Horror at the Haunted House Read online

  Ellen gasped.

  Two transparent hands floated up from inside the large black urn that was the oldest piece of Wedgwood in the Clayton collection. They were a woman’s hands with tapered fingernails and they looked absolutely real, except that Ellen could see right through them.

  Slowly the hands drifted toward Ellen. The fingers were outstretched, the way the hands of the woman in the mirror had been, as if the owner of the hands were begging.

  Ellen took another step backward. The hands followed. They floated toward her, the fingers rippling slowly.

  Ellen tried to speak, to tell the hands to go away, but her mouth felt glued shut. She felt like a statue, fastened in concrete to that spot in the floor, unable to move or speak.

  “Entertaining and appealing, with lively and believable [characters].”

  —School Library Journal

  BOOKS BY PEG KEHRET

  Cages

  Don’t Tell Anyone

  Earthquake Terror

  Horror at the Haunted House

  I’m Not Who You Think I Am

  Nightmare Mountain

  Searching for Candlestick Park

  Terror at the Zoo

  PEG KEHRET

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers,

  345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd., Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd., 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd., 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published in the United States of America by Cobblehill Books,

  an affiliate of Dutton Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Books USA, 1992

  Published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc., 1994

  Published by Puffin Books,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2002

  Copyright © Peg Kehret, 1992

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE COBBLEHILL EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Kehret, Peg.

  Horror at the haunted house / Peg Kehret.

  p. cm.

  Summary: While acting in a “haunted house” featuring interesting deaths in history,

  Ellen is contacted by the ghost of a former resident who seems to be protecting

  the collection of antique Wedgwood dishes on display there.

  [1. Ghosts—Fiction. 2. Haunted houses—Fiction. 3. Wedgwood ware—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  Pz7.K2518Ho 1992 [Fic]—dc20 92-7901 CIP AC

  ISBN: 978-1-101-66170-3

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that

  it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise

  circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover

  other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

  including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Special thanks to

  Myra Karp of Wedgwood World, Seattle,

  and to Daisy Makeig-Jones

  FOR BRETT MICHELLE

  OCTOBER 31, 1989

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  About the Author

  Chapter

  1

  Hey, Ellen! I’m going to have my head chopped off!”

  Over the din on the school bus, Ellen Streater recognized her younger brother’s voice. She peered through the window. Corey waved and ran along the sidewalk.

  Ellen’s best friend, Caitlin, nudged Ellen with her elbow and muttered, “I’m glad he’s your brother, not mine.”

  As the yellow bus wheezed to a stop, Corey yelled again. “I’m going to have my head chopped off!”

  Ellen was used to her brother’s fanciful stories but she wished he would wait until she got home. As she stepped off the bus, she heard her classmates snickering.

  Corey danced with excitement. “It’s going to happen in a haunted house,” he said. “Mr. Teen is going to chop my head off with a big knife.”

  The bus rumbled away. Ellen started down the sidewalk toward home with Corey bouncing beside her. “You sound awfully happy for someone who’s about to be murdered,” she said.

  Corey giggled. “I won’t really get my head chopped off,” he said, “but it will look like I do. There’s a big wooden contraption with a rope and a fat sharp knife and Mr. Teen wears a black hood with only his eyes showing. I get to put my head on a wooden block and then Mr. Teen lets go of the rope and all the people watching will think the knife cut off my head. There’s even going to be fake blood.”

  “Exactly who is this Mr. Teen?” Ellen said.

  “He’s Grandma’s friend. She told me all about it.”

  Ellen raised her eyebrows. Grandma’s friend? Corey’s stories ordinarily did not include real people. Was he telling the truth, for a change? Or at least his garbled version of the truth?

  “Are you making up a story?” she said.

  “No! Grandma fixed it so we could get killed in the haunted house.”

  Ellen stopped walking. “WE?” she said. “Am I supposed to get my head chopped off, too?”

  “Oh, no,” Corey said. “You get tied up and burned at the stake.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  Ellen saw her grandmother’s car parked in the Streaters’ driveway. She hurried inside, gave Grandma a quick hug, and said, “Would you please tell me what’s going on?”

  “How would you like to participate in a Halloween haunted house?” Grandma said.

  “That depends on whether I come out of it dead or alive.”

  Grandma laughed. “I don’t think Mrs. Whittacker would ask you to do anything dangerous.”

  Mrs. Whittacker was Grandma’s best friend. She had no grandchildren of her own so she frequently baked cookies for Ellen and Corey and always gave them a small gift on their birthdays.

  “Mrs. Whittacker is President of the Historical Society and her group is renovating Clayton House, the mansion that was donated to the city. It’s a gorgeous old house and Mr. Clayton also donated the furnishings. There are antique music boxes, hand-carved tables and chairs, an extensive collection of Wedgwood, stained-glass lampshades—I could go on and on. The Historical Society plans to turn the mansion into a museum, with the Clayton treasures on display, but they need funds in order to get the house ready for public viewing.”

