The Haunting Hour (7 page)

“We…we…” The words caught in my throat. “We have to get
out
of here!”

“But—Mom and Dad!” Artie cried. “The man in the office—”

“It wasn't a man!” I shouted. “It was a
skeleton
!”

Artie's eyes narrowed on me. “Huh? That's
crazy
!”

My mind whirred. I took a deep breath and held it. My eyes searched the highway, one direction, then the other. No cars coming.

Where were they?
Where?

“We have to call the police. They'll help us. They'll come and
help us find Mom and Dad, and—”

“We can use the phone in the room,” Artie said.

The rain was coming down a little harder, splashing off the red tin roof, pattering over the gravel parking lot.

We burst back into our room. I grabbed the phone off the night table and raised the receiver to my ear. Silence. No dial tone. I pushed 0. Pushed 911. Nothing.

“There's no wire,” Artie said. He pulled the phone from my hands. “See? It isn't hooked up to anything.”

He tossed the phone onto the bed, and we ran back outside. I searched the parking lot again, praying that our car would be pulling in.

“Where
are
they?” Artie asked shrilly.

I ducked my head into the rain and led the way toward the highway. “We'll find a phone somewhere,” I said. “If they don't see us when they get back here, Mom and Dad will wait.”

My shoes crunched over the wet gravel. As I walked, a picture flashed into my mind. Last night. Mom with tears suddenly sliding down her cheeks. Mom saying, “You both have to be brave.”

What did she mean? Did she know they were going to leave us?

No way. Mom and Dad would never leave us.

Artie and I stopped at the edge of the highway. No cars coming in either direction. Shielding my eyes against the rain with one hand, I squinted to see the other side.

A long, flat green field seemed to stretch forever. And in the distance was a dark building, hazy in the gray light.

A farmhouse?

I placed one hand on Artie's shoulder and pointed with the other. “Maybe they'll have a phone we can use over there.”

Artie shivered. His blond hair and the shoulders of his sweatshirt
were soaked from the rain. “Let's go,” he said.

We jogged across the highway and into the grassy field. The ground was soft and marshy, and our shoes sank into the mud. I kept my eyes on the house in the distance. I saw several smaller buildings beside it.

I heard a rumbling sound behind us on the highway. Our car? I turned back and saw two large red-and-black trucks speed by. I sighed with disappointment and kept walking.

A cemetery appeared as if out of nowhere. Artie and I cried out in surprise. We saw gravestones set in six or seven rows, low in the grass. They were tilted and cracked. Some lay flat on their backs.

“Who would put a graveyard in the middle of a field?” Artie asked.

“Maybe it's where they bury people from that farm,” I said, pointing to the house in the distance.

He leaned down to try to read the words on an old stone. As he did, I heard a loud creaking sound, like a rusty door being pulled open.

“Artie!” I gasped as one of the old gravestones toppled over with a
thud
.

“Don't freak,” Artie said. “The rain made the ground soft. That's why it fell.”

I heard another long
creeeeak
. Another stone toppled over. My breath caught in my throat. I heard a low cracking sound. A large stone tilted forward, then slammed to the ground.

Artie jumped back to my side. “What's happening?”

“I—I don't know,” I said.

Then I saw the dirt fly up beside one of the fallen gravestones. And I heard a long, low groan. A groan from
under the ground!

Frozen to the spot, I saw the dirt crumble and shift in front of
another grave. And the tall gravestone toppled onto its back.

“
Ohhhhhhhh
.” Another groan behind me. A weak cry. And then another, a howl of pain from beneath the ground.

“This is crazy!” Artie gasped. “This is
crazy!
”

And then we were running. Running hard, our arms swinging at our sides, our breath wheezing from our open mouths. Running over the wet, muddy field, our shoes slipping, sliding…then suddenly I felt myself sinking.

I turned and saw Artie sinking too. His arms thrashed wildly, struggling to pull himself up. But the soft mud was already up to his waist, and he was going down fast.

