Copyright © 2017 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.
Darby Creek
A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.
241 First Avenue North
Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA
For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.
Images in this book used with the permission of: © iStockphoto.com/bonciutoma, (ghostly girl); backgrounds: © iStockphoto.com/AF-studio, © iStockphoto.com/blackred, © iStockphoto.com/Adam Smigielski.
Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.5. Typeface provided by Adobe Systems.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Fallenstein, J., author.
Title: S.O.S. / J. Fallenstein.
Other titles: SOS
Description: Minneapolis : Darby Creek, [2017] | Series: Midnight | Summary: A teenaged boy who has trouble sleeping stays up late to read, but things take an unexpected turn when weird lights begin to flash S.O.S. through his window.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016028947 (print) | LCCN 2016041028 (ebook) | ISBN 9781512427707 (lb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781512431001 (pb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781512427905 (eb pdf)
Subjects: | CYAC: Haunted places—Fiction. | Ghosts—Fiction. | Horror stories.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.F353 Saam 2017 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.F353 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—c23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016028947
Manufactured in the United States of America
1-41495-23356-9/6/2016
9781512434910 ePub
9781512434927 ePub
9781512434934 mobi
To my mom, who shared the old family Bible with me—the one that recorded our Swiss and German ancestors in the front. I know who I am a bit better because someone cared and remembered their names, their births, marriages, and deaths.
Chapter 1
The frothing, angry waves grow bigger—one foot high, two—then they wash over the front of the kayak.
“Dad!” Tyrell yells over the screaming wind. The sea below swells, and the next wave is like a wall of steel rising up and then crashing down hard, flipping their boat.
Tyrell is under. He gasps, and the cold water rushes into his lungs. Air! He needs air!
He kicks out of the kayak. The icy water penetrates his wet suit to his skin, freezing his muscles.
At last he bobs to the surface and turns on his back, sputtering and coughing out saltwater. “Help!” he yells.
*****
Tyrell sits up. The attic is dark—a dull, late-October twilight. From the corner comes the hum of a small space heater.
“Tyrell?” his mom calls as she hurries up to the top of the narrow stairs, her face pale and drawn.
She sits on his bed, and her hands go to his cheeks. “Another dream?” she says.
Tyrell falls back, and she swipes the back of her hand over his slick forehead.
“It happened again,” Tyrell says. “The rogue wave—flipping us. I drowned all over again.”
“Shhh,” his mom says and squeezes his shoulders. “You’re safe now. You and Dad are safe. You didn’t drown.”
He takes a deep breath. Why didn’t I do something to steady the boat when I saw the wave? Once they flipped, he didn’t check on his dad or try to help him at all. Tyrell has recovered from the hypothermia without permanent injuries, but his dad is another story. “Did they say when he can come home?” he asks.
His mom shakes her head. “No, but he seems better. I think he’ll be home this week.” She blinks and leans her elbow on the bed, like she wishes she could lie down next to him and sleep. “I’ll go and make you some hot tea.”
Tyrell glances at the clock. It’s just after ten o’clock—he didn’t sleep long before the nightmare woke him. His mom leaves, and he looks up and counts the boards in the old cottage’s attic. There are two hundred and fifty-seven. Dad and I were rescued at the same time, he thinks. Why did I get to come home after one day in the hospital, but three days later Dad is still there? He stretches his arms above his head. All of his muscles ache, but the doctor said that should resolve in another day.
The doctor also said she’d seen cases where younger kids suffer no damage from cold-water submersion, but adults . . . well, she’d said it was harder for them to recover. Dad was an experienced kayaker. He’d done three of the five Great Lakes. The weather on the Sound that day was supposed to be calm, but they’d been caught in a sudden storm. They would have been safe, if only they’d been able to make it to Blake Island.
It was a good thing they’d had the beacon. Dad’s office friends had made fun of him, told him he wasted three hundred dollars, but that personal locator beacon had saved their lives. The Flauntleroy Ferry was close enough to hear the beacon’s signal and rescue them. Good thing those sailors knew what they were doing.
Dishes clink below in the tiny kitchen as his mom gets out the tea things. It will probably be that awful chamomile.
His eyes stop on the pile of homework on his desk. The dang civics report is due Friday. I can’t fail another major assignment—there’s no way I’m repeating that class!
“Here we go,” his mom says as she brings in a cup of steaming chamomile tea and a bottle of honey. The tea smells and tastes like weeds. He sits up, shivers, and squeezes a huge glob from the honey bear container into his mug.
“When can I see Dad?” He slurps a bit of the abominable liquid.
His mom gives him a weak smile. “Maybe tomorrow. We’ll see how you’re feeling. Looks like we’ll have snow by Halloween,” she says, gesturing out the window, which is thick and wavy with age. “Try to get some sleep.” She tucks in the thick down comforter along the edge of his bed and then pads back down the creaky steps. A few minutes later the light at the base of the steps goes out and his room is dark. The white moon shines in the window, and Tyrell counts the boards above him again: two hundred fifty-six, two hundred fifty-seven . . .
