I paused on the porch to read the unsteady, hand-carved message cut deep into the upper frame of the front doors. The words were weathered and had obviously been there a long time.
What kind of lousy message was that? The only reason anyone would say such a thing was if they were already at the edge of hopelessness—which meant it was definitely too late.
Kind of like my life.
Gabrielle must have thought I was far enough away that I couldn’t hear her over the gentle patter of rain. “How is she doing?” she said, dropping the professional facade. There was only sincere concern in her hushed voice now.
Aunt Victoria gave a long, weary sigh. “Truthfully? I’m not sure. She’s still putting up a front, trying to pretend everything’s going to be fine for my sake. I haven’t seen her cry even once since the accident.”
She hadn’t seen me because I didn’t want her to. I was good at crying without making a sound. I’d had lots of practice.
“Was it a nice funeral?” Gabrielle asked.
I didn’t want to hear any more. Redistributing my bag’s weight on my shoulder, I lurched up the front stairs and entered the brooding darkness of the museum without a backward glance.
Chapter Two
Most of the museum’s interior lights were turned off for the night. The stormy twilight that filtered through windows high above cast everything in dingy gray shadows. Gusting winds picked up outside, sighing and moaning against the glass like lost souls desperately seeking entry.
Just inside the doorway sat an empty welcome desk with a cash register. The receptionist’s name plaque read MS. SARAH COOKE in official bold letters. Ms. Sarah, I liked that. It had a cozy, friendly sound.
At the far end of the welcome desk sat an old mason jar with a screw-on lid and some kind of foliage inside. It reminded me of the containers Mom used to fix up for Benji to catch butterflies when he was little. I looked closer and noticed a small push button hidden along the decorative ridges on the lid. I set down my belongings and pressed it. Instantly the plant inside the jar lit up like a Christmas tree, its leaves covered with twinkling plastic fireflies. They almost looked real, with their abdomens flashing slowly on and off. I stared into the jar, mesmerized by the silent message the tiny fireflies seemed to be sending out into a dreary world.
Here I am! Here I am! Come find me.
I pushed the button a second time and watched the battery powered fireflies disappear into the shadows of the fake foliage—nothing but a mere secret once more.
Benji would’ve loved it. His room back home was full of useless gadgets just like it. Soon all that stuff would be boxed up and put into storage so the house could be sold.
No. I was done with thoughts like that. I’d suffered enough for today. I forced my attention to focus on the rest of the room instead. A gloom-ridden grand staircase swelled up to the second floor like some fabulous prop from Phantom of the Opera. Art Nouveau furniture and paintings adorned the walls and matching scrollwork decorated the ceiling. The place was crawling with the decorative style, like some sort of turn-of-the-century architectural disease. Then there were the dolls. In individual cases, on shelves, in large curio cabinets, under glass domes—and that was just the entryway. The open rooms at either end of the building revealed even more displays stretching endlessly into the rest of the museum.
Noticing a map hung on the east wall, I left my bag by the welcome desk and went over to take a look. The rooms all had titles like, Dollhouse Room, China Doll Room, and something called the Postmodern Doll Room. Whatever that was. According to the map, I now stood outside the Victorian and Edwardian Doll Room.
I stepped through the open double doors and quickly discovered—yep, you guessed it—more dolls. Big porcelain beauties in brightly colored ball gowns, little china dolls the size of my thumb, and even one really ugly doll with deep cracks in her face and patches of hair missing. I blinked through the glass at the hideous thing, scanning the card propped beside it and squinting in order to make out the words in the murky light.
Poured wax dolls, like this one, were quite popular in the mid-nineteenth century. Though easily damaged over time, wax gave a doll’s skin a realistic, translucent look that no other materials of the time could mimic.
I grimaced down at the sadly dilapidated doll, trying to decide whether or not I’d seen her fractured face in some horror film years ago—and if I should be slightly more concerned about this possibility then I actually was. Maybe I was too numb to care anymore.
