The Haunting on Heliotrope Lane, Page 2

  Willa sighed, her downcast expression implying that she didn’t want to tell this part. “What’s really freaky is . . . she’s threatened to hurt me,” she said.

  “Hurt you?” Bess asked.

  “Like, beat me up,” Willa explained. “With her fists. Punch me, or kick me.”

  “Oh,” I breathed, surprised. “Has she ever . . . done that?”

  Willa shook her head. “Never before this—I mean, she would never hurt me. We’ve been best friends forever. We’re practically sisters. And even now, it’s more of a threat,” she said. “Like, ‘Stop doing that, stop asking that, stop talking about that, or I’ll hit you.’ And I usually stop whatever I was doing, because I don’t want to know if she’d really do it.” She paused, pulling her lips into a tight line and saying in a smaller voice, “She scares me.”

  I looked at Bess, George, and Ned. I hadn’t come to the movies looking for a mystery to solve, but this was really strange—and upsetting. “Have her parents noticed?” I asked. “She’s your age, right? She’d interact with them every day.”

  Willa nodded, her ponytail bobbing. “She does, but I really don’t think it’s happened in front of them. Even if it did, they’d just probably think it’s normal teenage angst or something. No one gives teenagers any credit.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” George said with a frown.

  Willa went on, her eyes shining in the dim light, “I’m just really worried about her. No one else seems to see how dangerous she’s getting.”

  “She’s acting . . . strangely,” Owen spoke up, adding, “She used to be kind of fluffy, goofy, but basically sweet, and now there’s a sort of darkness to her. I’m not sure what’s going on with her, but something is.”

  I took in a deep breath. “Strange,” I said.

  Bess looked from Willa to me, cringing a bit as she asked awkwardly, “I hate to say this, but . . . could it just be normal teenage stuff? I mean, there’s a lot of . . . things . . . going on when you’re Willa’s age. People change. It’s not exactly unusual for a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old to start acting all emo.”

  “It’s not emo,” Willa insisted. “It’s dangerous. The real Izzy would never hurt me, or anyone.” She shook her head, frustrated, and went on, “Look, I know how crazy this sounds. I know. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do about it. If I tell her parents, we’ll get in trouble for going to the house in the first place—and probably nothing else will happen, because, like I said, they’ll call it ‘teenage angst.’ I can’t go to the police—it’s not like she’s done anything wrong. And even if she had, I don’t want to get her sent to jail. I just want her back. I want to know that she’s okay.”

  When Willa finished, there was silence for a moment. She seemed 100 percent sincere—and I couldn’t find fault with her concern for her friend. If Izzy was really acting strangely, there was probably more to this case than we knew. Maybe I could help get to the bottom of it.

  I sighed. “We’ve worked haunted-house cases before. There’s probably a logical explanation,” I said, and I saw Willa’s face fall, so I quickly added, “But I guess I can at least check it out.”

  Just then a horrifying wail started up from the edge of the parking lot.

  “Whoooooooooooooooooo! Oooooohhh-woooowoooooooo!”

  I let out a scream so loud, if these ghosts were in fact dead, it should have woken them. And I wasn’t alone. Bess shrieked and knelt down, like being closer to the ground would save her somehow. Her hand was deep in her purse, digging for her pepper spray, I guess. George laughed nervously, beaming her flashlight in the direction of the wail. Willa screamed, and Owen jumped back. Ned grabbed my hand and started running a couple of steps back toward the street.

  But before we could really get anywhere, two teenagers stepped into the flashlight beam and began cracking up. They were both wearing polo shirts embroidered with the Riverside Cinemas logo. Actually . . . I sort of remembered the guy tearing our tickets.

  “Sorry,” the girl said, not looking sorry at all. “That was just our fun way of telling you that you need to leave the parking lot immediately. We’re closing up.”

  “Yeah, didn’t mean to scare you so bad,” the guy added, then cracked up even harder. The girl joined in, and they scurried off toward a white Mini Cooper way at the edge of the parking lot.

