Stacey and the Mystery at the Empty House

by Ann M. Martin

  “The Braddocks, the Barretts, the Pikes …” said Carolyn, counting on her fingers.

  “Don’t forget the Rodowskys!” Marilyn said. Then she hung up the phone. “Nobody’s home at the Kuhns’, I guess.”

  “Ohh, no,” said Kristy, under her breath, as the realization of what had happened sunk in. Practically every one of the BSC’s regular charges was now looking forward to a holiday sleigh ride, and every one of those kids might very well end up disappointed.

  But there was nothing she could do about it. All she could do was distract Marilyn and Carolyn, so that they wouldn’t do any further damage. “How about if you guys help me make the invitations?” she asked. Soon all three of them were working busily at the kitchen table, which was covered with glitter, scraps of construction paper, and crayons. They ended up with a pile of invitations, Kristy said, but she wasn’t sure how distracted the twins were. For one thing, they talked excitedly about the sleigh ride the whole time. And for another thing, every single invitation the twins made featured a carefully colored picture of a bunch of kids riding happily over the snow on a sleigh.

  While Kristy was over at the Arnolds’, dealing with the results of her big mouth, I was at the Johanssens’, busy with Carrot. My job there was going well for the most part, but I was beginning to learn a few things about house-and-pet-sitting.

  For starters, it’s a big responsibility. People are counting on you to take good care of things that are really important to them: in my case, a house and a dog. You can’t shrug off the job when you don’t feel like doing it, or put it aside until a more convenient moment. It’s like baby-sitting that way, I guess.

  I mean, Carrot could survive for an extra few hours if I didn’t show up right after school. He could use his dog door to go outside and “take care of business,” and he probably wouldn’t notice if his afternoon meal was a little late.

  On the other hand, the Johanssens were counting on me — and paying me — to give Carrot the attention he needs. Dr. Johanssen had explained to me that for most dogs, and definitely for Carrot, the most important thing in life is to be with people. Preferably the people you belong to, but in a pinch any old person will do.

  (The second-most important thing is food. Dogs are always hungry.)

  So I was very aware, all through my days at school, that Carrot was sitting at home in an empty house, watching and waiting for a human to come and pat him and play with him. That was why it wasn’t too hard to resist when Robert asked me to go out for a slice of pizza after school, or when Claud suggested we do some Christmas shopping together at the mall. I’d be tempted for just a second, and then I’d think of Carrot’s furry face wearing that quizzical “don’t you love me?” expression, and it would be easy to say no to my friends.

  Another thing I was learning about house-and-pet-sitting was that, while it was a fun thing to do for a little while, I wouldn’t want to do it all the time. It’s just not as much fun as being with kids. Yes, it was true that I could play tug-of-war with Carrot for what seemed like hours, without feeling too bored. But face it, dogs can’t talk. They can’t say funny things or tell you they love you or ask you for a hug, the way kids can. So, as much as I liked Carrot, I really missed sitting for humans — especially for Charlotte. (I was missing her a lot, since I was in her house every day.)

  And the last thing about house-and-pet-sitting? Well, it was this: I had thought that taking care of someone’s home would be interesting and fun. It might be like playing house; I expected to spend a certain amount of time hanging out there and fantasizing about it being my house. But it wasn’t really like that. Instead, what it was, was a little scary.

  Now, I’m not like Mary Anne, who gets spooked if you say “boo” to her in broad daylight. I can deal with watching scary movies or listening to ghost stories. I’m generally pretty brave about things like that. But you know what? Being in that empty house, all by myself, was really starting to make me feel jumpy. I had been just a tiny bit nervous whenever I was there, right from the start. But toward the end of the week, and on into the weekend, I began to feel more and more uneasy.

  And it wasn’t all in my mind.

  There were troubling things happening in that house; things that made me feel more than just a tiny bit nervous. But they didn’t start happening right away. In fact, right up until Thursday afternoon, everything was totally fine.

