The Secret of the Painted House (3 page)

And then she noticed the brush. It lay on one corner of the cloth. An artist’s palette lay beside it. The artist might have just put them down.

The palette held all the colors of the picture. Red and green. There were lots of shades of green. Blue and yellow and white, too.

Emily’s finger itched. She wanted to pick up the brush and add something to the picture.

Not that she could paint like Pin’s mother.

But that’s when she saw her. A girl was
painted into the picture, too. She peeked from behind a big tree. That’s why Emily hadn’t noticed her before.

Her blond hair fell over her shoulders in two fat braids. She wore a sailor dress. It was blue with white piping and a red tie.

“Are you Pin?” Emily asked the picture.

She didn’t get any answer. She didn’t really expect an answer.

The girl in the picture looked as if she wanted to speak, though. She looked as if she wanted to say, “Who are you? What are you doing in
my
playhouse?”

“I’m Emily,” Emily told her. But then she took a step backward, away from the wall. It was silly to talk to a picture.

Besides, she had to go. Logan had probably pulled up every violet in the clearing by now.

She wouldn’t come back here again. This place gave her the creeps.

She was climbing through the window when she heard her name.

“Emily,” a voice said. It was as clear as if it came from someone standing right behind her. “Emily! Please, come back!”

E
mily spun around. She stood still, trying to catch her breath. Then, slowly, she eased back inside the playhouse.

She didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t run away. Why would anyone run from a picture?

Or a voice. Where had the voice come from, anyway?

She looked in every direction. There was
no one. Real trees outside. Painted trees inside. The real playhouse. The painted playhouse. And, of course, the girl in the picture. Emily had seen her behind one of the trees. Which tree was it?

Emily looked at one painted tree, then another. The girl simply wasn’t there.

She looked around wildly. She hadn’t made a mistake. The girl had been there. She had been behind that tree … the one to the left of the playhouse.

And now there was nothing. Just a patch of crushed grass where someone might have been standing.

Farther back, a bit of red poked out from behind another tree. It looked like the hem of a skirt blowing in the wind. But the girl hadn’t been wearing red.

A chill crept up Emily’s spine. The skin at
the base of her skull felt bunchy and tight. She turned, once more, to leave.

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. She had only imagined seeing the girl in the painting. She had imagined someone calling her name, too.

She wasn’t leaving because she was scared. She had to get back to Logan. It was important to get back to Logan!

“Emily!”

This time the voice came from another side. Emily jumped. She whirled to face the painting on that wall. And there the girl was. She stood in full view now. She was inside the painting, but in front of the trees.

“Yes,” Emily said. She tried to sound calm. Still, her voice shook.

“Come here. Come in here with me,” the girl said.

“I … I don’t think I can,” Emily said. “I mean, you’re … and I’m—” She stopped. Was it polite to remind someone that she was dead? Or only a picture? Which was it, anyway?

The girl laughed. “Never mind that,” she said. She crooked a finger. “Come on in.”

Said the spider to the fly
, Emily thought. But she said, “How?” Had she missed some kind of door into the wall?

“Just close your eyes,” the girl said.

“Close my eyes,” Emily repeated. Her eyes refused to close. She went right on staring at the girl. “Then what?”

“Just close them,” the girl said again. “Tight. Then come here to me.”

Emily forced her eyes shut. She took a step toward the wall. A small one.

“Come on,” the voice begged. “Don’t
think about the wall. Think about the picnic we’ll have.”

Picnic
, Emily thought. She took another step. She could feel something. At least she thought she felt something. It bumped against the toe of her sneaker. Another step and her face would be smunched into the wall.

“Keep coming,” the voice urged. “You’re almost there.”

Emily took a deep breath and another step. Then another. Then one more.

Everything around her went still.

Her eyes flew open.

She wasn’t inside the little playhouse any longer. She was among the trees. The painted trees. And the girl stood right in front of her, grinning.

“You made it!” she cried. “You’re here!”

“Am I really inside …?”

“Inside the picture? Of course you are. You’re in my world now. And you’re going to stay!”

