The Peculiar Incident on Shady Street Read online

  “I don’t really know; I’m just glad I found them. But can I . . . would it be okay if I made a suggestion about the way things run around here?”

  Mom nods, a huge grin spreading across her face. This is right up her alley—me making suggestions for the household. Taking charge of my destiny, or so she calls it. Mom loves it when I step up and get involved, and this time, I’m going to.

  “I really think I need a phone. If I’d had my own phone, the whole boxes thing wouldn’t have been a problem because I would have just called or texted you. Leaving notes isn’t a very reliable way to do things anymore.” I stop and take a breath, my gaze landing on her face so I can gauge how she’s handling my request.

  “But we do still have the corkboard,” she responds, setting the box in her arms down. “I just haven’t gotten around to unpacking it yet. That would be a central place for us to leave messages, right?”

  I roll my shoulders. “I guess, but it isn’t the same. I’m making friends here now, Mom. Andrew and Nina . . . and Richie. They’re nice and I want to be able to talk to them outside school, but it’s hard because we’ve only got the one house line and I know I shouldn’t tie that up.”

  The question I really want to ask is perched on the tip of my tongue. Mom has always seemed so against mobile phones, but she’s never told me why. I run through a list of possible reasons in my head. It is because of radiation? Monthly bills? Annoying ring tones?

  “Why do you hate phones so much?”

  Laughter bursts from her mouth, surprising me. “I don’t hate phones!”

  Tilting my head to the side, I do my best impression of Andrew when he’s skeptical. “Are you sure? Because it seems like you do.”

  Mom shakes her head. “I don’t hate phones; I hate the way they interfere with our experiences. Here’s an example: say you go on an amazing vacation, like to the fjords in Norway. A lot of your friends would spend most of their time taking pictures and posting them to social media, then waiting for likes and comments. They wouldn’t actually be experiencing the moment. The beauty. Anything.”

  “So you’re afraid that if you give me a phone, I’ll stop appreciating our vacations and trips and stuff?”

  Mom rests a hand on my shoulder. “No. I’m afraid you’ll forget how to appreciate them without other people telling you they’re worth appreciating. Does that make sense?”

  I nod, finally understanding. Mom once told me she sees a story in everything. A lopsided sand castle at high tide might look terrible but could have been built by a future architect. A small blob of jellyfish glistening in the sand might seem harmless but could be more dangerous than a vial of poison. A rainbow might be the brightest one you’ve ever seen but could be the result of a hurricane. Mom sees the stories, then uses them to decide what she wants to paint—it’s part of what makes her such a good artist! I think she wants me to do the same . . . to experience the world, not just snap a picture of it and hope I hit a hundred likes.

  “Maybe we could meet in the middle,” I say, thinking out loud. “What if I get a phone so I can stay in touch with my friends but don’t put any social media on it?”

  Mom goes quiet. She doesn’t look upset or angry, though, just thoughtful. “I’ll talk to your father about it. Okay?” She gives me another quick squeeze and drops a kiss on my forehead. The smell of lavender washes over me. “But no promises.”

  No promises. That’s better than no. I’ll take it.

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” Her eyes light up suddenly and she reaches into the pocket on her chunky sweater and pulls out a light pink envelope. “It’s from Rachel. So nice to see you guys staying in touch like this. I don’t know why people gave up writing letters to each other. They’re so much more thoughtful than a phone call.”

  I take the envelope and run my fingers over Rachel’s loopy handwriting. She’s drawn little hearts around my name and smiley faces in all the os. Sliding a finger under the edge, I start tearing. When Mom and Dad first told me we were moving, I was afraid Rachel would replace me. I thought it would kill me if she made a new best friend and they did all the things we were planning to do together without me. I’m beginning to realize I was wrong.

  As the words inside Rachel’s card come into view, I smile. I still don’t want her to replace me, but I’m starting to realize that can’t happen. You can’t replace people. No matter how much I grow to love Andrew, Richie, and Nina, they’ll never replace Rachel. I remember the song my mom used to sing to me when I was tiny—

  MAKE NEW FRIENDS, BUT KEEP THE OLD.

