. “That's what happens when the future tries to interact with the past.”

“So the printer won't work up here?”

“I can fix it. In a perfect world, I'd rewire the entire house. Actually, maybe I could. I read an article once. . . .” He was still talking as he headed toward the stairs. “Let me see if I can rustle up a power strip in the meantime.”

I knew he'd make it all work. He always did. I sat on the stool by the large table and grabbed a piece of paper and a marker. I began to sketch an idea for a new photo collage.

Except for trips to Elber's for Lady Azura, I made up my mind to spend the last days of summer up here in my happy, yellow hideaway. Far from the haunted house.

But a few days later, I was back inside Midnight Manor.

I wished I hadn't agreed to go inside. Without Lily, the house seemed much darker, much scarier. The flickering electric candles cast eerie shadows on the walls.

I followed the winding hallways in a daze. My eyes darted about nervously, waiting for the fake zombie or fake skeleton to pop out. Nothing. No scares. No fake moans or recorded shrieks.

Where was everything? Wasn't it working?

Suddenly, no scares felt scarier. I could hear my own breath. A heavy silence descended. I was alone. Alone in Midnight Manor.

I moved forward, quickening my pace through a screen of cobwebs. The narrow hallway seemed to
stretch on forever. Where was the exit? I wondered. Then I heard a
thump.

Then another.
Thump, thump.

In front of me. Somewhere in the darkness.

“Who's there?” I called.

Thump, thump.
Footsteps. I wasn't alone.

“Hello?” My voice echoed back.

I rounded a corner, my heart pounding, and spotted two boys up ahead. One blond, one dark-haired. They both glanced back in my direction, then hurried into the shadows. I squinted. The dark-haired boy looked familiar. Was he Lily's brother? I wasn't sure.

“Joey!” I called. “Joey, wait up.” I jogged forward.

The boys disappeared around another corner.

I ran faster. My breath came out in ragged pants. The hallway opened into a large room. Mirrors covered every wall. I exhaled loudly. The Room of Mirrors. I'd been here with Lily.

I whirled around. Dozens of reflections of me stared out. I was on every wall. Even the ceiling. Me, me, me.

I spotted the boys in the far corner of the room. Or was I seeing their reflections? I wasn't sure. There seemed to be dozens of boys.

“Hey, Joey, wait—” I began.

A chill tickled the back of my neck. There was a woman in the mirror. Her thin flesh was pulled tautly along the protruding bones of her face. White hair fanned out from her scalp. The color in her irises had faded, leaving her eyeballs an eerie, deathly white.

There's only one of her
, I thought.
She's not a reflection. She's trapped in the mirror!

My eyes darted around the room, desperate for a way out. No doors. No windows. Just mirrors. Even the door I'd come in through had melted into glass.

I gulped in fear as her skeletal arms broke through the shiny surface. Her fingers circled Joey's neck and she began to squeeze. Tighter, tighter. Joey's eyes bulged as he struggled to free himself. Dozens of Joeys were reflected around the room, all writhing. Then the real Joey spotted me.

“Sara!” he choked. “Help me—”

The fingers tightened. His skin lost color. His body grew limp.

I have to help.
I reached out. The hands released him—and they grabbed for me.

I couldn't stop screaming.

“Sara! Sara, you're okay.”

My dad's voice. His hand on my shoulder. “A dream, kiddo. Just a dream.”

I blinked. The mirrors were gone. The first light of dawn broke through the gap in my shades. My nightshirt stuck to my skin, clammy with sweat. I pushed myself onto one elbow and met my dad's worried gaze.

“You were screaming.” He ran a hand through his bed-matted hair. “But whatever it was, it's not real, okay?”

I nodded, still too shaken to speak.

“What was it about?” he asked gently.

My mouth was extremely dry. A dull ache circled
my jaw, as if I'd been clenching my teeth. “The haunted house.”

“Oh, Sara, you can't let that place upset you so much.” He shook his head. “I hate that you still have nightmares. I wish I knew how to stop them.”

I'd been having nightmares since I was about four years old. Dad thinks it's the usual monsters and witches and stuff. He doesn't know that the dreams started when
they
showed up.

“There was this horrible spirit,” I started. “In the haunted house. She came at me through a mirror. And there's another spirit there. A man . . . with a cane—”

“Listen.” He rubbed my back, the way he's done for so many years when I've woken frightened. “It's not right that a boardwalk haunted house is keeping you up at night. I have a solution. We'll go there together. This weekend. We'll conquer it together and make your fear go away.”

I peeled a piece of blue nail polish from my thumbnail.

He didn't get it. Sure, we could go there together. But he'd never see what I see or hear what I hear. He'd never understand. They were never going away.

“What do you think, Sara?”

I looked up at my dad. I thought he looked tired. I thought he looked worried. “I think that might be okay.”

“Get some rest.” He pulled the comforter up over my shoulders and padded down the hallway to his room.

I switched on the lamp by my bed. There was no way I could go back to sleep. I lay there, listening to the floorboards creak under the rocking chair. The sad woman was awake too. I suddenly wondered why all the spirits I saw seemed unhappy. Was that why they were still around?

My thoughts kept circling back to the old man. I didn't want to think about him. He scared me a lot more than the rest of them. But why? Was it because he spoke to me? I didn't think that was it. Not totally, at least. I couldn't figure it out. I turned the question around in my mind until I landed upon an answer.