“It—it's like quicksand!” he wailed.

Down, down. The mud felt so cold, so thick as it rose up over me. I kicked both legs and grabbed frantically at the ground, struggling to escape, struggling to stop sinking.

But it was useless. We were being sucked into a bottomless pit of thick ooze. We're going to
drown
in it! I realized.

“Tammi—do something! I—I can't stay up—” Artie's shrill cry was cut short.

“Hang on! Hang on!” I shrieked. The wet mud rose up to my armpits. My hands grasped furiously at the surface, and my fingers wrapped around a hard object. A tree root?

“Yes!” I squeezed it tightly in my hand. With a groan, I started to pull myself up.

It slipped out of my hand, and I sank back. But I grabbed it again—and pulled myself up…up…to the surface.

I carefully made my way to Artie. I grabbed his hands and pulled him free of the thick, oozing mud.

And then we were running again. Scrambling like mud crabs, the dark ooze dripping off us.

“Help us! Can anyone help us?” I screamed as we reached the old, brown-shingled farmhouse.

We were answered by a furious snarl from a dog. No. More than one dog, I realized. Sharp, angry growls.

“Dogs—over there!” Artie cried. He pointed to a low wooden shed behind the house.

“Anyone home?” I called, cupping my hands around my mouth. “We—we need help.”

I started to the front porch, but Artie pulled me back. “Those dogs,” he said, shouting over their angry howls. “Who would lock them up in a tiny shed? They can't breathe in there. They're calling for help.”

I pulled him back toward the house. “
We
are the ones who need help! Mom and Dad—” But Artie was already running toward the shed. No arguing with him when it came to dogs. With a sigh, I took off after him.

We reached the shed door at the same time. The dogs howled and raged, barking ferociously. Artie grabbed the door handle. I tugged his arm. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

He nodded. “These dogs are in trouble. I'm not afraid of them. Dogs always like us—remember?”

“Yes, but—”

He pulled open the shed door.

Two enormous black attack dogs—the size of panthers—teeth bared, eyes wild with fury, dove out at us.

I squealed—jumped back and dropped to my knees.

Artie covered his head.

The raging, snarling dogs seemed to hover in midair. Then they dropped heavily to the ground.

“They—they're chained up!” I gasped.

The dogs couldn't run out. The chains around their necks held them back. Now they lowered their heads and glared, still growling angrily.

And a man's voice behind us announced loudly, “I'M SORRY. YOU FLUNK.”

“Huh?” Artie and I spun around. We stared at a young man with slicked-back black hair and a deep tan. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, white shirt, and tie. He held an umbrella over his head, even though the rain had slowed to a drizzle.

I squinted at the small badge on his jacket. It read: OFFICIAL JUDGE. “Tammi and Artie, I'm afraid you just failed your test,” he said, shaking his head.

“No! Please!” I recognized Mom's voice. And then I saw both of our parents come running from the other side of the house.

“Please!” Mom cried. “Can't you give them another chance?”

“Yes—give them another chance!” Dad demanded.

The dogs growled behind us. The man lowered his umbrella. “Sorry. No second chances. They have failed.”

“But—but—” Mom sputtered.

“What is going on here?” I cried.

Dad sighed and shook his head. “All kids have to take car trips,” he told me, speaking just above a whisper. “It's a test. The government said all kids must be tested for bravery and intelligence.”

“But—why?”

“There's so little space left,” Dad said, lowering his eyes. “So little food. So little
everything
to go around. The government decided it had no choice. Only the bravest and smartest kids can survive. Only the bravest and smartest can…home home.” His voice broke.

Mom wrapped him in a tearful hug.

“You failed because you opened the dog shed,” the judge
announced. “You did okay with the graveyard frights and the quicksand. But then you should have gone into the farmhouse. You should have stayed away from the vicious dogs in the shed. Instead, you opened the shed. You showed you were brave—but not smart.”

