The Haunting on Heliotrope Lane

by Carolyn Keene

  I lifted my chin, straightened my back, and faced the figure who was speaking, hoping I looked unafraid.

  “You think this is a hoax,” the figure went on. “But can you be sure?”

  Pretty sure, I thought but didn’t say.

  He or she stepped closer. “If someone dies in a horrible way, with an abundance of pain, anger, or fear, isn’t it possible that their fear and anger would still exist—that they could infect others?”

  I just stared at him or her, not responding. What are you getting at? I wondered.

  The figure stepped even closer. I felt a flutter of fear but didn’t move.

  “What if I were to kill you right here?”

  I swallowed hard, suddenly scared witless, but I willed myself not to move.

  The figure cackled quietly, amused by my fear. “Wouldn’t you like to believe, Nancy Drew, that you would be able to get revenge somehow?” Pause. Step closer. He or she was only a couple of feet away now. “Even if it had to be from the afterlife?”

  Now I felt an answer bubbling up inside of me. It seemed obvious. “No,” I said, a little more forcefully than I’d intended.

  The figure tilted its masked head, regarding me curiously.

  “If I were killed, I would want to find peace, somehow.” I glanced from the main figure to the two still standing off to the side—and the one who had grabbed me outside the room and now stood in the doorway, watching.

  I took in another breath, then said, “Owen and Izzy are taking advantage of people’s fears. They’re trying to convince others that this place is haunted—I know that. What I don’t know is why.”

  The zombie mask stood very still for a moment, watching me. “Why do you think?” he or she asked finally, in the same raspy voice.

  “I guess . . . ,” I began, a plan forming in my mind. I tensed my muscles, getting ready. “I guess . . . they must have something to gain.”

  The zombie mask cackled again, louder this time, and I lunged forward, reaching out my hands toward him or her. The other figures rushed toward me, reaching out to grab me, but they were too late—I’d grabbed the edge of the lead figure’s mask. As he or she struggled to throw me off, and one of the others grabbed my elbow, I pulled with all my might, and just managed to yank the mask off. The rubber shell came off in my hands, and suddenly I was looking into a real person’s face.

  It wasn’t Owen or Izzy.

  It was a man.

  When I managed to get the mask off, it was like all the air had gone out of the room. The figure who’d grabbed my elbow dropped my arm, and the three of them backed away, as though watching to see what I would do.

  The man looked startled for a moment—but then his face transformed into an expression of pure, crazed amusement. To my surprise, he dropped the raspy cackle and started laughing—a real, overpowering, and seriously unhinged laugh.

  Then he stopped, stared right at me, and demanded, “Do you recognize me?”

  A chill crept up my spine as I realized I did.

  His face had been all over the news reports I’d seen online.

  “You’re Henry Furstenberg,” I whispered, right as two of the other figures grabbed me and dragged me away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Showdown

  “YOU’RE A SHARP ONE.”

  Henry Furstenberg smiled at me, but his compliment didn’t bring any pleasure. I was still being held by the other two masked figures, and my heart was dancing a rhumba inside my chest as terrified thoughts tumbled through my head. What is Henry Furstenberg doing here?

  Did he kill his mother?

  Am I standing in front of a murderer?

  “You’re right, Nancy: I am Henry Furstenberg. As I’m sure you’ve heard from the police and others, they’ve been searching for me for over a year—ever since my mother’s unfortunate passing.” He licked his lips. His demeanor was precise, careful . . . A perfectionist for sure, I thought. “I’ve been in hiding.”

  “Why?” I asked. Henry’s gaze shot back to me, annoyed, but I kept going. “Did you kill her? Is that why you were hiding?”

  He stared at me for a moment, and I couldn’t tell whether his dark eyes held surprise or anger. Finally he shook his head. “Did I kill her? Oh, Nancy Drew, how pleasant it must be to live in such a black-and-white world.” He paused, looking at the candle. “I lived here with my mother for a long time. It was very difficult for me, not that anyone seems to care about that. Have you ever lived with an aging person?”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. We’re all aging, all the time? But I guessed he meant an elderly person, a person whose health was declining, like his mother’s. “No,” I said.