He slips out of bed and stands at the window, breathing a circle of fog onto the glass. The moonlight shimmers on the slate roof tiles of the Schneider mansion, which sits about a quarter mile down the incline and straight ahead. To the right is the acre of old woods that lines the peninsula they live on. Far to the left are two more cottages, empty now, but soon they too will be sold and people will move in. Tiny crystalline snowflakes dance down from the deep lavender sky. He can just make out the narrow lane and then the dark line of the footbridge across the creek that runs behind the mansion. Beyond, at the very tip of the peninsula, sits the old Schneider Wearables Factory, which has been abandoned for decades.
Tyrell’s back spasms, and he shifts his weight. A loose board below his foot moans and creaks.
His head is aching, probably because he’s been in bed all day. He sits at the old writing desk in the corner and opens his civics book. He just needs to read the chapter on workers’ rights and write a simple report. A folded test flutters to the floor from the back of the book, and the red F glares at him. Dang. I can bring my grade up if I finish the extra credit, but if Mom sees this I’m toast. I have to get rid of it. But where?
Maybe he can shove the test under that creaky floorboard. It came loose when his mom and dad took the thin 1940s carpet out last week, and when they re-carpet, it will be entombed forever. He crouches at the board, slips his finger underneath, and tugs. The foot-long plank comes up.
In the glow of the
moon he can just make out something folded at the bottom of the space underneath—a sheet of yellowed paper. As he unfolds it a ten-dollar bill flutters to the floor. Ten bucks! He jabs the bill into his sweats pocket. The top of the page is printed with the red Schneider Wearables company logo, and scratchy cursive writing in blotchy, black ink covers the page. But the language is not English. The date in the corner is smudged, as if a drop of water has fallen on it. It reads “14 Sept 19 . . . ” He can’t read the year. Who would have hidden a letter and money under the floorboard and then not come back for it?
Chapter 2
It’s past eleven, but Tyrell’s still not tired. He clicks on the desk lamp and reads the civics chapter about how in the eighteenth century most goods, cloth, and clothing were created in rural homes, in “cottage industries.” But with the invention of new weaving and sewing machinery, cities needed workers to run them. It was most often the poor, newly arrived immigrants who took these low-paying jobs.
He pulls out his laptop and types up an outline, and then he adds a few sentences after each point. Soon he has three pages full of information. It would be so much easier if the teacher just let the class use Wikipedia, but it doesn’t matter anyway because this little cottage his parents are fixing up doesn’t have Wi-Fi yet. He’ll just have to go to the Middleton High library. Good thing Ms. Lingard is always cool with helping me out. Then again, she’s the librarian, so I guess that’s what she does.
He unfolds the old letter. Liebe Mutter, it starts. What language is it? German, maybe? The end says, Deine, Helga.
He can’t show Mom; she will ask where he found it, and he needs that test to stay hidden. Maybe Ms. L can tell me—that is, if Mom ever lets me go back to school. He stands and stretches, still achy, and then shivers when the space heater shuts off. The doctor told him not to get cold again or he would end up back in the hospital. But his mom only wants him to run the heater while he’s awake—she’s worried that it might start a fire while he’s asleep.
He yawns, finally tired. It’s warm under all the blankets his mom piled on the bed. Maybe now he can sleep and not have the drowning dream.
Just as Tyrell shuts off his desk lamp, something out the window catches his eye. A light, yellow and small, flashes from somewhere beyond the mansion. He presses his face to the cold glass as the light pulses again. Flash-flash-flash, flaaasssh-flaaasssh-flaaasssh, flash-flash-flash. It’s coming from the top floor of the abandoned warehouse.
A draft jolts a shiver through his body, and he quickly gets under the warm down comforter. Who would be up in the third story of that old warehouse at midnight? Is there a wire loose somewhere? Or is the light flashing at him?
Chapter 3
Tyrell wakes to the greasy, savory smell of his mom frying eggs in the kitchen. His muscles ache less, so he dresses and packs his backpack, folding the old letter into the side pocket.
“Morning,” he says as he walks into the kitchen and sets his backpack on the floor. Mom eyes it.
“Tyrell,” she says, “you don’t think you’re going to school, do you?”
“I feel fine.”
“Is that why you slept until eleven?” She slips the eggs onto a plate.
His eyes shoot to the microwave: 11:14. “You’re kidding me.”
Mom shakes her head and raises her eyebrows. “I don’t think you’re quite there. Besides, it’s already Friday and halfway through the school day. Let’s wait until Monday to send you back.”
Tyrell sighs and picks up his fork. The eggs are warm and buttery. “I have a report due and . . . ” He can’t tell her that he failed the test. “I need books for it. It’s important.”
“I can take you to school, and you can pick up your books while I run to the hardware store and order the carpet for your room.”
It’s not what he wanted, but it’s better than staring at the ceiling for another whole day. Plus, once that new carpet is laid down that old test will be hidden forever. “Okay, Mom.”
*****
At school there is more homework than Tyrell was expecting, especially in chemistry. His mom texts, There in 20. Twenty minutes. He heads for the library.
“Tyrell,” Ms. Lingard says when he comes through the door.
“How you doing, Ms. L?”
