“None of the other volunteers has shown any interest in the Wedgwood. Only you.”
“I didn’t move them around.” She had to clamp her teeth tight together to keep from saying that Agnes was the one who had been messing with the Wedgwood, so why was she accusing Ellen?
“It won’t do you any good to deny it,” Agnes said. “I’ve already talked to Mrs. Whittacker about you. I caught her before she left and warned her that you can’t be trusted to leave the collection alone and that she should watch you carefully until the haunted house closes, to be sure you stay away from it.”
Ellen’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. Then her eyes narrowed as she realized what Agnes had done. She wanted to be sure that nobody discovered that the real Wedgwood was missing. She wanted as much time as possible to get away, and she knew Ellen had examined the pieces thoroughly and might just notice that something wasn’t right, so she made up a story about Ellen rearranging the Wedgwood, to be sure Mrs. Whittacker didn’t allow Ellen to get too close to it.
Fury crackled through Ellen’s veins. She was so angry, she wished she could point at Agnes and have bolts of lightning come out the ends of her fingers. She didn’t even want Agnes to unlock the door for her. She just wanted to get away from that horrible woman.
“I’m going to call Mrs. Whittacker,” she said, “and ask her to come and let me out.” She turned and strode toward the kitchen door.
“Stay away from my office!” There was an undercurrent of panic in Agnes’s voice.
Ellen kept walking.
Agnes started after her, tripped on the cardboard box, and fell against the shelves. Two vases toppled at the impact and smashed to the floor.
“Oh!” Ellen cried, as she looked at the shattered fragments. “Were they the real ones?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized what she had said. Her voice seemed to echo in the huge dining room. The real ones, the real ones.
“The real ones?” Agnes repeated. There was such animosity in her eyes that Ellen recoiled. They stared at each other for a moment.
“Harry!” Agnes shouted.
The kitchen door opened and a man wearing a blue ski parka ran into the dining room. He stopped when he saw Ellen. “Who’s she?” he asked.
“She knows,” Agnes said.
“What? You told this kid?”
“Of course not, you idiot. I don’t know how she found out.”
Ellen stepped backward, toward the dining-room entry.
“Now what do we do?” the man said.
“We’ll have to take her with us.”
“Oh, no. I’m not taking some kid across the state line.”
Ellen tried to swallow but her throat was so tight, nothing moved.
“Do you have a better suggestion?” Agnes asked.
“We’ll lock her in your office.”
“With the telephone.” Agnes looked disgusted.
“We can tie her up. Nobody will be back here until tomorrow afternoon. That’s enough time for us.”
“They’ll come looking for her long before tomorrow afternoon,” Agnes said. “They’re probably trying to locate a key right now. We have to get moving, Harry. We’re out of time. I’ll get the last box; you get her in the car.”
Ellen whirled and ran toward the door. The man’s footsteps thumped on the floor behind her.
She ran into the hallway. He drew closer.
“There’s no place to run,” he called. “You’re locked in here with us.”
Straight ahead was the Joan of Arc room. Ellen knew there was no exit from that. To her right, the stairway led to the great hall and the front door; since it was locked, there was no point going that way. She ran to her left, toward the bedrooms. Bedroom doors sometimes lock from the inside.
She ran past the conservatory, where Corey and Mighty Mike did their scene every night, and past the library where the Julius Caesar scene took place. She saw a door ahead, a door that Mrs. Whittacker had not opened that first night, when she took them on a tour of the mansion.
She reached the door, turned the knob, and flung it open. It was not a bedroom. It was a linen closet. She whirled around and saw the man approaching, just a few yards away.
Ellen’s mind raced, trying to decide what to do. She could try to run past him; maybe if she ducked, just as she got to him, she could elude his grasp. Or she could kick him. She could kick him in the groin and then run.
Ellen was not a fighter. She avoided conflict if she could and the thought of purposely kicking another person, with the intent of hurting him, was abhorrent to her. But it would be even worse to be forced into the car and be taken hostage by this man and Agnes.