That startled Emily.
You’re going to stay.
She hadn’t said anything about staying. But she would worry about that later. Now she asked a more important question. “Are you Pin?”

The girl’s grin widened. “Sure thing. That’s my name. ‘See a Pin and pick it up …’”

“‘All the day you’ll have good luck,’” Emily finished for her.

The grin faded. Was Pin annoyed that Emily knew her little rhyme?

“‘See a Pin and let it lay,’” the girl added, “‘bad luck will follow all your day!’” The rhyme was beginning to sound like a threat.

Emily took a step backward. She bumped into a tree. She put a hand behind to catch
herself. The bark felt … well, it felt painted.

What would Pin feel like if Emily touched her? Would she feel painted, too? Emily didn’t want to find out.

Pin’s eyes were sparkling again. They were an icy blue. “Come on,” she said. She began threading her way through the trees.

At first Emily stood there, watching Pin go. She wasn’t sure she wanted to follow. But she didn’t want to be left behind in the picture, either. She hurried to catch up.

“Is anyone else here?” she called after Pin. “Does anyone else ever visit you?”

Pin shook her head. “Just you,” she answered. She didn’t look back. “No one else has come for a long time.” She kept up a steady pace.

So other people had visited. Probably long ago. “What happened to them?” Emily called
after Pin. “To the others who came, I mean.”

Pin said something Emily didn’t quite hear. It sounded like “They got away.”

“What?” Emily called. She stopped walking. Her throat had gone tight.

Pin turned back and spoke more clearly. “They went home,” she said.

Was that what she had said the first time? Still, she said it so matter-of-factly. Emily began walking again.

She followed Pin into the painted woods.

P
in stopped in front of the playhouse. Emily stopped beside her.

I’m inside the picture
, Emily told herself. But it was hard to believe. The painted playhouse stood before her. It seemed solid and real.

It seemed as solid and real as the one she had broken into. But here the blue and white paint was fresh. No padlock held the door
shut. The front window was unbroken.

Emily peeked inside. These walls were covered with trees, too. The trunks were like bars on a cage. Was Pin in this picture? Was she inside the cage of trees?

If she was, Emily didn’t want to meet her. She had a feeling that one Pin was enough.

She turned back to the Pin beside her. “I left my little brother,” she said. “He’s picking flowers. I can’t stay.”

It was true. She had left Logan alone too long. What if he wandered off and got lost?

“You
can’t
go!” Pin spoke so sharply that Emily jerked.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because …” Pin glared. Was she angry? Or was she just determined to get her way? “Because you’ve got to have a picnic with me first.”

Emily almost laughed. Almost. But she looked at Pin’s face and didn’t. The girl was serious.

Pin came closer. She glared harder. “I’ve even got stuff for s’mores,” she said.

“Uh … sure.” Emily loved s’mores. Who didn’t? What about Logan, though?

But what could happen to Logan? He called this a forest. Really, it was only a small patch of woods. Even a four-year-old boy couldn’t get lost in it. And how many people had ever had a picnic inside a picture?

Still, Emily wasn’t sure. Were they going into this wall, too? It was one thing to step inside a picture. But to step into a picture inside a picture?

“Come on,” Pin said. And she turned to leave.

Emily followed, relieved. She followed Pin
outside to where the picnic waited for them.

The red and white cloth lay on the grass. There were hot dogs, mustard and ketchup, and pickles. There was potato salad, too.

The makings of the s’mores that Pin had promised were there, too. Marshmallows sat in a pile next to graham crackers and chocolate bars. But where had the graham crackers and chocolate bars come from? Emily hadn’t seen them before.

Off to one side, a tepee of small sticks waited to be lit.

The only thing missing was the artist’s palette and brush. Where had they gone?

Pin picked up a stick. She poked it into a marshmallow. “For you,” she said. Then she handed the stick to Emily and pointed toward the unlit campfire.

The stick felt odd in Emily’s hand. It was
smoother than a twig from a tree should be. And it had no weight. She looked at the unlit campfire.

“Are you going to light it?” she asked.

“No!” Pin answered. She said it sharply, her face suddenly pale.

“Why—” Emily started to ask.

But Pin broke in. “No fires.”