  ONE IS SILVER AND THE OTHER IS GOLD.

  A CIRCLE IS ROUND; IT HAS NO END.

  THAT’S HOW LONG I’M GOING TO BE YOUR FRIEND.

  So crazy that she used to sing me that song way before she knew I’d ever need it. But I’m glad she did. Because it all makes sense now.

  33

  Hi Rachel!

  Wow. Congrats on getting the lead in the school play! That’s awesome. And with your voice, you’re going to be the best Mary Poppins they ever had. I’m sorry I didn’t write you sooner BTW. Crazy stuff here still.

  But the ghost thing is going better. Casper isn’t really Casper at all, but a little girl named Inez. Sometime if you come visit me (please?), I’ll show you everything I’ve learned. Trust me, though . . . it’s spooky. If it weren’t for Andrew, Nina, and Richie I probably would have tried to walk back to Florida by now!

  Love,

  Tessa

  My brain has officially quit working. It’s Sunday morning and even though I should be sleeping in, I’ve been awake and staring at the secret drawings for over two hours. I’ve memorized every angle, every line, every little speck of shading in them. Unfortunately, it hasn’t helped. I’m still just as confused as I was before.

  What if I never figure this out? The thought worries me. Inez woke me up and led me to the loose brick in the middle of the night for a reason, and I don’t think it was so she could prove that the house inspector was crummy. It was because she’s trying to tell me something. I hope I don’t let her down.

  I’m just about to give up when something dawns on me. The window in the bedroom drawing isn’t square like most windows are. It’s oval. Oval windows are rare, like brick walls on the inside of a house. Lucky for me, I’ve seen one before. Here. On Shady Street.

  The spare bedroom!

  Leaping off my bed, I head down the hall. The spare bedroom is where we’re storing the stuff that doesn’t have a place here yet. I haven’t spent more than five minutes in there since we arrived, but I didn’t think it mattered because there’s nothing but boxes in there anyway. Maybe that’s what Inez was trying to tell me; maybe there is something in there.

  Rounding the corner into the spare room, I stop short so I don’t fall over a cluster of cardboard. The room is almost completely filled with boxes. Big boxes, small boxes, long boxes, and short boxes. How do we even own this much stuff? Hurdling the first wave of them, I plant myself directly in front of the oval window and then lift the drawing into the air for comparison. Jackpot! It’s identical. I’m in the right place. I have to be!

  Sitting down with my legs crossed, I spread out the second drawing on the floor. Yup. Still looks like a music box. I briefly wonder if there could be a music box somewhere in this room, then tell myself I’m being crazy. The only stuff in here is our stuff, and we don’t own a music box.

  Unless . . .

  My gaze flits to the small door on the other side of the room. It’s the same door I grilled Dad about when we first moved in, the one that’s so small and warped it looks like a troll could hobble out of it at any moment.

  “What is that?” I asked, lowering a bag of bedsheets to the floor.

  “It’s for storage. A lot of older houses have them.”

  “Storage?” I snorted. “It’s so small! What, was it made for elves or something?”

  Dad laughed and said the door was deceptive. That there was probably much more space behind i
t than it seemed. Then he reminded me of how old this house is and promised that once everything was unpacked, we’d pry open the door and see if there were any treasures inside. I wasn’t expecting to find anything in there before, but now I’m not so sure.

  Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I walk over to it. The door is so short that the top barely comes up to my waist. Bending down, I grip the knob and give it a tug. It doesn’t budge. No wonder Dad said we’d have to pry it open. It’s sealed shut.

  My brain swims with questions. Was the door sealed on purpose or did people just accidentally paint over it year after year? And how long has it been since someone opened it and looked inside? Too long, I decide. For all I know, it’s filled with spiders and spider eggs and all kinds of disgusting spider stuff.

  I hate spiders.