There was no time to debate her options. The man lunged toward her. Ellen swung her foot toward him as hard as she could but he was too quick. It was as if he had anticipated what she would do and was ready for it.
As her foot lifted toward his groin, he clasped his hands together into a single fist and brought it down, hard, on Ellen’s shin. The blow forced her foot away from him and, instead of kicking the man, she kicked the wall. Ellen yelped as streamers of pain flew up her leg. She dropped to her knees.
The man unclasped his hands and reached for Ellen’s shoulders.
Before he could grab her, the lights went out. The entire mansion was plunged into darkness. In front of her, Ellen heard the man curse.
Quickly, she rolled to her left and then crept away, moving forward, groping along the wall with her hand. She remembered that all the lights were on a timer. No doubt Agnes would have to go to some central control in order to turn them on again. That would take at least a couple of minutes—long enough for Ellen to hide, if she could just get away from the man now.
Behind her, she heard the man thumping the wall with his hands, as he tried to find her.
She crawled past the door to the library and the door to the conservatory. Hardly daring to breathe, she felt for the entry to the parlor. If she could get in there, she could hide under Joan of Arc’s platform. She thought she could find her way to the platform, even in the dark. The man would not know where to look. If he found the door to the library, he would probably go in there, thinking she would enter the first room she came to. Even if he went in the parlor, he wouldn’t be familiar with the Joan of Arc setup. He wouldn’t know where to search.
If Agnes knew how to turn the lights back on, or got a flashlight, they still might not find her under Joan of Arc’s platform.
Time, she knew, was on her side. By now, she was sure her parents were trying to get in. Maybe Mrs. Whittacker was already on her way back, with the key.
She crawled on. She must be near the entrance to the parlor.
A shuffling sound approached from her right. The man was moving down the center of the hallway, sliding his feet as if he were on skis. He was apparently trying to cover as much of the floor as possible without raising his feet.
Ellen scrunched tight against the wall, disappointed that the man had not gone into the library or the conservatory. The shuffling feet came closer. She held her breath.
The slight sliding sound of his shoes on the floor drew even and she was aware of his presence beside her. He passed her, moving slowly, as if he had his hands outstretched, trying to find her. Ellen remained on her hands and knees. After awhile, the man shouted for Agnes and Agnes yelled something in return.
Maybe they will decide to run for it, Ellen thought, and leave me here.
She found the parlor door and turned in, seeing the room in her mind and remembering how it was arranged. The public viewing area was first, then the thick velvet rope that kept viewers from going too close. She found one of the brass poles that held the rope and crawled past it.
There was a long expanse of floor next, made to look like a cobblestone street. Then would be the pile of sticks and branches, with the platform concealed on the backside.
She crawled faster now, eager to get under the platform. Her outstretched hand came to the brush pile. She crep
t around to the back. She felt the platform steps.
As she tried to move the sticks far enough away from the platform to allow herself to get underneath, the lights came on. Blinking in the sudden brightness, she yanked quickly at the platform, moving it just enough so she could squeeze through.
When she ducked down, her sweater snagged on one of the sticks. Tugging furiously, Ellen tried to disentangle herself. She heard footsteps running down the hallway toward her. This time, she knew it wasn’t Lydia. These footsteps were real and they were far more dangerous than those of the ghost.
She jerked her arm, tearing the sweater.
“There she is!” cried Agnes.
Chapter
13
Ellen kicked and screamed. She clung to the wooden platform, getting splinters in the palms of her hands, but Harry and Agnes were too strong.
They dragged her away from the platform. Harry held her arms behind her back. “There’s no way we can take her along,” he said. “She’ll slow us down too much.”
“We’ll tie her here,” said Agnes, “to the stake.” She grabbed the rope as Harry pushed Ellen up the platform steps and against the stake. He held her arms to her sides while Agnes wrapped the rope around and around, pulling it as tight as she could.