  He stepped forward, his nostrils flaring. “It is very difficult,” he repeated. “When I first moved in, she was self-sufficient. But as she aged, she began needing help getting out of a chair, then out of bed, then even getting dressed or taking a shower. She had trouble navigating the stairs, and she lost her vision, making it impossible for her to drive. I went from being an independent adult to being a full-time caregiver. It was a huge sacrifice for me—and not something I volunteered for.”

  I stared at him. I was getting the sense that at the very least, Henry was a very selfish person. At worst, he had a few screws loose.

  “I guess it’s payback,” I couldn’t help saying, though I realized it probably wouldn’t help my cause. “They take care of you for eighteen years, you know, feeding you, nursing you, teaching you how to walk. The least we can do is . . . repay the favor?”

  Anger flared in Henry’s eyes, but his outward expression didn’t change. “I suppose that’s one perspective,” he said. Then he held his fist to his mouth, letting out a short cough. “Anyway. One day I followed my mother into the basement, where she was insisting on doing my laundry as well as hers.”

  Oh, was she? I thought. Henry didn’t seem the type of guy to volunteer.

  “I told her,” he said, “I said, please do not put my delicate garments in the dryer. It was an ongoing argument we had. When she was younger, she was very good about it. But as she declined . . .” He sighed. “Well, she was not as careful.”

  “So you killed her?” I challenged, not believing what I was hearing. “You killed her because you were afraid she would shrink your sweater or something?”

  He glared at me. His careful, precise outward demeanor disappeared, his eyes bulged, and his face turned bright red. “I DIDN’T KILL HER!” he suddenly screamed.

  I couldn’t help flinching at this unexpected outburst. Even the figures holding me seemed to do the same.

  There was silence for a moment, as his face returned to normal, and then I said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

  He looked down at me, then seemed to straighten his shoulders and recover a bit.

  “Tell me what really happened,” I said.

  He looked away, focusing his gaze on the metal shelving bolted to the opposite wall. “We argued,” he said in a softer voice. “It became . . . heated. She ran in here. And then suddenly . . .”

  He stopped for a moment and wiped his eye. He looked honestly pained. Maybe I misjudged him?

  “She clutched her chest,” he said with some difficulty, “and . . . she fell to the floor.”

  We were all silent as Henry looked down at some spot just above the floor. He seemed to be seeing something inside his mind.

  “I am sorry to say that she died,” he said finally, raising his chin to look me in the eye again.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said honestly.

  He nodded shortly. His voice was stronger when he went on, “I knew that my mother had told her friends that she and I didn’t get along. We argued . . . quite a bit. I was terrified, you see—I thought I would be blamed for her death.” He swallowed. “I panicked and ran. I did not realize at the time that my mother left no will, and with me missing, the house fell into disrepair while an heir was located.”

  He sighed. “My own foolishness destroyed the value of wha
t should have been my inheritance. And in the time I was gone, a cousin was found and the ownership of the house passed to her—although, as you can see, she did nothing to fix it up. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. After the years I spent caring for my mother in the twilight of her life—I got nothing?”

  He shot me a pleading look that I wasn’t sure how to respond to. The house was destroyed because he’d disappeared, taking off with his mother’s body still cooling in the basement. Poor you?

  “So I came up with a plan,” Henry said, seeming to gain some swagger back. He put his hands on his hips. “I realized I could drive down the value of the house even further if I could convince people it was haunted. Teenagers were the perfect targets—they spread rumors like wildfire. And just as I planned, kids have been pouring in and causing all kinds of damage along the way—if the house didn’t look haunted before, it certainly does now!”

  I stared at him, stunned. You destroyed your own house?