  “So they’re making it into a haunted house,” said Corey. “And we get to be in it. We’ll be famous! Maybe we’ll get our picture in the paper.”

  “It’s being called the Historical Haunted House,” Grandma said. “Each room will be a horrible scene from history, and people will pay to take the tour. Many local celebrities are donating their time to act as characters in the scenes. They’ll reenact the duel between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr in 1804 and the stabbing of Julius Caesar and . . .”

  “Who were they?” said Corey.

  “You’ll need to find that out,” said Grandma, “if you want to enter the
prize drawing. All of the scenes except one will be historically accurate. When people finish viewing the haunted house, they can write down which scene is not based on fact and all the correct answers will be entered in a drawing. The prize is one hundred dollars. There will be twenty scenes in all—even a medieval torture chamber.”

  “Are you sure Mom and Dad will let us do this?” asked Ellen. A stabbing and a torture chamber did not sound like the sort of event her parents would normally approve of.

  “I called your mother,” Grandma replied, “and she said it is OK with her if you want to help, since the scenes are authentic. You’ll get a history lesson and the money is for a good cause.”

  “Tell her about my part,” Corey said. “Tell her about me getting my head chopped off.”

  “Corey will be Prince Rufus, who was beheaded at the age of ten,” Grandma said.

  “I get to scream,” Corey said. “Loud.” His eyes sparkled. “Tell her about Mr. Teen,” he said.

  “Who?” said Grandma.

  “Mr. Teen. The one who’s going to wear a black hood and chop off my head.”

  Grandma looked confused for a moment and then started to laugh. “Not Mr. Teen,” she said. “Guillotine. That’s the name of the instrument with the knife. The man in the black hood will be Mike McGarven.”

  “Mighty Mike?” said Corey. “The D.J.?”

  Grandma nodded.

  “Wow,” said Corey. “I’m going to meet Mighty Mike. Wait till Nicholas hears this.” He picked up the telephone and began punching his friend’s number.

  Ellen didn’t blame Corey for being excited. Mighty Mike was a popular disc jockey, known for his wicked sense of humor. Lots of kids listened to his program every Saturday, when he played the Top Ten songs and made jokes about them. Corey should have a wonderful time acting in the haunted house with Mighty Mike, and Corey’s buddy, Nicholas, would surely be impressed.

  “Corey says I’m going to get burned at the stake,” she said.

  “That’s right,” said Grandma. “You’ll be Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans.”

  “I’ve heard of her,” Ellen said, “but I don’t remember exactly what she did. Was she the one who heard voices and led the army into battle?”

  Grandma nodded. “It should be one of our best scenes. You’ll wear a long gown and be tied to the stake and the flames will leap around your bare feet.”

  “Oh, goodie,” said Ellen.

  “You won’t really get burned, of course. They do everything with mirrors and tricks and optical illusions.”

  Corey hung up the phone. “The line’s busy,” he said.

  “Who else is in my scene?” Ellen asked.

  “I don’t know. Mrs. Whittacker didn’t say.”

  “That’s all I do? Just stand there?”

  “And scream,” said Corey.

  “There’s a meeting of all the volunteers,” Grandma said. “You’ll be told then exactly what you’re supposed to do.”

  “Maybe a movie producer will come,” Corey said, “and he’ll see me get my head chopped off and he’ll hire me to scream in a horror movie.” He raised his arms, with his hands like claws, made a horrible face, and lurched around the room.

  “Mom and Dad won’t let us go to horror movies,” Ellen said, “so I doubt if they’d let you be in one.”

  Corey quit lurching. “They might, if I got paid thousands of dollars.”

  “The Historical Haunted House will be open from seven to ten for five days before Halloween,” Grandma said, “so it will take quite a lot of your time. On Halloween night, it will be from six to midnight.”

  “I have to miss trick or treat,” Corey said. “But it will be worth it.”

  Ellen agreed to help at the haunted house. It would be fun, especially if she got to work with a celebrity like Mike McGarven. She could hardly wait to tell Caitlin. Ellen had never met anyone famous and she was quite sure none of her friends had, either.

  Mrs. Streater came home then and heard all the details. While Grandma (and Corey) talked, Ellen wondered which celebrity would be in her scene.

  “We get to scream,” Corey said again. “Ellen screams while she burns and . . .”

  “I don’t think Joan of Arc screamed,” Mrs. Streater said. “She prayed.”

  “Well, I get to scream while they chop off my head. The louder, the better.”

  “Just don’t scream after you’re supposedly beheaded,” Grandma said. “Once the blade drops, you must lie completely still and be quiet.”

  “That’ll be a first,” said Ellen.

  “It should be quite an event,” Mrs. Streater said. “With so many radio and television personalities participating, the haunted house is certain to get lots of publicity.”