The longer I stood staring at that gruesome doll, the more I couldn’t help but see the cracks as signs of something more than just a broken toy. This doll had been handled at some point or another, otherwise it wouldn’t be cracked. Even though it was badly damaged, someone, somewhere, decided to keep and preserve it. Why? Did the doll contain memories too valuable to destroy? It might look more than a little disturbing, but it was also a mystery that fascinated me just as much as it repelled me.
Rain continued to rattle against the windows. The reflection of the raindrops dripping down the glass cast strange shifting shadows over the dolls in their unlit cases. The stormy twilight outside barely gave enough light to see by.
What was keeping Aunt Victoria? Were she and Gabrielle really still outside getting soaking wet under that stupid umbrella? They were probably talking about me and didn’t want to be overheard.
A soft, barely audible sound crept through the room. It came from nowhere and everywhere all at once. A whisper of air stirred as the house seemed to pause a moment, sighing sadly to itself. I froze, every muscle straining for stillness.
It came again. Slightly louder this time. My heart pounded causing my pulse to ring in my ears almost blotting out the wisp of sound.
Swisssss.
Instinctively I cocked my head to one side, trying to figure out which part of the room the soft noise came from.
Swisssss. Scrape, scrape. Swisssss.
Beautiful blank faces and glass eyes stared back at me every direction I turned. At least a hundred years’ worth of high-society ball gowns were laid out before me like a forest of miniature fashion models.
Or an army of Chucky dolls.
Okay, now I was concerned. If any of those dolls budged even an inch, I was so sleeping in the car tonight.
“That especially goes for you,” I hissed at the creepy doll with the cracked face.
Swisss-swass. Scrape.
Wait! That sound didn’t come from the dolls. It came from the wall on the right side of the room.
Okay, Wren, there are several possible things that could make a noise like that, I reasoned with myself. Unfortunately, none of those possibilities was something I wanted to get up close and personal with. But if I ran away, I would never know what was in there. I’d think about it day and night and wonder—never knowing. Not knowing really sucks. Especially when ghosts might be involved.
Drawing a deep breath, I took a few tentative steps toward the wall. The noise stopped dead—almost as if it heard me. I continued to tiptoe closer, listening carefully.
What did I hear?
A whole lot of nothing.
I did smell something, though. Like the lingering scent of stale wood smoke caught in your clothes after a camping trip. Or once smoldering ashes quickly gone cold.
Planting my hands on the wall at shoulder height, I slowly pressed my ear against the wall and waited. The wooden panels felt oddly moist and cool, almost clammy to the touch, which ruled out the possibility of a hidden fire. As the silence stretched out longer and longer, my heart began to slow its erratic pounding. Standing there, fingers spread, palms flat, with my head resting against the wall, I felt strangely connected with the house, like a doctor listening for a heartbeat. I could almost imagine Kensington House breathing slowly in and out. A great, slumbering giant dreaming of bygone days.
A sudden rustle of movement inside the wall made me twitch in surprise. The continuous patter of rain against the windows outside mad
e it hard to properly make out the sound.
Swisssssss.
It was like a heavy bundle of cloth being pulled through an extremely small but hollow space. I felt little vibrations as something bumped against the wall on the inside, cautiously feeling its way along. The wood beneath my fingertips turned suddenly cold as the sound increased in volume, coming closer. My unease returned, hovering in the middle of my chest. Whatever it was inside there didn’t feel right. It was cold and icy. It was—
SWISSSSS—scrape.
“That would be the resident mice.”
I whirled around too fast, smashing my shoulder against the wall. The paneling rattled beneath the weight of impact. I winced in pain, knowing from experience the nasty sort of bruise I’d find there tomorrow. The kind that didn’t go away for a very long time.
“Sorry, sorry.” A man who looked like he might be in his late twenties held up both hands apologetically in the air before him.
The unflattering, bulky uniform he wore couldn't quite hide the tall, lean workman’s build hidden underneath. If not for the wildly curly blond hair, long overdue for a trim, I might even have said he wasn’t bad looking—for a guy old enough to be my uncle.