They wound more rope around Ellen’s ankles and then around Ellen’s waist. As Agnes reached around Ellen’s face from behind to pull on the rope, Ellen bent her head and bit Agnes’s hand as hard as she could. Agnes yelled and jerked her hand away.
The ropes cut into Ellen’s skin. She knew there was no point trying to wiggle loose; she would only get rope burns.
“The last of the Wedgwood’s in my car,” Agnes said. “Bring the car around to the front and I’ll meet you there.”
Harry bolted out of the room. To Ellen’s surprise, Agnes did not follow him. Instead, she waited until she was sure Harry was gone. Then Agnes turned back.
“Sorry, kid,” she said. “But you should have minded your own business.” She took a cigarette lighter out of her pocket. “I’ve worked for months on this job and I’m not letting you spoil it now.”
She flicked the lighter twice. When a tiny flame appeared, she bent down, holding the lighter against the pile of sticks and brush at Ellen’s feet.
Stunned by the realization of what Agnes was doing, Ellen stared silently.
“You’ve been practicing for this scene all week,” Agnes said. “Now you can see what it’s really like to burn at the stake.”
Ellen screamed.
“There is no one to hear you.” Agnes held the lighter steady against a twig. A tiny wisp of smoke curled upward toward the ceiling of the great mansion. In her mind, Ellen heard the sound effects from the Joan of Arc scene: the fire crackling, the shouts of the crowd. “Heretic!” “Witch!”
The twig caught. The bright yellow and blue flame stretched toward the other sticks. Ellen screamed again.
“A fire is a clever twist,” Agnes said. “I wish I had thought of it sooner.”
“You’ll get caught,” Ellen said.
“They won’t be able to tell from the ruins that the charred vases and bowls weren’t the real Wedgwood.”
“My brother knows,” Ellen said. “That’s why I stayed here, so I could detain you until he gets back with the police.” In her panic, the lie rolled easily off her tongue.
“Corey doesn’t know,” Agnes said. “If you had both discovered that the Wedgwood was missing, you would both have run to tell someone.”
More twigs caught fire. The smoke grew darker.
“They’ll think we forgot to untie you,” Agnes said, as she held her lighter to the other side of the brush pile. “They’ll think something went wrong with this old, faulty wiring, and that you were not able to free yourself to escape the fire. It will be called a tragic accident.”
A larger stick began burning. The flames spread outward.
Ellen closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear to watch as the twigs and branches, one at a time, caught fire. Was it possible that her life would end like this? That she would never see her parents and Corey and Grandpa and Grandma again?
She shivered.
Her eyes flew open as she realized she had shivered because a strong icy wind was blowing at her back.
The wind surged past Ellen with such force that the heavy stake pushed against Ellen’s back and she had to struggle to stay upright.
It blew across the platform, surrounding the pile of brush.
Agnes’s head jerked up. “What the . . ?” she said.
The flames sputtered. The wind swooped back and forth, howling in its severity. The fire flickered, smoldered briefly, and then went out.
Quickly, Agnes tried to relight it.
The cold wind went mad. It swirled around Agnes, blowing her hair into her eyes. It lifted the smaller branches into the air so that they flew around Agnes, scratching her arms and face. Desperately, she flicked the lighter again, but each time, as soon as the flame flared up, the wind blew it out.
“What’s going on?” Agnes cried.
“It’s the ghost,” Ellen said. “I told you there was a ghost in here.”
“That’s nonsense. There are no ghosts.” Agnes’s hand shook as she frantically worked the lighter.
The wind centered itself beside her and blew with such force that the cigarette lighter fell from her fingers. It dropped into the pile of sticks.
“You’ve angered the ghost,” Ellen said, “and now she’s going to get you.”
Agnes reached into the pile of brush, trying to retrieve the lighter. The wind became an indoor tornado, enclosing her. She abandoned the lighter and hunched over, shielding her face with her hands.
More of the smaller twigs and sticks were caught in the whirlwind and began blowing around and around Agnes.