  “So I could buy this house for the proverbial song. I could flip it or tear it down. Endless possibilities,” he went on, “I reached out to Owen, who’d done yard work for us when Mother was alive, via Facebook. I knew that Owen was the perfect person to contact, because we’d occasionally discussed that he’s a horror movie enthusiast and even wants to be a director someday. He pulled in fellow horror movie fans Gavin and Izzy, and I’ve promised to pay them handsomely for their efforts—seed money to shoot a movie of their own.” He paused. “But . . . there was a problem.”

  “Willa,” I murmured, realizing where this was going.

  He nodded. One of the figures holding me—Owen?—shook his head and sighed.

  “We thought that Willa would be just the right person to spread the word,” Henry went on. “She and Izzy are very close, and Willa is a very . . . trusting soul. But soon after the act began, it became clear that Willa might be a problem. She felt personally threatened and grew frightened for her friend. We think that Izzy’s ‘possessed’ act may have been a little too convincing. Willa was clearly worried, and she wanted to hire you, Nancy. Owen and I decided to allow it, because it would quiet her concerns, and besides, how effective could a teenage sleuth be?” He chuckled. “Owen has kept me up-to-date on your progress as you worked on the case. But when it became clear that we couldn’t scare you away, and you were getting close to the truth, I realized that my plan required some adjusting. . . .”

  I felt a chill. Where is this going?

  Henry stopped, then gave me an almost disarming smile. “So, I believe congratulations are in order! You see, I was able to speed along the sale. I had to pay a bit more for it than originally intended but the insurance policy I attained should more than make up for that.” He paused to pat my head, “I’m so sorry, Nancy.” His eyes didn’t look sorry. “It’s your own fault, you know. If only you had left things alone.”

  I stumbled, feeling sick. What are they going to . . .

  Henry looked behind me, to the still-open door. “Fortunately,” he said, “my mother’s house comes equipped with an excellent detention area. We’ll simply leave you in this room and lock it when we leave.” He cackled again—not quite the raspy “possessed” cackle of before, but definitely along those lines. The sound chilled my blood. “No one can hear you scream down here. Even if they could, they would simply assume it’s the ‘ghost’ that everyone knows haunts this house! And when your burned remains are found—the police will just assume you were trespassing in the haunted house and accidentally caused the fire. Then I will get a great big check.”

  He smiled, and his smile was full-on evil now—eyes full of fury.

  He began walking toward me.

  “How did you come up with your plan?” I blurted, thinking, Keep him talking, Nancy—you know that works! “It’s, um, very clever, the whole idea of driving down—”

  “Oh, shut up.” Henry scowled, and it was clear from his expression that whatever amusement I’d offered up till this point had expired. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing? Trying to keep me talking all night long about my ‘master plan’? Well, forget it. You’re sharp, but I’m even sharper—and I’m going to dispose of you now.”

  “Owen . . . Gavin . . . Izzy . . . whoever you are,” I pleaded. “You know this isn’t right! Don’t let him to do this to me!”

  None of them moved, and the two who were holding me continued to do so. The one on the left, the one who’d originally grabbed me and taken my phone, stared at Henry. He seemed to be thinking.

  Finally he pulled off his mask—Owen!

  “Henry,” he said quietly, “no one was supposed to get hurt. Maybe we should—”

  “Shut up!” Henry hissed, turning to him with a look of utter disgust. “You’re deep in this now, Owen. Do you want me to reveal to the police all you’ve done? Trespassing, fraud . . . accessory to a murder?”

  Owen looked alarmed for a second, and then his gaze turned blank. He slipped his mask back on, and his hold on my arm tightened.

  I felt my heart thudding in my chest and found it hard to take a breath. They were going to leave me in this locked room to burn.

  No!

  In one determined motion, I managed to yank my arm out of Owen’s grasp and swing it at the stool, sending the still-burning candle flying toward us. I ducked, and the flame caught on the other figure’s sheet, sending larger flames roaring up his or her torso.

  “No!” Gavin’s voice cried. His grip relaxed on my other arm.