  I’d stopped by the Johanssens’ on Thursday morning before school. Carrot was delighted to see me, and as far as I could tell he’d been good during the night. Oh, there were one or two shredded Kleenexes on the bathroom floor upstairs, but other than that he hadn’t gotten into any trouble. I told him he was a good boy, took him for a walk, gave him breakfast, and promised I’d be back as soon as I could.

  By the way, the look he gave me as I left that morning could have melted a heart of stone. As soon as he saw me heading for the door, he put on this expression that told me, as clearly as if he’d said it, that he couldn’t believe I was going to leave him alone all day. His pleading eyes made me feel like the crummiest person in the world as I shut the door and tiptoed away. Fortunately, Dr. Johanssen had warned me about his “act,” and she’d assured me that as soon as I left he’d head for his bed, where he’d curl up and sleep for most of the day.

  Well, he probably spent some time sleeping that Thursday, but he was definitely awake and alert when I came back.

  Awake, alert, and growling.

  That’s right, growling. Carrot, the sweet-tempered dog I’d begun to think of as a pal, stood there at the door with the fur on his back all raised up, and growled at me when I let myself in that afternoon.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked him. I had shut the front door behind me, and now I kind of flattened myself against it. The growling sound was scary; I didn’t know what to expect. Carrot looked as if he meant business. “Carrot?” I said, surprised at how trembly my voice suddenly sounded.

  The second he heard his name, he seemed to relax. He looked at my face and I swear his eyes lit up when he recognized me. He sniffed my hand, probably to make sure it really belonged to me, and then gave it a little lick as if he were apologizing for growling at me.

  “It’s okay, boy,” I said, giving him a pat.

  He started to wag his tail — hard — and soon it was as if his whole body were wagging. He panted and grinned (really!) and jumped around in circles. “That’s the Carrot I know,” I said. “Ready for a walk?”

  He ran to the kitchen to fetch his leash, and I followed behind, checking for signs that he’d been chewing on things that day. I saw nothing out of order as we passed through the dining room, and the kitchen looked fine, too, when I gave it a quick glance.

  I clipped on Carrot’s leash and we headed outside. It was a nice day for December. The sky was blue and the air was brisk, but not too cold. Not cold enough to make me wish I’d worn my new coat, anyway.

  I let Carrot lead me wherever he wanted to go, and we ended up taking a fairly long walk all around the neighborhood. We ran into several people who seemed to know him, including the mail carrier. Carrot recognized her from half a block away, and pulled so hard on the leash that I thought I was going to end up being dragged along the street. When we met on the sidewalk, I found out why.

  “Hey, Carrot,” the mail carrier said. “How’s my boy today?” As she spoke, she was digging into her bag. Carrot stared intently at the bag, wagging his tail. When the woman pulled her hand out, there was a dog biscuit in it. Carrot sat down promptly and put out his paw.

  “I don’t even have to tell him to sit and shake anymore,” said the mail carrier, laughing. She tossed the biscuit to Carrot, who wolfed it down and looked up expectantly.

  “That’s all for today,” she said. “See you tomorrow, Carrot!” She smiled at me. “Dr. Johanssen told me I’d be seeing somebody new walking Carrot,” she said. “Have fun with him. He’s a good dog. And believe me, I see a lot of dogs. I know a good one when I see it.” Then
she hitched up her mailbag, gave Carrot a pat and me a wave, and headed on down the street.

  Carrot looked disappointed about not getting another biscuit, I thought. But soon he noticed a squirrel on a nearby lawn and seemed to forget about the mail carrier.

  Back at the Johanssens’, I fixed Carrot’s dinner, scooping the food out of a big bin inside the basement door and adding the protein powder, which the Johanssens keep in the fridge. Soon Carrot was standing over his food, eating it in gulps. I went over to the sink to wash the spoon I’d used to scoop out the powder, and that’s when I noticed something strange.

  There was a glass in the sink, a tall juice glass. It had a small amount of water in the bottom: melted ice cubes, maybe.

  I know, I know. What’s so weird about a glass? Well, nothing. Unless it’s a glass that you didn’t use and that wasn’t there the day before — and you’re the only person who’s been in the house.