  “All right, all right. Spiders or no spiders, I’m coming in,” I mutter, kneeling down. Using the scissors Mom cuts packing tape with, I carefully start chipping away at the seal, smiling at the paint chips that begin raining down to the floor. It’s working! When it finally looks like most of the seal is broken, I grab the knob and pull as hard as I can. This time a sharp crack echoes out over the room and the door flies open. I tumble backward, landing on my butt and completely flattening a box that says MEMORIES on the top. Oops. Hopefully Mom took a “mental picture,” as she calls it, because whatever was in this box is a goner.

  Crawling off the mound of broken cardboard, I immediately bring my arm up over my nose. An old, musty smell has wafted into the room. It reminds me of my grandma’s basement.

  I drop down onto my hands and knees and peer into the black space. Even without much light, I can tell there’s something in there. Something big. Fear grips me. Suddenly the idea of spiders doesn’t seem so bad. Holding my breath, I shove my hand into the opening and start feeling around. An icy draft rips through the room, making my teeth chatter.

  She’s watching me.

  “Is this right?” I ask in a shaky voice. I’m so scared that it’s hard to make words come out. “Am I close? Please. Tell me I’m close!”

  My hand finds something hard in the darkness. I drag the item out into the light. It’s a wooden box. A crate, actually. The top is covered with a blanket, and there’s black writing on the side that says BASEMENT FINDS. Basement? There isn’t a basement in this house; underneath the first floor is a garage.

  Ahhhh. Right. It wasn’t always a garage. Dad told me that the basement was dug out several years ago to make the garage. This box must have been stuff the owners found when they cleaned it out!

  Gently, I begin removing the blanket that stretches across the top of the crate. A cloud of dust billows into my face. Well, that answers one question. It’s been a very long time since someone opened that door.

  My breath catches as I stare at the crate’s contents. There’s a weathered-looking metal toy on the top. It’s rusted out in several places and has one of those windup thingies sticking out of its side. Packed just under the toy are a stack of old postcards, a pair of tin cups, a brass doorknob, and . . .

  Every muscle in my body stiffens. The last object in the crate is a box. A music box.

  34

  “NO WAY!” NINA BREATHES OUT, rotating the music box in her hands so she can examine it from every angle. I used my mom’s phone to call her as soon as I pulled it from the crate, and then she called Andrew. Thanks to their trusty Schwinns, I was sneaking them in our back door less than ten minutes later. Guess they must’ve talked their way out of family day after all. “This is incredible. And definitely old. Where was it again?”

  Guilt gnaws at me. Even though I think I did the right thing by following Inez’s clues alone, I feel bad about it. I feel even worse that I wasn’t brave enough to open the music box alone.

  “In the spare room storage closet.” I watch Nina carefully hand the music box to Andrew. This is it. I have to show them the drawings. I reach behind the crate and grab the roll. The twine dangles from it limply. “I’m guessing that when the basement was cleared out to be made into a garage, the owners didn’t even really look at this stuff. They just tossed it into a crate and dumped it in there.”

  “Amazing,” Nina says, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you found it!”

  “Yeah. Well, there . . . uh . . . there were some hints that I might find it there.”

  “Hints?” Andrew asks. “What kind of hints?”

  The truth spills out so fast I barely think about what I’m saying. “I was sleeping and there was this sound and then the loose brick and the drawings and one was of an oval window and—”

  “Whooooa,” Nina says, cutting off my rant. “Sounds? Loose brick? Oval window? You aren’t making any sense.”

  Andrew sets the music box down on the floor between us. He stares at me pointedly. “The ghost showed you how to find this?”

  I nod.

  “When?” he presses. His tone isn’t angry or accusing. It’s worried.

  “Four days ago, on Wednesday.”

  Nina gasps. “Four days ago? Why didn’t you tell us about it?”

  “I think she wanted me to follow the clues alone. She led me to this.” I point at the box, nervous all over again about what’s inside.

  “So you followed the hints and found this box. Then what?” Andrew prompts.

  “I got scared.”

