Ellen imagined living in such a building. The entryway alone was larger than the Streaters’ entire house. It may be elegant, she thought, but it certainly isn’t very homey.
All her life, Ellen had experienced strong feelings for places. When she went into a house, she knew if the people who lived there loved each other or if they were angry or afraid or sick. It wasn’t something she could explain—in fact, she had never tried—but her feelings were invariably correct.
She had always disliked visiting a particular aunt and uncle because whenever she was in their home, it seemed filled with anger and the feeling made her uncomfortable. When the aunt and uncle divorced last year, her parents and grandparents were shocked. Ellen wasn’t surprised; she sensed years ago that Uncle Ted and Aunt Cheryl did not like each other.
When she was only six, Ellen told her mother that a neighbor, Mrs. Lantow, was sick. When Mrs. Streater inquired, Mrs. Lantow cheerfully said her health was fine. Months later, the Streaters learned that Mrs. Lantow had undergone chemotherapy treatments for cancer but had told no one.
Clayton House didn’t contain feelings of anger or illness but Ellen sensed no love or joy, either. Despite the comfortable temperature, the house felt cold; with all the elegant furnishings, the mansion seemed empty. Something sinister hung in the air, as if the walls knew a secret evil that was not apparent to visitors.
Corey and Grandma were awed by the splendor; Ellen felt vaguely uneasy. She pushed the feeling aside and concentrated on Mrs. Whittacker’s voice.
“The house was built in 1864,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “At that time, Mr. Clayton used the lower level for his business. He had an office, meeting rooms, and a display room. The servants’ quarters were also on this floor, along with a small kitchen and dining room. The main kitchen and dining room are upstairs, where the Clayton family lived.”
Ellen had never heard of a house with more than one kitchen.
“There are four fireplaces on the lower floor,” Mrs. Whittacker continued, “each one different.” She guided them from room to room.
One fireplace was made of black and gray marble, imported from Italy. Another was a pale blue onyx, so translucent it seemed to be formed of wax. A third was surrounded by satinwood, heavily carved. Ellen’s favorite was the one made from Mexican silver, with a hearth of white mahogany.
When Mrs. Whittacker led the way to the next room, Ellen lingered behind, admiring the silver fireplace. She wondered if the Claytons ever actually lit fires in their exquisite fireplaces. Flames would look lovely, reflected in the gleaming silver. Lightly, she ran her fingers over the shiny metal, marveling at its beauty.
“Don’t touch that!”
Ellen jerked her hand away and turned toward the harsh voice.
A middle-aged woman stood behind her.
“Silver tarnishes,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tarnish the silver. It’s just so beautiful and I . . .”
“Well, keep your hands to yourself from now on,” the woman snapped.
Ellen swallowed and twisted her fingers together, not sure if she should answer or not. She stared at the woman’s excessive green eye shadow.
Grandma, Mrs. Whittacker, and Corey returned. “Oh, it’s you, Agnes,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “We heard voices; I thought perhaps Ellen had bumped into Lydia.” She laughed, as if she had just told a joke.
The woman smiled graciously. “Your friend and I were having a cozy little chat.”
Ellen quickly crossed the room and stood beside her grandmother. If that was a cozy little chat, she thought, I’d hate to have an argument with this woman.
Mrs. Whittacker said, “This is Agnes Munset, a talented artist who specializes in ceramics. She’s agreed to be curator of the museum’s Wedgwood collection.”
“Don’t you own the Potlatch Gallery?” Grandma asked, after the introductions were finished.
“Yes.”
“I’ve been there many times,” Grandma said. “I especially like your pansy vases. I’ve given several as wedding gifts.”
The woman who had scolded Ellen was all sweetness and charm as she discussed her gallery and her art work. Ellen couldn’t believe the transformation. Agnes even asked Corey how old he was and then told him he looked much older.
Corey beamed.
When Mrs. Whittacker led them upstairs, Ellen was glad Agnes Munset didn’t follow.