  Bess turned to me, the blood just beginning to flow back into her face. “You were saying?” she said. “Time to go? Packed House awaits.”

  “I think I just need to go home and go to bed,” I muttered, then remembered myself and smiled at Willa. “I’ll be in touch, okay? Can I get your contact info?”

  “Sure,” Willa said, handing me a small piece of paper. “There’s my e-mail and Owen’s cell. I don’t have my own phone yet, but he can find me if you need him to.”

  “Thanks.” I took the paper and put it in my pocket, turning to Ned and my friends. “Now let’s get out of here. I think I’ve had enough thrills and chills to last me a lifetime.”

  We began walking toward the car, and as we did, I heard Bess murmur under her breath, “I think you just took the wrong case, then.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Sound of Evil

  DING-DONG-DING-DONG-DING-DONG.

  I was startled from my OJ and oatmeal the next morning by someone leaning on our ancient doorbell. Hannah, our housekeeper, glanced toward the front door, then turned to me with a wry smile.

  “It’s for you,” she said, sweeping away my empty oatmeal bowl. “Would you like to let her in?”

  Her. There were only three people in my life who would come to my house uninvited and lean on the doorbell at eight a.m., and Hannah had just narrowed it down to two. Would it be the blond, bouncy one or the dark-haired, sarcastic one? As I approached the door, I could see the answer through the narrow lead-glass window—but she wasn’t looking terribly sarcastic today.

  Instead, George looked way jazzed.

  I opened the door a bit warily.

  She brushed right past me. “Sorry to come so early,” she said. “It’s just, I cannot stop thinking about Willa’s story last night! Do you think the house is really haunted? What do you think happened to that girl? I mean, what other explanation can there be? Right? Right??”

  I closed the front door, shaking my head. “Did you have coffee?”

  George’s eyes widened. “Better,” she said. “I had an espresso. From that place on Third Street where they roast their own beans? I told him I needed some energy, and he said he made it superstrong. Anyway, I think I have the perfect Halloween costume for this year. Tell me if you think it’s a good one: Mrs. Furstenberg.”

  She looked at me expectantly, and when I shook my head slightly, her face fell.

  “Too soon?” she asked.

  “Waaaaaaay too soon,” I said, walking past her to lead the way upstairs to my room. “Considering she died under mysterious circumstances and also, she might still be out there haunting kids?” I’d been researching Mrs. Furstenberg’s case late into the night and I felt—I dunno—almost protective of her.

  George followed me up the stairs. “So you do think the house is haunted!” she said excitedly. “Nancy Drew, Little Miss Realist! I can’t believe it! Willa’s story really convinced you, huh? Now you’re a believer!”

  We’d reached my room, and I sat down on my bed and pulled out my laptop. “I’m not sure what I believe, to be honest with you,” I admitted. “I was so tired when we got home last night, but I stayed up late doing Internet research. I just couldn’t help myself.”

  George sat down across from me in the big papasan chair next to the window. “I get it,” she said. “I’m fascinated too. Obviously. Anyway, what did you find out?”

  I rubbed my eyes and opened up the laptop, scrolling through the different websites I’d left up. “It looks like most of what Willa told us was true: Mrs. Furstenberg died of a heart attack and her son, Henry, is still missing. And the house, since Mrs. Furstenberg left
no will and her only heir is missing, was tied up in legal red tape for over a year and left abandoned. The estate was recently given to a distant cousin. The house is for sale, but it’s in such bad shape that no one is buying.”

  “Huh,” George said. “Someone does own it, then, technically.”

  “Right,” I said, “but she doesn’t live anywhere near River Heights, and doesn’t seem super interested in the house itself. That’s probably why kids are tromping through it left and right, freaking themselves out.”

  George nodded, looking thoughtful. I gazed out the window at the neat houses on our street.

  “It’s strange that Henry took off like that,” I said after a few seconds. “Especially if she really died of a heart attack. Why wouldn’t he want the house?”