  “Wait,” Izzy cried, pulling off the witch mask and running over. “We have to—”

  I didn’t wait to find out. Taking advantage of the chaos, I yanked away from Gavin and Owen and ran past them, darting out the door.

  Henry followed me. I could hear and feel him behind me, panting, just a few steps away. But I managed to make it to the narrow stairway that led to the kitchen, and I reached out to grab a heavy snow shovel that hung from the wall. I thundered up the stairs, throwing open the door and internally rejoicing at the sight of moonlight coming through the windows.

  Just as I was going to run through the kitchen and into the living room, something grabbed my left ankle and pulled. I let out a scream, turning and blindly swinging with the shovel. Henry let go of my ankle and grabbed the shovel’s shaft, trying to push it back at me, but I struggled to free it from his grasp and raised the blade above my head. Even though he still held the shaft, I had enough space to send the blade crashing down on his head with all my might. He let out a yelp and fell back.

  Shaking, I pulled the shovel back and looked at the blade. There was a dark spot I thought might be blood. I let out a trembling breath.

  Then I heard scuffling from the living room.

  “Nancy!” There was the thud of a pair of feet hitting the floor, followed by another pair.

  “Nancy! Are you in here? We called the police!”

  “We knew something was wrong. You always charge your phone!”

  A rush of relief went through me. Bess and George.

  They knew. They’d called the police!

  Just then the door to the basement stairs flew open and Henry stomped into the kitchen, blood trickling down his face from a wound on the side of his head. His eyes bulged. “You have friends here?” he asked in a creepy voice. “Excellent. I guess I’ll just have to burn you all!”

  “No!” I screamed, grabbing the shovel, but Henry was now holding a baseball bat he must have taken from someplace downstairs. Before I could swing at him, he lifted the bat over his head and I heard George scream, “Nancy, duck!”

  I ducked. I could feel the breeze from the bat skimming by my face, and then the clatter of feet running into the kitchen.

  “I’ll get you for that!” Henry screamed. He hoisted the bat again as I aimed the shovel and—

  SHHHHHHHHHHHH!

  “AUUUUUUGH!” Henry suddenly screamed in agony. The bat fell to the floor as he sank down, landing in a sitting position.

  “That’
s what you get!” an angry voice shouted. Bess! I looked up and found my scared-of-haunted-houses friend, brandishing a bottle of pepper spray like it was bug killer and the world’s biggest cockroach was sitting right in front of her.

  My mouth dropped open.

  “Omigod, Bess!” George cried, as Henry covered his face with his hands and moaned some more. “You actually carry pepper spray? All this time, I thought you were just trying to threaten people with it to scare them!”

  Bess turned to George, mindlessly pointing the pepper spray can at her. George flinched, and Bess shrugged and put the pepper spray back in her purse. “Of course I carry it, George,” she said, gesturing with her elbow at Henry. “A girl can’t be too careful these days.”

  George laughed, and I dropped my shovel to the floor, limp with relief. Because over the constant sound of Henry’s moaning, and Bess and George’s back-and-forth about the merits of Mace versus pepper spray, I heard a glorious sound.

  Police sirens, several of them, distant at first, but then coming closer and closer. Within seconds, they were drawing close to the house on Heliotrope Lane.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Scary Movie 2

  “WOW. IT LOOKS SO DIFFERENT,” I murmured.

  It was months after I’d confronted Henry Furstenberg in his own basement, and George, Bess, and I had returned to the site of the old house on Heliotrope Lane.

  The house had been torn down, and work had just begun on the construction of a community center for the elderly. Mrs. Furstenberg’s long-lost cousin, on learning what had happened to Mrs. Furstenberg, decided to donate the land to help elderly people.

  “I think this new center is going to do a lot of good,” George said, nodding at the sign that proclaimed FUTURE HOME OF THE BEATRICE FURSTENBERG CENTER FOR SENIORS. “I was reading online that they’re going to have art, cooking, and exercise classes, social groups . . . and social workers are going to come in once a week or so, in case seniors have any concerns they can address.”