He was the only one who wanted something from me.

The damp sand chilled my toes as I bent down and scooped up a white half-moon shell. I tucked it among
the growing collection of shells and sea glass nestled in the pouch pocket of my gray oversize sweatshirt. The weak rays of early morning sun glimmered on the water.

Dad and Lady Azura were still asleep. Most of Stellamar was still asleep. Only the fishing boats far out on the ocean and committed joggers on the sand were awake with me.

I knew Dad would be angry to find me gone. I left a note and had my cell on, but I knew I'd still hear about it. It wasn't like me to disobey rules. This morning, though, I just had to get out. Figure things out.

I inhaled the humid sea air. Thick gray clouds blanketed the sky. The foam-capped waves broke rapidly on the shore. Today wasn't going to be a beach day. I was fine with that. I'd found an old wooden tray in one of the rooms, and Lady Azura said I could have it. I planned to decoupage it with the photos of shells and sea life I'd taken, along with real shells and sea glass I'd collected. It'd be a 3-D collage that'd be useful, too. Maybe I'd send it to Aunt Charlotte.

A wiry woman with a long metal stick wandered several feet ahead. She waved it along the sand, searching
for buried treasure—loose change and rings that slipped off fingers. I was curious to see what she'd find.

Frantic splashing made my head turn. I gasped. A girl with dark hair bobbed in the choppy waves. Seagulls cried overhead as I craned my neck to see her. No one else was out swimming.

“Lily?” I jogged in her direction, the shells jangling with each quickened step. “Lily?” I was having trouble seeing her now.

What was Lily doing in the ocean?

Cold water lapped my ankles, tingling my feet, as I ran toward her. She seemed to shimmer in the sparkling water. “Lily!”

She didn't respond. Instead she faded in and out. There and then not there. Slowly, she dissolved into the air.

I kicked the sand angrily. She wasn't Lily. She wasn't even alive. A spirit forever swimming in the Atlantic. I hated the confusion. I hated not knowing who was real.

I continued down the beach. I kept my eyes on the sand, concentrating on shells and sea glass. When I finally looked up, the beach entrance to the boardwalk stood before me. I gazed up the wooden stairs.

I thought of my dad. He wanted me to stop being afraid. It was definitely faster to get home this way than going back down the beach. I didn't have to go anywhere near the haunted house, I reasoned. I should just do it. Right?

I hesitated, then began to climb.

The color and energy were missing from the boardwalk on this overcast morning. All the stands and booths were boarded up. No laughter, no shrieks, no piped-in music. Just the cries of the seagulls and the footsteps of elderly power walkers.

“Storm's coming,” a woman carrying a Yorkie in a pink sweater warned.

My hair blew across my face as the wind picked up. Flags along the pier flapped, and the sky grew darker. I glanced down the pier. The rides and games were closed. Midnight Manor loomed like a purple mountain against the gray clouds.

Every logical part of me knew I should turn right and head toward Beach Drive and home. I wanted to. I didn't want to make Dad worry. But my body wasn't communicating with my brain. My feet walked down the pier as if guided by a remote
control. There wasn't a choice. There was only one direction to go.

I don't want to be here
, I thought as a powerful force drew me ever closer to the haunted house.

No one was around. The attraction was closed. I stared up at the abandoned house. In the quiet, it seemed almost harmless. The
MIDNIGHT MANOR
sign squeaked on its hinges as gusts of wind rippled off the water. I leaned back on my heels, surveying the old house. No sadness came from the building. Everything seemed fine. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe Dad was right.

I swallowed, then gagged as a sour taste invaded my throat. Chills snaked along my skin. A throbbing pulsed in my temple. I realized that I wasn't alone.

He was back.

I turned to run, but the old man blocked my path.

I need you . . . there is no more time.
His strained voice reverberated in my ears. No longer could I hear the wind. I could hear only him.

I tried to dodge around him, but his frail form was everywhere. I couldn't escape.

Any day now . . . help save the children . . . stop . . . stop the tragedy
. . .
His voice pleaded.

“What tragedy?” I cried. “I don't understand. What tragedy?”

He didn't react. His eyes remained slightly unfocused. But the weight of his need pushed upon me, squeezing my lungs.

“Do you hear me?” I asked in a shrill voice I almost didn't recognize as my own.

But he didn't. This wasn't a conversation. I realized that I could hear him, but he couldn't hear me.

Save them . . . help them . . .

His desperation weighed on me. Spots appeared before my eyes, and my head ached. I had to get away.

“No!” I screamed. “I'm not helping you! Ever!”

I wrenched my body away as a huge gust of wind rolled in. The haunted house sign rocked violently on its rusted hinges. Then there was a sharp
snap!
The ancient wood splintered directly above my head.

I dodged, just as the sign crashed to the ground.

“Sara!” David ran toward me from the entrance to the pier, probably on his way to work.

I gazed in amazement at the broken sign strewn near my feet. So close. It had almost hit me. I raised
my eyes slowly to the old man. He shimmered by the fractured sign, pointing to it with his cane.

This is what happens. . . .
He slid toward me, until he was just inches away.
It is up to you . . . without your help they will die. It is up to you.