  George followed my gaze. “The only thing I can think of,” she said, “is that something happened in that house that he doesn’t want to think about.” She suddenly sat up and shivered like she’d caught a chill. “Sorry. This is all very creepy.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, glancing back at my computer screen and shutting the laptop. “I don’t fully believe in ghosts, but it sounds like she had a pretty unhappy life. She and Henry didn’t get along, and nobody knew that much about her, which must mean she was lonely. She was found in that little sub-room in the basement, with the door closed. If someone was there when she died, it’s almost like they were hiding her body.”

  George raised her eyebrows. “Nancy,” she said, “are you going soft? If you don’t believe in ghosts, then Mrs. Furstenberg can’t be one. Period.”

  I sighed. “I know, I know,” I said. “I just . . . even though I don’t believe in ghosts, I thought it would be helpful to consider what her motivation might be, if she really were trying to haunt the house. Because maybe whoever really is behind this could be using that.” I paused. “And thinking about that makes me feel this weird connection to her. Put it this way: if anyone has a good reason to haunt, Mrs. Furstenberg does.”

  We were quiet for a moment, and then George tried to catch my eye. “So what’s next?” she asked. “If I know you, Nancy, you’ve already got a plan worked out.”

  “Sort of,” I said, remembering the rough plan I’d worked out last night. “I think the first thing we need to do is talk to Izzy.”

  “The supposedly possessed one?” George nodded slowly. “But the way she’s been acting,” she said, “at least according to Willa, she might not be open to talking to strangers.”

  “I agree,” I said, putting the laptop back on my desk and standing up. “That’s why we’ll have to be a little sneaky.”

  A few hours later, George and I stood waiting outside Izzy and Willa’s dance class with a clipboard.

  “What do we say again?” George hissed as the front door opened and Willa strode out—followed by a shorter girl with dark curly hair who I could only assume was Izzy.

  “Just follow my lead,” I hissed back, then raised my voice. “Excuse me! Ladies! Are you interested in getting free movie tickets for just a few minutes of your time?”

  Willa looked up and smiled, pulling excitedly at Izzy’s arm. I’d e-mailed her earlier to let her know George and I would be here to try to get some information from Izzy, and to explain how she could play along. So far, she was doing a great job. Izzy looked more hesitant but allowed Willa to pull her over in our direction.

  “How much of our time?” Izzy asked a little snootily, glancing behind her. “My mom is coming to pick us up soon, and I can’t make her late.”

  “Barely any time at all,” George said, smiling widely.

  “A minute tops,” I assured them. “We’re Tara and Gemma—we work for Spotlight Marketing. We’re putting together a trailer for a new horror movie aimed at teenagers, and we wanted to get your input about what scares you.”

  Willa raised her eyebrows. “Sounds cool,” she said, then bumped Izzy with her shoulder. “Come on, Izz, it can’t hurt to talk to them. Free movie tickets!”

  Izzy looked less sure, but she nodded. “All right. So long as it’s fast.”

  “Okay,” I said, picking up my pen and holding it over my clipboard. “Can I ask—which of the following scares you? Zombies, vampires, werewolves, or ghosts?”

  “Seriously?” Izzy asked, looking doubtful.

  “Zombies,” Willa said confidently. “And ghosts, definitely. What about you, Izzy?”

  Izzy looked at her friend. “Ghosts, I guess,” she said. “The rest of them, meh.”

  “Zombies don’t scare you?” George pressed. “They eat your brains. Do you watch that zombie show?”

  Izzy chuckled. “No, my parents would never let me. But I do really like scary movies.”

  “Okay,” I said, scribbling some pretend notes. “Have you ever had a personal experience with a zombie or ghost?” I turned to Willa.

  She laughed nervously. “Seriously? Um . . . no. I guess not. Not that I can prove. Although there was this . . .” She looked at Izzy and let out another nervous giggle.

  Izzy suddenly turned serious, though. Her eyebrows slanted down over sharp eyes. “What?” she asked.

  Willa nudged her friend with her shoulder again. “You know,” she said, then leaned in to Izzy’s ear, dropping her voice to a whisper. I couldn’t make out what she was saying anymore.

  Izzy’s eyes widened. “That has nothing to do with this,” she said sharply, then pulled away.