He shook his head. “I'm so sorry. Your parents must return home without you.”

Mom burst into loud sobs. Dad was crying too.

“Wait—” Artie cried. “What if we prove we really
are
smart?”

I looked at Artie. Artie looked at me. I knew we were both thinking the exact same thing.

“It's too late,” the judge said. “Come with me.”

But Artie and I didn't follow him. Instead, we did something really
really
smart.

We grabbed the dog chains—and unleashed the attack dogs.

Growling and snarling, the ferocious dogs tore past us. (Because dogs always like us.) And they dove at the judge. Heaved him to the ground. Ripped at his suit, wrestling, tearing, snapping their jaws, sinking their jagged teeth into his skin.

“Okay! You pass!” He screamed, on his back, kicking and flailing, struggling to protect himself. “You both pass the test! You can go home! Just get them OFF me! Get them off!”

 

Of course, it was easy to pull the dogs off the poor man. Because dogs always listen to us. We saved his life, and he knew it.

After that, the ride home was a lot of fun. Very relaxed. Lots of jokes and kidding around. And Mom even did her famous folding-the-map routine again, which got howls from all of us.

Sure, there were some rough spots. A few pretty scary moments. But all in all, Artie and I had to agree, this was definitely our family's best car trip ever.

INTRODUCTION

ILLUSTRATED BY
R
OZ
C
HAST

I
don't like going into antique stores, because I know ghosts are lingering there.

I know that the old items on display are haunted by the ghosts of people who owned them. Look around the store…

The silver hairbrush is still held by the hand of the woman who brushed her hair with it so many years ago. The old leather chair isn't empty. There's the man who sat in it day after day, leaning his ghostly head against its soft back.

The antique jeweled beads rattle against the throat of their long-dead owner. And the wooden fire truck is still treasured by the ghostly children who played with it a hundred years ago.

Ghosts everywhere you turn.

I know. I can see them.

This is a story about a father who brings a beat-up old steamer trunk home from an antique store. And guess what is waiting inside….

D
ad found the old trunk
in an antique store and brought it home. The trunk was long and black and covered with dust. The top had a dozen dents and scratches, and the metal clasp was totally rusted.

“Amber, this is a great find!” Dad said.

I groaned. “Bor-ring.”

“But this will be perfect for the cruise,” he said. “Won't you feel cool boarding the ship with a real old-fashioned steamer trunk?”

“No way,” I told him. “It's so old, it will probably make my clothes smell horrible.”

But does Dad listen to me? Not too often.

He insisted on dragging the huge trunk to my room. It weighed a ton. I helped him set it down in front of the glass cabinet where I keep my doll collection.

Dust flew everywhere. I sneezed twice, but Dad didn't seem to notice. He was too busy struggling with the clasp.

He gave a mighty tug—and stumbled into the glass cabinet. The dolls all bounced on the shelves, as if they were startled.

“Be careful! My collection!” I shouted.

“I won't hurt your precious dolls,” Dad said. He started to the door. “I need a screwdriver.”

I reached across the ugly trunk to straighten the dolls. I have eight Barbies in my collection, four Jean dolls, a couple of American Girl dolls, and ten dolls that I bought just because I thought they were cute.

I'm twelve, way too old to play with them now. I only collect them.

But Kat, my eight-year-old sister, is starting her own doll collection. That's why I call her Copy Kat. She always wants what I have.

A few seconds later Dad was back, carrying a screwdriver and a claw hammer. He squatted in front of the old trunk and went to work on the clasp. He hummed to himself as he worked.

“Dad, I'm not taking this ugly trunk on the cruise,” I said.

“Let's just see what's inside,” he replied. He opened the rusty clasp. Then he made me help him lift up the lid.

“Yuck!” I cried out as a puff of sour, gray air rose up from the trunk like a dust cloud. I know it sounds weird—but the dust made a sighing sound as it escaped the trunk.