  I stared at it, bewildered. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it had been there all along. Or else maybe I had used it, and forgotten.

  Anyway, it wasn’t that big a deal. I gave the glass one more glance and shrugged. Then I went through my nighttime routine with Carrot. I made sure his water dish was full, showed him where Mister Manny-Man was hiding (under the dining room table), and gave him a scratch behind the ears. “See you tomorrow,” I said. He gave me that sad look again, but I knew he’d be fine.

  He was, too. But over the next few days, weird things kept happening every time I went to the Johanssens’.

  On Friday morning, I noticed that the coffeemaker was warm. (I had shoved it aside to make room on the counter for Carrot’s water dish, which I had just rinsed out.) I didn’t wonder too much about that, though. I figured maybe it was on a timer, like the lights that were rigged up to go off and on.

  Then, on Friday afternoon, I saw some crumpled Kleenexes in the wastebasket near the TV cabinet in the living room. I could have sworn I’d emptied all the wastebaskets after Carrot chewed up those Kleenexes the day before. And when I went to find Carrot’s leash, it was missing. Finally I found it — or, rather, he did — on the hook by the back door. I was sure I’d put it on its regular hook, but I guess I hadn’t.

  I know these things don’t sound too creepy by themselves, but all together they were beginning to give me the willies. Something strange was going on in that house, and I wasn’t so sure I wanted to know what it was!

  On Saturday morning, the house seemed normal — except for a slight smell of toast lingering in the kitchen. I took Carrot for a really long walk, since I knew I’d be rushing when I came back later that day. (I had a date with Robert that evening, and I wanted plenty of time to figure out what to wear.)

  Carrot always seemed happy to see me, and he never growled at me again. And I liked him a lot, too. Maybe house-and-pet-sitting was an okay job after all. True, the weird things that had been happening were making me nervous, but then again, I was fairly certain that nobody had broken into the house or anything. I decided to try to relax and enjoy the job for the next week.

  My resolution to relax and enjoy lasted for exactly one day: Sunday. For that one day, everything seemed normal at the Johanssens’. I got there a little late on Sunday morning, but Carrot was waiting patiently. There were no empty glasses in the sink and no Kleenexes in the wastebaskets. The Sunday paper had arrived, and after I’d walked and fed and played with Carrot, I sat down in the living room to read the comics. I was so relaxed at the Johanssens’ that morning that I actually dozed off in the big easy chair. Carrot, who was lying on the rug nearby, dozed off, too.

  I woke up first and sat quietly for a moment, savoring the dream I’d just had about Robert and me on the beach at sunset. I love dreamy dreams like that.

  Then I heard a whimpering sound, and I looked down at Carrot. His eyes were shut tight, but his legs were twitching and he was whining. “Oh, my lord!” I said, putting my hand over my mouth. It looked as if Carrot were having some kind of fit. I reached out to touch him. “Carrot?” I said. “Are you okay?”

  He stopped twitching and whimpering as soon as I touched him. Then he opened his eyes, looked up at me, and gave a huge pink yawn. That was when I realized that he must have been dreaming, too. I laughed out loud with relief. Carrot jumped up and ran to get Mister Manny-Man, and we spent the next half hour playing tug-of-war.

  (Later that day, when I called to ask her about it, Kristy assured me that Carrot probably had been dreaming. “Louie used to do that,” she said, talking about her last dog, a collie who died not too long ago. “I always thought he was dreaming about chasing rabbits.”)

  Anyway, things were fine at the Johanssens’ that Sunday morning, and nothing weird happened when I went back that evening, either. Monday morning was fine, too. I had almost forgotten about being creeped out the week before.

  But then, on Monday afternoon, something happened that made all those feelings come back. And what followed on Tuesday morning only made me feel more uneasy.

  Here’s how it began: On Monday, after school, I headed straight to the Johanssens’. I had already stopped at the mailbox to pull out the mail, and I was standing on the front porch, doing my usual “find-the-key” routine, when I heard a rustling in the bushes to my left. I guess I wasn’t all that relaxed, because as soon as I heard the noise, I got this shivery feeling all over and I felt the little hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up.