As they neared the top of the stairs, Corey said, “Who’s Lydia? You said you thought maybe Ellen had bumped into Lydia.”
“I was just teasing Agnes,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “Lydia is our ghost.”
“Your what?” said Grandma.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? The mansion really is haunted.”
“Now, Marie,” said Grandma, “be serious.”
Mrs. Whittacker winked at Ellen and Corey. “There are stories,” she said, “that the ghost of Lydia Clayton, Samuel’s first wife, was often seen around Clayton House in the years after her death.”
“I hope I see her,” Corey said.
“You might,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “Lydia’s ghost was here just last month.”
“Have you seen her?” asked Grandma.
“No,” Mrs. Whittacker admitted.
“I didn’t think so. Has Agnes?”
“Agnes refuses to discuss the ghost. She says such supernatural prattling is beneath a woman of her talent and education. But the electrician who came to measure the dining room and give us an estimate for upgrading the wiring and installing spotlights swears he felt her presence.” She paused and then added, “Of course, the electrician is also a member of our Historical Society and he just happens to be in charge of publicity for the Historical Haunted House.”
“And it would certainly be good publicity,” Grandma said, “if rumors of a real ghost should start to circulate.”
“Wouldn’t it, though?” said Mrs. Whittacker.
“I hope I see Lydia,” said Corey. “If I do, I’ll ask her how it feels to be a ghost. Does it hurt when she goes through walls? Do ghosts ever eat? Are there animal ghosts, or only people? If I see her, I’m going to ask her if I can dress up like a ghost, in a sheet or something, and go with her to see where all the ghosts live. I bet she’d let me, if I promised to be really quiet for the whole day, so nobody noticed me.”
There is no way, thought Ellen, that her brother could ever be really quiet for a whole day.
What did Mrs. Whittacker mean when she said the ghost was felt? Exactly how does one feel a ghost? Ellen frowned. She already sensed something menacing about the mansion. Her encounter with the museum’s curator was upsetting, too, and now there was talk of a ghost. The huge old house, beautiful as it was, gave her the creeps.
“If you see the ghost,” Corey said to Ellen, “send her to me. I’ll ask her to visit my class at school.”
“You are not going to see any ghost,” Grandma said.
Ellen hoped she was right.
Chapter
3
Fairylustre. A perfect name, Ellen thought, as she gazed at the exquisite octagon-shaped bowl. The outside of the bowl showed a castle, with a bridge and archways in black, purple, green, and gold. The inside depicted winged fairies, outlined in gold. The fairies flew through the air, perched on toadstools, and hid from imps and other tiny people.
Ellen loved fairies. When she was little, her two favorite books had illustrations of fairies. She had asked to hear those stories so often that eventually she memorized them and “read” them to herself, long before she really knew how to read. She used to tape cloth wings to her dolls and pretend that they were the fairies in the stories, flying through the air. And three years in a row, she insisted on having a fairy costume for Halloween.
Ellen no longer played with dolls, but she kept a small glass fairy on her dresser, for good luck. She still had her fairy books, too. The octagonal bowl was even more beautiful than the illustrations in Ellen’s books.
“You may
hold it, if you like,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “Until we have enough money to install spotlights, it’s difficult to fully appreciate these pieces unless you pick them up.”
Ellen hesitated. Mrs. Whittacker had said that even the small pieces of Fairylustre were appraised at more than two thousand dollars. What if she accidentally dropped it? Still, there was something compelling about the shimmering colors that made her want to touch them, and she longed to see the fairies up close. She picked up the bowl and turned it slowly around, examining each fairy. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“The full name is Wedgwood Fairyland Lustre,” Mrs. Whittacker said, “but it’s usually shortened to Fairylustre. It was made between 1915 and 1931.”
No wonder Mrs. Whittacker was excited about turning Clayton House into a museum. Treasures such as the silver fireplace, the carved banisters, and the Fairylustre should be displayed where people could enjoy looking at them.
Ellen laughed. “Look, Grandma,” she said and she pointed to the shoes on a flying fairy.