“I didn’t mean to startle you like that,” he said in a nervous sort of way. “With these heavy work boots I thought for sure you must have heard me clunking up behind you,”
I rubbed my sore shoulder a moment before answering. “It’s not your fault. I was too distracted to notice.”
“I’m Matt. Matt Kutler. Day-time security guard and part-time handyman.” He grinned and offered me one of his dirt-streaked hands. Not sure what to do, I stared down at his soiled fingers. His filthy fingernails, I noted, were chewed down to the quick. Seeing my hesitation, Matt flushed bright red, withdrew his hand, and started wiping it half-heartedly against one leg of his pants. It didn’t improve things any.
“Wren Chasswell, right? Your aunt phoned ahead to let us know you were coming.” Matt shoved his hands into his pockets to hide them from sight. Poor guy. I hadn’t meant to make him feel self-conscious about it.
Social grace—not one of my many talents—probably never would be.
“My last name is Farrow, actually, Wren Farrow,” I said, still feeling guilty about not taking his hand when he offered it. “Chasswell is my aunt’s last name. You can call me Wren.”
Matt nodded once in acknowledgement, giving his broad shoulders an awkward sort of hunched shrug as he did so. What was up with this guy? He was built like something out of James Bond and yet he acted like one of those wimpy social outcasts you see getting beaten up by bullies in the movies all the time. I couldn’t help but wonder if Matt had outgrown being one of those kids years ago, but hadn’t quite figured it out yet.
“Gabrielle cleaned out one of the rooms in the west wing for you,” Matt said. “Gabrielle is the museum curator and your aunt’s personal assistant.”
“Do you all have more than one job title?” I forced myself to smile at him. He seemed like a decent guy.
“You’d better believe it.” Matt pulled one hand from his pocket and ran it through his bushy hair. “When you work with a skeleton crew like we do, everyone has to pitch in where necessary. Gabrielle and I even moonlight as tour guides when the need arises. Your aunt, too, in a pinch.”
“Tour guides?”
“Sure. How do you think we make money around here? People pay to look at the dolls and hear all the stories about the eccentric doll maker, Margaret Kensington. Art and antique dealers come from all over the world just to lay eyes on the famous Kensington Collection.” The other hand came out of his pocket as Matt started to look a lot more at ease.
“So, while all these people tramp about the house, where am I supposed to be?” I asked, realizing for the first time that living in a museum might have some unforeseen drawbacks.
“Gabrielle had an extra key to the west wing made for you. The west wing is closed to the public. Your room and your aunt’s are up there, as well as a rec room with one of the world’s largest widescreen TVs you’ve ever seen.”
“What about the east wing?” I asked. Television wasn’t my thing, but a mysterious east wing might be.
“That is the inner sanctum,” Matt spoke the last two words in mock spectral tones. “The infamous Xavier Kensington’s private study and bedroom are in the east wing. What the Kensington doll collection is to antique dealers, Xavier Kensington’s study is for ghost hunters a hundred-fold. If you want to know the truth, the ghost hunters are the life blood that keeps this place in business. They flock here in droves.”
A flicker of interest glimmered at the edge of my inner void. “Ghost hunters?” The words were out of my mouth before I even knew I meant to ask them.
“You know, people who circle the globe searching for haunted houses to hunt ghosts and have séances.” Actually, I didn’t, but decided to keep this information to myself in hopes of keeping Matt talking.
“You should see the stuff those ghost chasers haul up here.” He chuckled to himself. “Video equipment, audio recording devices, Geiger counters—the whole nine yards.”
“And have they ever—found a ghost?” I glanced uneasily at the wall I’d been listening to not long ago.
“People will find anything if they want it badly enough.” Matt pointed at the roof above our heads. “There was one lady who sat in Xavier’s study for three hours without moving a muscle. She told me later that Xavier Kensington was asleep and if I knew what was good for me, I’d better make dead certain he stayed that way.”