  I peered through the latticework of the front porch, telling myself to calm down. “It’s probably just a squirrel or something,” I muttered to myself.

  “Wrong!” called out a cheerful voice. “I’m small, but not that small.”

  My eyes widened as I watched a petite, slim woman with a mass of curly red hair climb out of the bushes near the corner of the house. “Don’t worry,” she said, with a smile. She must have noticed the horror-stricken look on my face. “I was just reading your meter.” She held up a clipboard.

  “Ohh,” I said, letting out a huge breath. “The meter. Right.”

  “I love your house,” said the woman. “It’s definitely the cutest one on my route. Have you lived here long?”

  “Um, no,” I said. My heart was finally beginning to beat at a normal speed. “Actually, I don’t live here at all. I’m just house-sitting.”

  The second the words were out of my mouth, I knew I’d said the wrong thing. I could have kicked myself.

  The whole point of having a house-sitter is to make it look as if somebody’s home when, in fact, nobody is. And here I was, blabbing to a total stranger, telling her that the Johanssens were away. For all I knew, she was some criminal who was casing the joint for a big robbery.

  “I mean,” I said, trying frantically to think of some way to take back what I’d just told her, “the owners are around — they might be back any minute, even — but I’m kind of watching the house, just to be on the safe side.” I stopped short and blushed. I could tell by the way she was looking at me that I had been babbling. What I had just said probably made no sense whatsoever.

  “Anyway,” I said, trying to act normal, “is everything okay?” I gestured toward the meter.

  “Oh, sure,” she said. She tucked her clipboard under her arm and turned to go. Just then, I heard a horn honking from around the corner. The woman frowned and tossed back her hair. “That’s Joe,” she explained, looking back at me and rolling her eyes. “My work partner — and also my husband. He gets a little impatient sometimes.” She heaved a sigh. “Take my advice and never get mixed up romantically with somebody you work with.”

  “I won’t,” I promised, just to say something. Then the honking started up again, and the red-haired woman gave me a little wave and trotted around the corner.

  I watched her go. Then I shrugged, stuck the key in the lock, and opened the Johanssens’ front door. Carrot was waiting just inside, sitting alertly with his ears up, as if he’d been listening to my conversation with the meter reader. “Hi, Carrot,” I said, giving him a pa
t on the head. He wagged his little tail and poked his wet snuffly nose into my hand.

  I gave a quick glance around the downstairs — what I could see of it from the entryway — and saw that everything seemed to be in order. “Ready to go outside?” I asked Carrot.

  As always, that question made him very happy and very excited. He ran off to find his leash and returned within seconds, dragging it along behind him. I clipped it to his collar and followed him out the door.

  Instead of pulling me straight across the street as he usually did, Carrot headed around the corner. It was almost as if he wanted to check something out.

  As soon as we turned the corner, I found out what Carrot was after. There was a white van, facing toward me, parked on the side of the street. A green-and-blue symbol was painted on its front and side, and two people were sitting in it: a man with dark hair and a mustache, and a woman with — you guessed it — a head full of red curls. My meter reader. The two of them were just sitting there in the van, talking. Well, to be honest, they were fighting. From where I was standing, I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but I could tell by the tone of their voices that they weren’t exchanging compliments.

  “Come on, Carrot,” I said, tugging him back toward our usual walking spot. I didn’t like standing there staring at the people in the van, even though I was pretty sure they were too busy arguing to have noticed me.

  But Carrot wasn’t listening to me. He was interested in that van, and nothing I said or did was going to keep him away from it. When I spoke, he just laid his ears back as if to say, “I can’t hear you,” and when I tugged on the leash he planted his feet and tugged back even harder. I’d never realized before just how strong a dog can be, especially one as stubborn as Carrot.

  “Okay, okay,” I said grudgingly. I let him lead me down the sidewalk. As we approached the van, I tried not to look at the people in it. I didn’t want them to think I was poking my nose into their business. I also tried to put this look on my face that said “walking this way wasn’t my idea.” Carrot, meanwhile, pranced closer and closer to the van.