Grandma looked and laughed, too. She told Mrs. Whittacker, “I’ve always said Ellen needs fairy shoes.”
“I always wear out my tennis shoes on top,” Ellen explained. “I get holes in them, right over my big toes. Mom accuses me of walking with my toes pointed straight up.”
“Let me see the fairy shoes,” Corey said.
“They point upward,” Ellen said, as Corey bent over the bowl.
“Do you want to hold the bowl too, Corey?” Mrs. Whittacker asked.
Corey nodded. Ellen started to hand the bowl to him and then stopped. The bowl was suddenly cold and a damp chill spread up her wrists.
Ellen stared at the bowl. It felt like a bowl sculpted of ice, with a fan behind it blowing the cold air toward Ellen.
“It’s my turn,” Corey said, reaching for the bowl.
Ellen handed it to him but the feeling of cold stayed on her arms. She watched her brother carefully. He didn’t seem to notice anything unusual about the bowl. If he felt the cold, she was sure he would say something about it. Corey was not known for keeping still when anything unusual happened.
Corey held the bowl for only a moment. “You’d better take it back,” he told Mrs. Whittacker. “Sometimes I get the dropsies.”
As soon as the bowl was safely back on the shelf, the cold disappeared from Ellen’s hands. She waited a moment and then touched the Fairylustre bowl. There was no cold air, no icy feeling. Ellen jammed her hands in her pockets and stepped away from the shelves of Wedgwood.
“Let’s go see the pig,” Corey said.
“What pig?” Ellen said.
“Some king of Norway was murdered in a pigpen,” Corey said, “and that scene is going to have a real pig in it. Mom told me.”
“I think Corey’s more interested in the horror scenes than he is in fine old ceramics,” Grandma said.
“The pig won’t be here until the haunted house opens,” Mrs. Whittacker said.
Ellen wondered if the pigpen murder was the scene that wasn’t based on truth.
“The dining room is the only room of the mansion that won’t be made into a scene from history,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “Instead, we’ll display the Wedgwood collection and some of the finer pieces of furniture in here.”
The rest of the volunteers began arriving then and everyone assembled in what Mrs. Whittacker called “the second drawing room” to get their instructions.
As soon as they were seated, Ellen nudged Corey with her elbow and whispered, “Did you feel anything odd when you held that bowl?”
“Like what?”
“It seemed cold to me. And while we were holding it, I felt a cold wind blowing on my arms.”
“I didn’t feel anything.”
“Why did you give the bowl back so quickly?”
Corey shrugged. “I was afraid I’d drop it. And I wanted to see the pig.”
Ellen didn’t say anything else. She kept thinking of what Mrs. Whittacker had said about someone feeling the ghost’s presence.
Corey apparently had the same thought because he suddenly shouted, “Maybe it was Lydia!” Everyone turned to look at him.
“Shhh!!” Ellen said.
“What?” said Grandma. “What was Lydia?”
“Oh, nothing,” Ellen said. “Corey’s just telling me one of his stories.”
Grandma chuckled and the other people quit staring.
Corey whispered to Ellen, “Maybe the cold air you felt was really a ghost.” Corey’s eyes were wide and serious.
It made her nervous to have him say what she had been thinking. “It was probably just my imagination,” she said. “Old houses like this give me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Well, if you feel it again,” Corey said, “tell me so I can feel it, too.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “Don’t tell Grandma,” he said. “If Mom and Dad find out there’s a real ghost here, they might not let us do the haunted house. Maybe we should keep the ghost a secret.”
“We don’t know that there is a real ghost,” Ellen said. She did not point out that she wasn’t the one who shouted Lydia’s name to a roomful of people the second the idea popped into her mind.
“What are you two whispering about?” Grandma asked.
Corey and Ellen answered exactly together: “Nothing.”
Ellen wished she hadn’t told Corey about the cold feeling. He said he wanted to keep it a secret, but he always blurted out whatever came into his head. She wondered why she had felt the cold air and he didn’t. Did she only imagine it? She would have to be careful or her parents would think she was making things up, the way Corey does.
