SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 (6 page)

“Right here?” Her eyes bugged out.

I nodded.

“But—”

“I’m not going to ask if you mind,” I interrupted. “You say you don’t believe in God, but I know He’s here with us. I also know He wants to help your mom.”

She didn’t argue this time. I bowed my head and folded my hands with Chelsea’s hand stuck between mine. “Lord, we don’t know what we’re going to find inside this spooky place, but you do. Please keep us safe. And thanks for your angels, who protect us. Amen.”

Chelsea didn’t say a word about the prayer—or the angels. In fact, she was trying to act real cool. But I knew the prayer had touched her. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

Quickly, she turned away. “Okay, let’s go,” she said.

Help us to do the right thing, Lord
, I prayed silently as we moved forward, taking one white stepping-stone at a time.

Hesitantly, I reached through the vines to unlatch the narrow door. Chelsea held back the thick branches, hands trembling.

“Anyone home?” I called.

We listened.

Nothing except the whispery sound of wind high in the trees.

“We’re coming in!” I shouted, feeling more confident at the sound of my voice. With a shove, I opened the door.

There, piled up on the wood floor, were candles—some half burned—two black-and-gold incense containers, and several empty wine bottles.

“What on earth?” I muttered.

Chelsea sniffed the air. “Hey! That’s my mom’s favorite incense.” She picked up one of the round incense holders and held it to her nose. “Weird,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I wonder if she’s been coming here to meditate.”

“Your mom meditates?”

Chelsea was quick to set me straight. “It’s
not
what you think, Merry,” she said. “My mom’s been interested in getting in touch with her inner consciousness for a long time. She likes to spend time concentrating and stuff like that, usually in a quiet place.”

“We won’t know more unless we keep searching.” I spied a long black box high atop a potting shelf in the corner. “Look up there,” I said, pointing. “What’s in that box?”

“Let’s check it out.”

I dragged a chair under the shelf. Reaching up, I encountered a thick spider web. “Yee-ikes! There are cobwebs all over this place.”

Chelsea steadied the rickety chair as she stared up at me. I jumped down, holding the black box, and opened the lid. Inside, we discovered a strange array of items. More candles—mostly black ones—and matches, incense, and several large, black square cloths. And a book with a frightening title:
Taking the Oath
.

A sickening wave of terror welled up in me. “Oh, Chelsea, I think your mom’s hooked up with something truly dangerous!”

“Why?” She picked up the book and flipped through the pages. “Because of this?”

The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I wanted to run. Anything to escape the oppressive sensation that seemed to hover around us.

I noticed some strange markings on the inside of the box but said nothing. By the looks of things, Chelsea’s mom had been using the abandoned shack as a hideaway—a place to practice her occult exercises in privacy.

Quickly, I replaced the lid on the box and returned it to its original place, deliberately avoiding annoying spider webs.

Leaping down off the chair, I glanced around at the inside of the hut—about the size of a large bedroom. Fighting off nightmarish feelings, I aimed my digital camera, taking several shots of the bizarre surroundings before closing the door and latching it.

“Is this building on your property?” I asked as we hurried away.

“It’s been here as long as we have,” Chelsea replied, “so it must be.”

“You’re sure it’s not on your neighbor’s land?”

“Positive.”

I wanted to make sure we weren’t trespassing. There was a strong possibility I’d want to return.

“Let me see that poem your mom wrote again,” I said.

Chelsea handed the diary to me, and I thumbed through the pages till I found the peculiar poem.

Approach a labyrinth of snarls and tendrils,
Follow the white-stone way.
Spirit-dew, rain on they who here reflect.
House of secrets bids you stay.

I stared at the diary entry. “That’s it! The hut has to be the house of secrets,” I blurted. “Look, Chels, it’s right here.” I pointed to the page.

She stopped cold, and I reread the words to her.

“Do you think…? Could it be?” Her voice became hysterical. “Do you think my mom’s lost her mind or something?”

“I hope not.” What else could I say? The signs pointed to…what? I didn’t know. But whatever was in that place and in that black box surely wasn’t meant for the praise and worship of God.

We quickened our pace, not looking back. I stuffed the diary into my back pocket.