  It feels even worse to admit it than I thought it would. Truth is, I’ve been scared a lot since the haunting started. Scared of the sounds at night, scared of the changing painting, scared of Reno. But the thing I think I’m most scared of is looking like a coward in front of my new friends. Nina is . . . well, Nina. She’s smart and kind and brave. And Andrew is more than just a soccer player with cute freckles. He’s the best friend I have here.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, running a finger along the delicate flowers carved into the corners of the music box. A single tear paves its way down my cheek. I brush it away, embarrassed. “I wanted to surprise you guys by solving this whole thing, but I couldn’t. I need help.”

  Andrew scoots over closer, smashing me into Nina. He slings an arm around both of us. “Is it mean to say I’m glad? I mean, we’ve come this far—together. It would’ve kinda sucked if you’d figured it out without us, Florida.”

  “I second that,” Nina adds. Her normally tousled hair is braided tightly down her back today, and her research journal is resting in her lap. Her eyes land on the drawings in my hand. “Are those the clues that led you to the closet?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Unrolling them, I spread them out. “This is a drawing of the spare bedroom. It looks different and all because there’s boxes there right now instead of furniture, but I recognized it from the window. And this—” I tap on the second drawing. “This is of the music box. See the flowers?”

  Nina holds the drawing up to the music box. “I’m impressed.”

  “With the drawings?” I ask.

  She laughs, rolling her fishbowl eyes like I’m nuts. “No, Tess. With you! These weren’t easy clues to figure out.”

  “I agree. This is crazy,” Andrew adds, examining the drawings. “Where did you say they were hidden?”

  “Behind a loose brick in the wall in our living room.” I remember the sound that woke me up that night—the concrete clink of the brick sliding back into place—and shiver. “She woke me up to look back there. I’m sure of it.”

  “Wow.” Andrew rubs the back of his neck. He looks awed. “Not gonna lie, Surfer Girl, I would have probably chickened out!”

  Warmth creeps over my cheeks. I did almost chicken out. A bunch of times! I’m so glad I didn’t. I’m also glad I waited to open the music box with them. Even though it was embarrassing to admit that I was scared, this feels right. Good.

  “So the mystery is solved.” Andrew brushes his hands together like he’s getting dust off them. “Inez was an artist. That’s why she’s haunting you.”

  “Meh, not so fast, Sherlock. We still haven’t figured out how t
he statue vanished, why there was no Inez Clarke in the census, or what she wants. Plus, there’s this.” I flip the drawings over to reveal the letters on the back. “I. B.”

  A rush of air escapes Nina’s lips. Her face is pale, her eyes impossibly wide. “Ohhhhhh, no.”

  “What? Oh, no, what? What does I. B. mean?” Andrew looks from the drawings to me, then back again.

  “Don’t you see?” Nina asks him. “This only complicates things more! Yeah, the pictures tie the ghost to this house. I mean, she couldn’t have drawn the spare bedroom unless she’d seen it before, right? But the initials on the back don’t match up. We’ve been focused on Inez Clarke all this time, and these letters might mean that whoever drew the pictures had a last name that begins with B.”

  “Maybe they aren’t initials,” Andrew offers. “Could they mean something else? International bananas. Interstellar bacon. Impressive bologna.”

  “Interstellar bacon?” I deadpan, fighting the urge to laugh. “Are you crazy, Andrew?”

  He clutches his gurgling stomach. “No. Just hungry.”

  I form a circle with my hands and reach out as if I’m going to strangle him, but Nina stops me. Lifting the music box off the floor, she holds it out for me to take. “Open.”

  “Me? Why me?” I ask.

  “Oh, gee, I don’t know. Maybe because it’s your ghost?” she teases. “C’mon, Tess. If the ghost really led you to this music box, we need to know what’s in it.”

  She’s right. I can’t go on like this forever—looking over my shoulder, sleeping on the couch, digging around in the walls. It’s time to end this.

  I crack the lid of the music box. A soft, metallic tinkling sound echoes out. Music. “Oh my gosh . . . it works.”

  Andrew and Nina huddle closer. This is what I wanted, what I needed. Even though I’m the one opening the box, they’re here with me. Supporting me. If Inez herself were to spring out right now, I think we could handle it.