  “Mrs. Whittacker thinks the Historical Society will raise all the money they need to rewire the mansion,” Grandma said. “We also hope that when people realize how many unusual items are in Clayton House—the furniture and the Wedgwood collection and all the rest—they will want to come back when the museum opens to see everything when it’s properly lighted and displayed.”

  “What if the magic trick doesn’t work right,” Corey said, “and Ellen really catches on fire? The people watching would think Ellen’s screams were part of the act. What if nobody untied her and . . .”

  “Stop it,” Ellen said, “or you’ll really get your head chopped off.”

  “Nothing will go wrong with the magic tricks,” Mrs. Streater said. “A real fire would be too dangerous; it will be a fake fire.”

  Ellen went to the kitchen to get a snack. As she took the first bite, Corey screamed—a shrill, bloodcurdling shriek that lasted several seconds.

  Ellen jumped and dropped her banana. Prince, the Streaters’ dog, whined and ran into the living room, sniffing the floor.

  Ellen heard Grandma say, “Land’s sakes, Corey! You scared me half out of my skin.”

  “Just practicing,” Corey said.

  “This family,” said Mrs. Streater, “will be the death of me.”

  “Next time,” said Grandma, “warn me before you practice.”

  Better yet, thought Ellen, don’t practice at all.

  “The orientation meeting is next Saturday morning,” Grandma said, as Ellen returned. “I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock. Mrs. Whittacker said if I bring you to the meeting, we can come early and she’ll give us a personal tour of the mansion before the others arrive.”

  Ellen was glad to hear that Grandma would be there, too. Corey didn’t mean to act up in public but he was so unpredictable. She never knew what he would say or to whom. If Ellen was going to be introduced to a lot of TV stars, she didn’t want her little brother embarrassing her by making up one of his stories—or by deciding to practice his screaming in the middle of the meeting.

  Chapter

  2

  Ellen peered through the windshield, eager for her first glimpse of Clayton House.

  “I’ve driven past the Clayton property dozens of times,” Grandma said. “I never thought I’d be on this side of the iron gates.”

  The long, curving driveway wound past a fountain. Water sprayed ten feet into the air while a sculpted cherub danced in the mist. Flower beds overflowed with gold and rust chrysanthemums; ducks and geese swam lazily on a pond.

  “It’s like a park,” said Ellen.

  “Forty acres,” said Grandma.

  “There’s the house!” yelled Corey.

  Grandma parked the car and they all gazed at the mansion.

  As Ellen looked at turrets, gables, and several different kinds of chimneys, she felt a quick pang of apprehension. Clayton House seemed grim and unapproachable.

  “It will be a perfect haunted house,” said Grandma.

  A porch with fancy pillars wrapped itself around the front of the house and a matching porch hugged the left side of the second story. A small balcony with an ornate wrought-iron railing extended from an upper room on the right side.

  Grandma said, “Either the
architect had a restless imagination, or else the house was designed by committee. The back doesn’t seem to match the front and the sides are completely different from each other.”

  “I wish we lived here,” said Corey. He pointed to the room with the balcony. “I’d take that room so I could sleep outside all summer.”

  Despite the parklike grounds, Ellen was glad she didn’t live in Clayton House. But Grandma was right—it would be a great haunted house.

  Mrs. Whittacker met them at the door. She led them into the great entry hall, where a huge staircase curved upward, its banisters intricately carved to resemble swans and cherubs. Sunlight streamed through a large stained-glass window, painting colored designs on the polished wooden floor. The walls were of wood, too, and all were carved in various designs.

  “Samuel Clayton made his fortune in lumber,” Mrs. Whittacker said. “When the mansion was built, his lumberyards were right next door.” She waved her hand at the decorative woodwork. “He was one of the first to use steam-powered woodworking machinery. Previously, this sort of thing had to be done by hand. The machines made it so easy that Mr. Clayton got a bit carried away. He used fine wood throughout the house. Rosewood. Mahogany. Even satinwood.”

  “I never heard of satinwood,” Ellen said.

  “It’s an East Indian tree.” Mrs. Whittacker pointed to a yellowish-brown panel. “This is made of satinwood. Feel it.”

  Ellen touched it. The wood felt smooth and rich.

  “Where do the wedge trees grow?” asked Corey.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The wedge trees. That the Wedgwood comes from.”

  Mrs. Whittacker managed not to laugh as she explained that Wedgwood is a fine earthenware, made by the Wedgwood Company in England.

  “You mean dishes?” Corey said.

  “That’s right. You’ll see the Wedgwood when we go upstairs, including some pieces which were made in the eighteenth century.”

  “Some are two hundred years old,” said Grandma.

  “Even older than you,” said Corey.

  “The Wedgwood collection is worth more than $200,000,” said Mrs. Whittacker.