Chelsea’s wheezy breathing worried me as our feet flew over the white stones, through the opening in the arbor gate, and back to the safety of her yard.

“Whew.” She collapsed on one of the patio chairs on the back porch. “I can see why we avoided that wretched place as kids.” She was totally freaked.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” I offered, heading for the kitchen door.

Chelsea looked too pale to get up. “I’ll be right there.”

“Just take it easy,” I called over my shoulder.

Inside, I let the water run so it would be cool without ice. Sometimes Chelsea had asthma flare-ups, and I knew better than to give her ice water. I wandered over to the cupboard, searching for a clean glass, when I heard startling words coming from the living room.

“What do you mean, you’re not coming home?” Mr. Davis was saying.

I held my breath, listening as I hugged the doorframe.

“Where are you now? Where is our money?”

A long pause.

“But that money belonged to me, too,” he insisted. “We had plans for that account, you and I—we…”

My heart ached for Chelsea’s dad. Evidently, Mrs. Davis was on the line. Would she tell him where she was? Why she’d left?

“Please come home, Berta Jean. This is craziness, every last bit of it. Those people, they’re nuts and you know it. Why, those crazy mixed-up notions about making the world a better place—and that hocus-pocus nonsense, c’mon!”

Silence again.

Then—“But how can you up and leave Chelsea and me for a bunch of crackpots?” Mr. Davis was weeping now.

Another long pause.

His voice came softly. “I love you, Berta, don’t you see? I want you here, to live with our daughter and me….”

I backed into the kitchen, hurrying to turn off the water. Once again, I felt helpless and frightened for my friend and her father. The pleading continued, but I stood in the kitchen wrapping my arms around myself—trying desperately to block out the frantic words.

“What’s that?” Mr. Davis howled. “Me, come and join that weird bunch? Why, Berta Jean, that’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t think of leaving my life behind for that oath-taking baloney. How can
you
?”

I fought back tears and hurried outdoors with the glass of water. By the time Chelsea was ready to come indoors, the phone conversation had come to an abrupt end. It wasn’t up to me to fill her in. I shouldn’t have heard any of it in the first place.

“You okay?” I asked, watching my friend closely.

She steadied herself against the kitchen counter. “I’m so mad I can hardly stand up,” she admitted. “All the weird stuff. Mom’s totally flipped—hiding out in that shed, so close to our house.”

“It’s not
that
close.” I glanced out the window. “You can hardly see it from here.”

She came over and stood beside me, still wheezing slightly. “I guess you’re right, but…” She stared out the window, wearing a troubled look. “You don’t think…my mom’s not living out there, is she?”

“There’s no evidence of a bed or anything.” I thought about the phone conversation I’d partially overheard. “No, Chelsea, I don’t think your mom’s staying there.”

“I sure hope not,” she whispered, forcing her gaze away from the window.

I gave her a quick hug good-bye. “I think it’s time you talked to your dad, though. Just the two of you.”

Her father came into the kitchen looking dejected, and Chelsea rushed over, crying. They scarcely noticed as I slipped out the back door.

The sun was slipping fast over the horizon as I ran down the dirt lane toward home. I held on to my camera case, keeping it from flopping.

Lights twinkled in the downstairs windows of my house just ahead. How I welcomed their golden glow!

At the intersection of Strawberry Lane and SummerHill, I ran across the street, then darted up the long, sloping lawn, past the grand white gazebo centered in our backyard, and onto the back steps. For once I didn’t check to see if any of my feline friends still lingered outdoors.

It wasn’t until I was washing my hands for supper that I realized I hadn’t returned the diary. The hard, fat lump protruded out of my back pocket.

Chelsea’s mom had been writing bizarre things in her daily entries, that was true. I could only hope that by snooping a little, perhaps I’d find additional clues.

Where
was
Chelsea’s mom?

Supper by candlelight meant one of two things at our house: Either we were entertaining company, or it was a holiday.

Mom had a funny way of connecting with holidays—even the insignificant ones. They were her excuse to show off culinary skills, not to mention her fine hostess abilities.

But a linen-and-lace tablecloth and napkins on the first Friday in October by no means represented a holiday, significant or otherwise.