“Harry!” she yelled. “Help!”
“He can’t hear you,” Ellen said. “He went for the car. No one can hear you except me and the ghost. And she is my friend.”
“Make her stop!” Agnes cried.
Ellen said nothing.
Agnes twisted suddenly away from the pile of brush. She turned and ran toward the door but before she got there, the cold wind stopped, the swirling branches dropped to the floor, and Lydia materialized in the doorway.
The ghost looked much worse than the other times Ellen had seen her. For an instant, Ellen thought it was a different ghost altogether. The face was haggard, with sunken cheeks, and there were no eyeballs—just deep hollow, empty sockets. She gave off a strong, putrid odor—like rotting meat that’s been left in a warm garbage can.
But she wore the same lace-trimmed white gown, and the curly, shoulder-length hair was exactly like Lydia’s. And then she made the same unearthly cry that she had made earlier, when Ellen asked her about the remains in the Wedgwood.
The ghastly cry was even louder than before and the high ceiling in the parlor made the horrible sound echo on and on. Ellen’s pulse throbbed in her throat, in rhythm with the repulsive reverberation.
Ellen could not take her eyes from the apparition. Never had she seen anything so obnoxious. And yet, she felt no fear. She knew that Lydia was trying to help her. If the ghost had not intervened, the entire pile of brush would be burning by now, and Ellen with it.
“Aaaeeeiiigghhh!” As she cried this time, Lydia lifted her arms, as if to enfold Agnes and draw her close.
Agnes grabbed a large branch from the pile of sticks and lunged at the ghost. Gripping the limb with both hands, Agnes held it shoulder high and aimed it directly at Lydia’s head.
The branch passed easily through Lydia’s body. As it did, she made a low, guttural sound, like a wild animal growling.
Agnes opened her mouth but no sound came out. She dropped the branch. She backed away from Lydia.
Lydia raised her hands and reached for Agnes’s throat.
As the ice-cold hands touched Agnes’s skin, she fainted, falling in a heap just inside the doorway.
 
; The ugly, foul-smelling apparition instantly vanished. In its place, stood the same sad young woman that Ellen had always seen before.
Downstairs, voices called, “Ellen? Are you in here?”
“Up here!” she shouted. “In the parlor!”
Lydia disappeared.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs.
“In here,” Ellen cried again.
She expected to see Mrs. Whittacker. Instead it was a police officer, followed closely by Corey.
“I told you she was in trouble,” Corey said. “A flying saucer could land on that little balcony and purple people from Jupiter might try to kidnap Ellen.” Seeing the inert Agnes on the floor, he knelt beside her. “The purple people from Jupiter have killed Agnes!” he yelled.
Even with his mouth going as usual, Ellen was glad to see her brother. Her parents were right behind Corey.
“She isn’t dead,” Ellen said. “But she tried to kill me. She stole all the Wedgwood and put fake pieces on the shelves and when I found out, she tried to set fire to Clayton House.”
“We realized you were locked in,” Mrs. Streater said, “and we couldn’t reach Mrs. Whittacker, so we called the police.”
The officer began to untie Ellen. “When we arrived,” he said, “we found a man sitting out in front in a car, with the engine running.”
“That’s Harry,” Ellen said. “He and Agnes tied me up.”
Agnes groaned and sat up. She looked at the police officer and groaned again.
“How did you knock Agnes out, when she had you tied up?” Corey asked.
“I didn’t. She fainted.” Ellen looked at Agnes, wondering if Agnes would say anything about the ghost.
“I didn’t faint,” Agnes said. “I slipped and hit my head on the floor.”
“No,” said Ellen. “She saw the ghost of Lydia Clayton, and she fainted.” She rubbed her arms, where the rope had cut into them.
The police officer raised his eyebrows and looked at her.
“Somehow, everyone forgot to untie Ellen tonight,” Agnes said. “I was just leaving, when I heard her call. I came up to untie her but I tripped on one of these branches. I must have knocked myself out when I fell.”