“What’s so special about this Xavier guy?” I asked out of mild curiosity.
“The infamous Xavier Kensington was the son of Margaret Kensington, the doll artist who once owned this house. She is also the creator of the most popular dolls in our collection.”
I decided to bite. “And Xavier Kensington is infamous because…?”
“Over a hundred years ago, he strangled his cousin with his bare hands and threw her lifeless body into a nearby lake.”
Chapter Three
“Do you tell these kinds of stories to the people who take your tours?” I asked. “I’ll bet you don’t get much repeat business.”
“It’s all true, cross my heart.” Matt made an exaggerated crisscross motion in front of his chest. It didn’t seem childish the way he did it, but more charming and friendly.
“You’re really into this history stuff, aren’t you?” I said, my mouth softening into the curve of a true smile.
“It started off as research for all the tours I give of this place.” Matt took in the dolls around him with an expansive glance. “Once I got going, it just sucked me in. It’s now a full-time hobby of mine. There was a lot of coverage of Emily Kensington’s murder in the newspapers of the day.”
“Delightful,” I said, glancing over at the wax doll with the fractured face. I hadn’t noticed it before, but her stand was leaning a little in our direction, as if she were listening to our conversation. Even the “mice” seemed to have paused to take in the story since all hint of the sound inside the wall had disappeared.
“Ghost hunters thrive on gruesome details like murder and tragic death,” Matt said. “A violent end is one of the things that cause a person to become ghost. Not that I’m an expert, mind you, but I have talked to quite a few self-proclaimed ghost experts while working here.”
I could tell Matt was a people person. Whether they were hunting for ghosts on a visit to the museum on a day-to-day basis or long dead and part of a one-hundred-year-old murder—they made his brown eyes light up with interest as he talked about them.
His enthusiasm was contagious. I tried to imagine Xavier Kensington, the murderer. Middle-aged, oily hair, with a handlebar moustache he’d twirl around one finger as he planned his dastardly deeds. “Why did Xavier Kensington murder his cousin?”
“Emily was his late uncle’s only child and heir,” Matt said. “She was all that stood between Xavier and ownership of the Ken
sington Estate. Margaret Kensington, Xavier’s mother, was the girl’s legal guardian at the time Emily went missing.”
An unpleasant sensation twisted like a corkscrew, tight into my gut. Benji’s face sprang into my mind. “Emily was just a kid?” I asked slowly.
Matt nodded. “According to the official inquest, Emily told Margaret that Xavier promised to take her for a horseback ride on the day she went missing. Xavier swore up and down he never promised the girl any such thing, but when bruises in the shape of handprints were found around the dead girl’s neck, everyone knew the truth. Witnesses testified that Xavier behaved oddly after they discovered Emily’s body. Roaming agitatedly about the grounds after dark, locking himself in his study for hours on end, writing private letters that he would burn if anyone caught him at it—that kind of stuff.”
“Why wasn’t he in jail during the inquest?” I asked.
“He happened to be the son of the most prominent and wealthy woman in the community. Without more evidence, no one was about to touch him.”
“How old was Emily when she died?”
Matt’s voice turned softly sad. “Nine years old.”
For a moment, I stared in silence at a glass case off to my left. It held a doll-sized kitchen, complete with a wood-burning stove. Inside the kitchen stood a rosy-cheeked porcelain girl smiling inanely as she held out a fake cake for the world to admire.
Nine years old.
An innocent child murdered for greed. The evil perpetrator going unpunished. The child’s ghost haunting the place, waiting for justice to be served. It was the perfect ghost story. A little too perfect.
I rested my hands on my hips shifting my weight slowly to one side. “You’re making all this up, aren’t you?”
“The findings of Xavier Kensington’s inquest are a matter of public record.” Matt tapped his temple with one finger. “Anyone who wants to know the facts of the case can look them up at the Kensington Historical Society in town. Xavier was the only one that stood to gain from Emily’s disappearance, but authorities never could find enough evidence to convict him. Ask your aunt if you don’t believe me.”
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