While Mr. and Mrs. Streater encouraged Corey’s imagination, they also worried that he would forget to distinguish between what was true and what wasn’t. Mr. Streater often said he thought Corey had the potential to be a first-rate writer—and also the potential to be a first-rate liar.
Perhaps, Ellen decided, a door had opened, causing cold air to blow across her hands just when she held the Fairylustre bowl. Yes, that must be what had happened.
The meeting began. Mrs. Whittacker explained to the group of volunteers exactly how the Historical Haunted House would work. Ellen tried to listen carefully but it was hard to concentrate when there were so many well-known people in the room. She recognized two sportscasters, several TV news people, the weatherman from Channel Five, and a woman who did a cooking show that Ellen’s mother sometimes watched.
A part of her mind kept thinking about the Fairylustre bowl and the cold wind.
Partway through the meeting, Ellen sensed that someone was watching her. When she glanced around, everyone in the room appeared to be looking straight at Mrs. Whittacker. Still, Ellen couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was staring at her.
You’re getting jumpy, she told herself, and the haunted house hasn’t even started yet.
When the general instructions were finished, each person was told which room his or her scene would be in. Corey’s scene was in the conservatory and Ellen’s was in the parlor. Maps of the mansion were distributed. Ellen couldn’t imagine living in a house so big that people needed maps to find their way around.
“Someone from the Historical Society will be in each room, to assist you,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “Please find your assigned room and go there now.”
“If you can find your own way,” Grandma told Ellen, “I’ll go with Corey to the conservatory.”
Ellen studied the map. The parlor and the conservatory were both upstairs, across the hall from the main dining room where all the Wedgwood was displayed.
“We’ll be in adjoining rooms,” she told Corey.
“Good,” he said. “You can meet Mighty Mike, too. I wonder what he looks like.” Corey seemed to have forgotten all about the ghost of Lydia Clayton.
As Ellen walked toward the parlor, she wondered who else would be in her scene. One of the newscasters? The weatherman? The cooking school woman? Ellen entered the parlor and stoppe
d in dismay as she saw which Historical Society member had been assigned to the Joan of Arc scene. Agnes Munset.
“Yours is the only scene with just one person,” said Agnes. “We all felt that extra actors would dilute the impact of watching young Joan burn at the stake.”
Ellen tried to hide her disappointment. She wasn’t going to work with a celebrity, after all.
“I’ll tie you to the stake each night,” said Agnes, “and I’ll start the machine that makes the fake fire. Then I’ll need to take care of other duties. I assume you know what you’re supposed to do.”
Ellen said, “I’m supposed to stand still and look saintly.”
Agnes nodded. “That’s exactly right,” she said. “Let’s try it once, to be sure everything works properly.”
Scenery flats, painted to look like shop fronts and crowds of people, loomed across the back and both sides of the room, making it look like the village square of Rouen, France, in the year 1430. In the center of the scene, a pile of sticks and branches waited. If it had not been for the small platform in the middle of the pile—and the rough hewn 2 × 4 going straight up from the middle of the platform—the scene would have seemed like preparations for a homecoming bonfire or some other town celebration.
On the back of the platform, not seen from the public viewing area, three steps led upward. Ellen climbed them and stood on the platform with her back to the stake. It rose several feet above her head.
“Cross your arms and put your hands on your shoulders,” Agnes said.
Ellen did.
Agnes tied Ellen to the 2 × 4 with rope. She wound the rope around Ellen, just below her shoulders, and again at the waist. Using another length of rope, she bound Ellen’s ankles to the stake.
“It should be loose enough that you can wiggle out if you need to,” Agnes said. “Of course, you shouldn’t do that when there’s an audience.”
Even with the rope fairly loose, it made her feel helpless to be lashed to the stake.
Agnes flipped a switch and Ellen heard a crowd shouting. The angry voices filled the room.
“Witch!”
“Heretic!”