Still, it
was
a special event—Skip’s first weekend home since we’d bid him farewell on that sweltering day in August.

“How’s college treating you?” Dad asked, slapping Skip’s shoulder playfully as the two of them wandered into the dining room.

“I like it just fine,” Skip said, his face shiny and hair still damp from his shower. Mom always liked it when we freshened up before mealtime. Besides, Skip probably needed freshening up—he’d driven many miles in order to put his feet under her table.

We sat opposite each other, Skip and I. Dad’s easygoing grin stretched from ear to ear as he settled into his usual spot at the head of the table. Mom sat at the far end across from Dad, nearest the kitchen. Dad prayed, thanking the Lord for Skip’s safe return, then the food was passed. Prime rib, mashed potatoes and gravy, dried-corn casserole, sweet baby peas, homemade biscuits and butter—the works. Once again, Mom had knocked herself out for us. For Skip, really.

Halfway through supper, I asked Skip if he knew who Randall Eastman was. “Supposedly he won first place in the photography contest last year.”

Skip glanced at the ceiling, thinking. “Oh yeah, I remember hearing something about that. Isn’t he the principal’s nephew or something?”

“Something like that.” I couldn’t believe he hadn’t paid attention to last year’s contest. Having a sister who was a photography fanatic ought to have tuned him in at least a little. “So do you know him?” I persisted.

“Barely.” He pulled on his open shirt collar. “Seems to me the guy’s a loner. A little nerdy, too.”

“That figures,” I sneered. “Most artists are misunderstood.”

He shot back, “Well, you oughta know.” Skip was taunting me. I wished he’d stayed at college.

Mom leaned forward, reaching for my hand. “Oh, honey, that’s not how we think of
you
.” She’d always been quick to qualify off-the-wall statements by her firstborn. Especially those directed at me. Or Faithie. Except that my twin sister hadn’t lived long enough to experience the unrelenting nature of our big brother’s flapping tongue. I was almost positive if Faithie were alive today, she would be even less tolerant of Skip’s constant condemnation.

“You just have to have someone to pick on,” I muttered.

Mom eyeballed me. “Your brother’s been home less than an hour, and here you are—”

“Hon,” Dad intervened as usual. “It’s okay. We’re all a little tense from the long week. The kids, too.”

“Yeah,” Skip said, hopping on Dad’s bandwagon. “Let’s cool it, okay?”

I wanted to bop him good. How was it that he could get by with derogatory comments? This was firstborn ballyhoo at its best!

Mom and I cleared the table, letting the men in the family sit around and twiddle their thumbs. The way I saw it, if Dad truly had a say in serious table etiquette, he would’ve been up helping us by now. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who insisted on being served by females. Never had.

But Skip? My brother simply adored being waited on. Hand, foot,
and
mouth. I, despising the submissive younger-sister role, had made a point of sidestepping the issue as much as possible. With him at least.

The festive dinner tapers had burned down about an inch when Mom and I brought in her cream cake. Made with sweet milk from the Zooks’ dairy, the dessert was unbelievably rich. The cream filling alone was outrageous. Dad’s cousin Hazel had once called the sumptuous dessert sinful due to its extravagant, fattening ingredients.

“Well,” Dad said, eyes shining in anticipation, “shall we ask the blessing once again?”

Mom giggled like a schoolgirl. “You may, if you like.”

“Oh, Dad, please,” I groaned.

Skip joined Dad in rubbing his stomach and, in general, hammed it up.

Dad was on his second cup of coffee when Skip started telling about some of the extracurricular activities on campus. “You name it, we’ve got it,” he said with pride. “Several Bible study groups meet after hours. One in particular is kinda cool.”

Dad’s cup clinked as he placed it back on the saucer. “Let’s hear about it, son.”

I knew I’d be required to stay put and listen, even though Skip’s idea of captivating conversation was about as interesting as a car mechanics manual.

After another ten minutes of college talk, I excused myself. “I’ll start loading the dishwasher.”

Mom nodded silently.

Unfortunately, I could still hear Skip’s voice even as I made the usual kitchen clean-up noises. I drew the hot water for the silverware. Never in a million years would Mom allow the dishwasher to clean her good stuff. So I washed the flatware by hand, beginning with the spoons.