Holding my nose, I watched the cloud float up to the ceiling and disappear. “Dad, please!” I begged. “I'm
not
taking that trunk on the cruise! Close it!”

But he was already bending over the trunk, picking around at the bottom. “Wow,” he muttered. “Amazing!”

“What's amazing?” I peered into the trunk.

Dad picked up a stack of lace handkerchiefs. They were all yellowed. I saw a pair of old-fashioned black lace-up shoes. Dad lifted out a long gray pleated skirt. Everything looked a hundred years old.

“There's not much in here,” Dad said, studying the shoes. “It's as if someone had started to pack and stopped.”

“Maybe I could start a smelly-old-clothes collection,” I said. It was meant to be a joke. But he thought I was serious.

 

At dinner he was still talking about the old trunk. “It's a real treasure,” he told Mom. “Once I get it cleaned up, Amber will love it.”

“What's wrong with a nice
new
suitcase?” I said.

“People always take trunks on cruises,” Mom said.

“If Amber has a trunk, I want one too,” Kat chimed in.

I sighed. “I can't believe you're making me go on this trip.”

I know, I know. I sound like a real whiner. But last summer I
went to camp with Amy and Olivia, my two best friends. And I really wanted to go back to that camp again this summer.

I stared at my spaghetti. I hadn't taken a bite. “I'll be the only kid on the ship,” I grumbled. “Everyone else will be old geeks.”

“Hey!
I'll
be there!” Kat protested.

“You'll find someone to hang out with, Amber,” Mom said. “You'll probably make a lot of new friends.”

“Why can't we go on a
normal
vacation?” I whined.

“Eat your spaghetti,” Dad replied.

 

After dinner, I hurried upstairs to call Olivia. The musty, sour smell from the trunk greeted me before I stepped into my room.

I stopped at the doorway. The trunk stood open. I raised my eyes to the cabinet—and gasped.

My dolls!

When I left the room, they were standing or sitting in neat rows. Now they were sprawled in every direction. Tumbling off the shelves. Piled on top of each other.

I spotted two Barbies on the floor beside the trunk. Their heads were on backward. Another doll was propped on the top shelf
upside down!

Pressing my hands against my cheeks, I stared in disbelief. “Kat!” I screamed. “Kat—get up here
right now
!”

Kat came running up the stairs, followed by Mom and Dad. “Amber? What's wrong?” Mom asked.

“Kat messed up all the dolls!” I screamed.

“I did not!” Kat protested.

“Kat was downstairs the whole time,” Dad said. “Besides, she would never do something like this.”

“I didn't! I didn't!” Kat repeated.

“Well, somebody was up here!” I said. “
Somebody
did this! The cabinet doors are wide open!”

I felt Mom's hands on my shoulders. “Easy,” she said quietly.

Scratching his thinning brown hair, Dad turned to me. “I know what happened, Amber. When I bumped into the cabinet earlier, I must have loosened the doors and knocked over a doll.”

“But
all
the dolls have been messed up,” I said.

Dad frowned. “Well, if one doll falls, it could start a chain reaction, right?”

I stared at the dolls, tossed all over the place. It didn't look like a chain reaction to me.

But how else could it be explained?

 

It took forever to put the dolls back just the way I like them. Then I talked to Olivia for nearly an hour. When I told her about the dolls, she just laughed and said maybe it was an earthquake.

I tried to get Dad to take the smelly trunk out of my room. But he said he was too busy.

I'm usually a sound sleeper. But that night something woke me up in the middle of the night. A voice. A girl, whispering to me.

“
Take…me…with…you
.”

“Huh?” I jerked straight up, instantly alert. A chill froze the back of my neck. “Who's there?” I asked in a tiny voice.

I reached in the dark for my bed-table lamp and clicked it on. Blinking in the light, I repeated my question. “Who's there?”

No one.