  “Um, maybe it’s sort of, tangentially related?” George said in a hopeful tone. I could tell she was trying to lighten the mood. “We’re not going to fact-check you or anything. I mean, this isn’t school. It’s scary movies!” She laughed.

  “Right,” I put in smoothly. “It couldn’t hurt to just share whatever your friend brought up. Could it?”

  Izzy glared at me. “Why?” she challenged. There was something hard in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. “So you can put it in your movie?”

  “The movie’s already made,” I said calmly, trying to ignore the weird feeling her hostility was giving me and channel my most professional “marketing associate.” “We’re just thinking about the trailer. . . . We’re not going to publicize what happened to you, honest. This is just a casual chat.”

  Willa looked nervously at Izzy, who was still staring at me in a not-very-friendly way, and then back at me. “There’s this house?” she said hesitantly. “On Heliotrope Lane . . . ?”

  I smiled encouragingly and touched my pen to paper, but before Willa could say anything more, Izzy broke in.

  At least, she looked like Izzy.

  “Shut up and don’t you dare tell them anything about it,” she said, but her voice was suddenly hoarse and five times deeper than it had been before. She reached out and grabbed Willa’s arm, squeezing so hard that her knuckles turned white.

  Willa let out a startled cry and Izzy let go at once, her eyes scanning the parking lot.

  “There’s my mom,” she said, her voice abruptly returning to normal. “We’d better go—she has a sales call this afternoon.”

  Before we could stop her, Izzy started walking away, toward a beige SUV where a curly-haired woman waved from the driver’s window.

  We turned to Willa, stunned.

  “Are you okay?” George asked.

  Willa was gingerly holding the arm Izzy had grabbed. It had an angry red mark where Izzy’s fingers had encircled her wrist.

  “I’m okay,” she said after a few seconds. “Just . . . startled. You guys heard that, right?” She looked from George to me, her hazel eyes serious.

  “We saw it,” I confirmed, then lowered my voice. “Willa, are you . . . okay to go with them? We could give you a ride home.”

  Willa looked at me blankly for a minute, then shook her head. “No. Thank you, but no, I don’t want her to think anything’s up. And nothing will happen with her mom there.” She paused, looking me in the eye. “But you’ll do something? Did you get enough information? You’ll try to figure this out?”

 
I nodded. The woman in the SUV was waving to Willa now, and Willa waved back and held up her finger to indicate just one minute.

  “You have my word, Willa,” I said, still feeling a little shaky from the surprise. “I’m going to look into what happened at the house on Heliotrope Lane . . . and we’ll figure out what’s going on with your friend.”

  “So what’s next?” George asked as we climbed back into my car. “How are we going to figure this out?”

  I didn’t answer for a moment while I concentrated on backing out of the parking space and turning the car onto the road.

  “Well,” I said finally, “I don’t think we exactly endeared ourselves to the victim.”

  “You can say that again,” George scoffed, glancing out at the row of stores we were passing. “I don’t think we’re going to get much more out of her. In fact, if she sees us approaching her again, I’m not sure what she’d do.”

  George’s features slackened as she stared out at the passing town, seemingly deep in thought. “You heard her voice change?” she asked, and there was an edge of fear in her voice.

  “I did,” I said. Much as I’d like to forget it.

  She shook her head. “It didn’t sound like her at all. It sounded like . . .”

  I shouldn’t say this, I told myself. I should try to reserve judgment. Keep an open mind. Stick to the facts . . . But I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Evil,” I said softly. “It sounded like a deep, dark hole. Like the absence of any feelings. If evil has a sound . . . that was it.”

  George looked at me, clearly surprised by my answer. But she nodded. “So what do we do?” she asked after a few seconds.

  I sighed. “Well, like you said, we’re not going to get much more out of Izzy,” I began. “So we’re going to have to check out the alleged perpetrator.”

  George raised her eyebrows. “And that is . . . ?”

  “The house on Heliotrope Lane,” I said, “and any ghostly inhabitants!”

  CHAPTER FOUR