“I’m doing well, thank you. It’s good to see you. I heard about your accident. Everybody okay?”
“Dad’s still in the hospital, but they think he can come home soon.”
“It was bad?”
“I guess. I mean, I almost died. The worst part is Mom. She’s just . . . you know, worried.”
“I’m so glad you guys are okay. You’re holding up all right?”
“I do have a ton of homework, including this report on the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire,” Tyrell says.
“Oh, civics,” Ms. L says. “You’re on the workers’ rights chapter, I take it?”
Tyrell nods. “I need primary, academic, and news sources to quote for my paper.”
“I have just the book!” She walks over to one of the shelves and returns with a book called The Last Stitch. “It’s about the Shirtwaist fire. It’s got all kinds of information on child labor and the garment workers. Perfect for your report,” she says. “And did you say you wanted some copies of old newspaper articles?” She winks her eye conspiratorially.
“Yes, ma’am, I did.”
She steps into her office and returns with a manila file folder. “I wouldn’t do this for everyone, but I already made copies for your teacher, and you’ve been out on an illness, so . . . ” She hands him the folder.
“Ms. L, you are awesome,” he says. “Always got my back.”
“It’s my job. The fact is, you come in and ask for help, and not all students take the time to do that,” Ms. L says. “Anything else?”
He unzips the backpack pocket and pulls out the letter. “I found this up in my attic, and I’m wondering if you know what language it is.”
Her eyes widen as she unfolds the yellowed paper. “Liebe Mutter,” she reads aloud. “It’s definitely German. I haven’t spoken German since high school, but I know that means ‘Dear Mother.’” She scans the letter. “I think it says something about work, and der Chef ist böse translates to ‘the boss is mean.’ Huh. This was in your attic?”
“Yeah, we live in one of those old cottages on the Schneider estate. My parents bought one last year and we moved there to remodel it.”
“Oh, yes, I heard that old Miss Schneider was finally selling the outbuildings. Good thing—they were likely to fall apart if somebody didn’t get in and restore them. Miss Schneider, now, she’s an odd duck.”
“Yeah, I heard Sean say that she’s crazy—she lives all alone and wears her old wedding dress every day, even though the guy she was supposed to marry died, like, a million years ago. Did she kill him or something?”
“No, she didn’t—I hadn’t heard that rumor before! She’s the daughter of Max Schneider, the man who started Schneider Wearables back in 1918 or so. He became a multimillionaire. She was supposed to get married when she was seventeen, but her fiancé died in a hunting accident. She still runs the business, but people say she never got over him.”
Tyrell hoists his backpack. This is interesting—kinda spooky, even—but his mom is probably already out front, honking the horn. “Well, I gotta go,” he says. “Thanks for helping me out.”
“You’re welcome!” Ms. L holds up the letter. “Give me a day or two, and I’ll get this translated. Will you be back Monday?”
“If I have any luck at all.”
“You keep working on that report, and I’ll see you then.”
His phone buzzes in his pocket as he goes out the library door; his mom must be out front. Shoot, he thinks, the name on the bottom of the letter is Helga. I should have asked if that’s Miss Schneider’s name. And what was that light coming from the factory? Is Miss Schneider doing something over there, since she owns the place? I’ll stay up tonight and watch.
<
br /> Chapter 4
“New Schneider Wearables Factory to Be Built” reads the headline in a 1917 article from the folder. The article describes the new factory as surrounded by water and therefore impervious to fire. But then the next copied article says that in 1928 the Schneider Wearables Factory did catch fire. He snorts. It was just a small fire on the third floor, though, and nobody died.
Tyrell’s headache is almost gone, probably because he is out of bed for a change. It’s cold and dark, and the attic grows chillier the later it gets. His reflection in the window looks almost like a ghost, gaunt and pale. The doctor had said his skin was blue-gray when he’d first been admitted. He is still pale but definitely not blue. The small space heater clicks off. Mom said to unplug it before he went to sleep. “We don’t need the place to go up in flames,” she always warned.
She is even more vigilant since the kayak accident, always telling him to stay warm, feeding him hot meals and terrible tea, and not letting him out of her sight. And she seemed . . . was it angry? he wonders. Angry with Dad?
Had Dad been reckless, taking Tyrell out on the Sound when the forecast called for light rain? He’d said something about a bad wind from the south—was it a premonition? Before they launched, Dad had even hastily shown Tyrell how to use a mirror to send the distress signal S.O.S.: three quick flashes, three long ones, and three quick ones. Dad had never done that before a kayak ride.
The lights in the kitchen are off now. Mom must be in bed, asleep. She’s finally not staying up all night, checking on me! Tyrell takes out the book from Ms. L and reads a chapter on the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. It happened in 1911, when the clothing factory caught fire and 145 people died. Most of the casualties were poor, young women. Many of them died after jumping out of the windows to escape. They couldn’t get out because someone had locked the workers in—supposedly to prevent stealing. There was a fire escape, but it was tiny and in disrepair, and the one working elevator was small and slow and couldn’t accommodate all of the workers. It was a disaster.
S.O.S. Page 1