I gazed around the room. The bed-table lamp cast long shadows over the floor. The old trunk was closed. I stared hard at it. The whisper seemed to come from that direction.

I clicked off the light and settled back on my pillow. I started to
think maybe I'd been dreaming—when I felt a blast of cold air and heard the whisper again.

“
Take…me…with…you—please
.”

The trunk! The voice had to be coming from the trunk!

“Who's there?” I shouted. “Where are you?”

The bedroom door swung open, and Mom and Dad came bursting into the room. “Amber—what's wrong?”

I sat up in bed, gripping the sheet between my hands. “A girl whispered,” I told them. “She whispered, ‘
Take me with you
.' ”

I could see right away that they didn't believe me.

“I heard whispers too!” Kat called from down the hall.

“Kat—go back to sleep,” Dad shouted.

Mom stepped up to me and smoothed my hair back tenderly. “You were dreaming,” she said. “You're nervous about the cruise. So you dreamed about it.”

“I'm not nervous about the stupid cruise!” I screamed. “Open the trunk. Her voice sounded as if it came from the trunk.”

Dad lifted the trunk lid. “Oh, yeah. There's a whole bunch of kids in here,” he said. “Having a party.”

“It isn't funny!” I shouted angrily.

“Go back to sleep,” Mom said. “Everything is okay.”

I let them go back to their room. I wasn't going to argue. I knew they wouldn't believe me no matter what.

I tried to fall back asleep but I was totally alert, listening…listening for the girl's whisper. Finally I buried my face in the pillow and forced myself to sleep.

 

Thursday morning I woke up before my alarm went off. I felt as if I hadn't slept a minute. Yawning, I made my way into the bathroom. I clicked on the light—and gasped.

I blinked at the words on the medicine-cabinet mirror. Words scrawled across the glass in red lipstick.

Take me with you
.

“Mom! Dad!” I shouted for them.

They were already having their breakfast. I heard the chairs scrape in the kitchen. They came running up the stairs.

“Look!” I pointed frantically at the scrawled words on the mirror. “That's what the girl was whispering! The same words!”

They poked their heads into the bathroom. I saw Dad's eyes go to the lipstick tube on the side of the sink. My lipstick tube.

Mom shook her head. “Amber, that doesn't prove anything,” she said softly. “Writing words on the mirror with your lipstick isn't going to convince Dad and me that the voice you heard last night was real. It was a nightmare. Everyone has nightmares.”

“
But I didn't write those words!
” I said.

“We know you're tense about the cruise,” Dad said, patting me on the head as if I were five—not twelve. “But you have to stop this.”

“We have to run,” Mom said. “We have to buy swimsuits for the ship. Amber, clean off the mirror and go to school.”

They hurried away. I listened to the door slam behind them.

My parents didn't believe me. But I knew the truth.

I ran into my room. I pulled on my clothes in two seconds flat.

My heart pounded like crazy. The voice last night seemed to come from the old trunk. Was the trunk haunted or something? No way I wanted to be alone and find out!

I was nearly out the back door when I felt a burst of cold air on the back of my neck.

And then I heard the whispers again.

A girl's voice. Right behind me. Right in my ear.

“
Take…me…with…you
.

“
Take…me…with…you
.”

 

I brought Amy and Olivia home with me after school. I really didn't want to be alone.

They made me show them the old trunk. When I pulled up the lid, I expected a hideous ghost to leap out at me.

But except for the old clothes we'd found, the trunk was empty. My friends agreed with me that it smelled disgusting.

“If you cleaned it up, this would make a good camp trunk,” Olivia said.

“But I'm not going to camp!” I wailed.

They both hugged me. I knew they really felt sorry for me.

“Hope you don't get seasick and spend the whole time barfing,” Amy said.

Wow. That cheered me up a lot.

 

That night at dinner I begged Dad to take the trunk back to the store. He said he'd try to get around to it, maybe Friday or Saturday.