by Dan Poblocki
“I bet you’re right,” said Viola, a little disappointed. “I was sort of hoping, if not a ghost, we’d at least meet some burglars.”
“Maybe next time,” said Sylvester, reaching out and patting her shoulder.
October came quickly, and even though the Question Marks Mystery Club had discovered that a mere man had been “haunting” the house across the street, they were still having spooky thoughts. Halloween was approaching, and they needed to plan their costumes. They were considering going as characters from The Wizard of Oz.
It turned out that Victor Reynolds had in fact been preparing to sell the old house. Not long after the group’s last meeting, he had placed an ad in the Moon Hollow Herald. A few days later, the long-awaited For Sale sign finally appeared, stuck into the overgrown lawn near the street. From the sign peered the determined eyes of a sharp-faced woman. Her blond hair was pinned up on top of her head in an elaborate crisscrossing braid. Underneath the picture was a line of text that read, For a Showing, Call Betsy Ulrich, Moon Hollow’s Most Trusted Realtor.
They hadn’t seen the black car in weeks and figured Victor had probably gone back to New Hampshire for good, hiring Betsy to do the rest of the work for him. Viola thought they’d probably freaked him out the day they’d walked up his driveway and into his garage — enough so that he’d never want to come back!
To her disappointment, the mysteries had slowed ever further. Not even listening to the police scanner gave Viola any tips worth investigating. Then, at the end of the second week in October, to both her delight and horror, Viola finally heard the mysterious sounds in her house again.
It was an early evening, and her parents were both stuck late at work. She was sitting at the kitchen table, doing her homework, and there it was — the sound, slightly different than before. Now it was a bang-bang-bang. Goose bumps raced across her body, and Viola pulled her feet up off the floor, as if that would save her from any ghostly danger.
Viola immediately reached for the phone, which sat on the table, not far from her math textbook. She called her friends and asked if they could come right away. Minutes later, after dashing up the front hallway, Viola met Rosie, Sylvester, and Woodrow on the front porch.
“She’s here again,” said Viola. Then, realizing that they had no idea what she was talking about, she added, “Fiona Hauptmann. My ghost. Listen.” She invited the group inside. As they stood in the foyer, the sound came again, banging and echoing up from under the floor.
“What’s she doing down there?” asked Sylvester.
Rosie shushed him. “We don’t want to scare her away.”
“Quick,” said Woodrow, heading toward the kitchen. “Where’s that flashlight we used last time we went into the basement?”
“The basement?” said Viola. “We can’t go down there.” Woodrow turned back to look at her, shocked. And that was all it took for her to follow him.
Slowly, they opened the basement door and peered into the darkness. Mr. Hart still hadn’t gotten around to fixing the light socket. The flashlight Viola had collected from her detective kit gave off some illumination, but not much. Woodrow held it, swinging it forward as he carefully made his way down. The others followed. At the bottom of the stairs, the banging came, it seemed, from all around them. The group clung to one another in fear. After a few seconds, the sound stopped, and they managed to let go, breathing deeply.
“What is going on down here?” asked Sylvester.
“Yeah,” said Woodrow. “If it is the ghost of Fiona Hauptmann, why’s she making so much noise?”
“Can I see the flashlight for a second?” Rosie asked. Woodrow handed it to her. As she made her way across the room, the group stayed close by. None of them wanted to touch the pure darkness. “Look up,” she said. “The pipes and wires … Some of them lead toward the front of Viola’s house.” The group followed the pipes until they met the wall, where the large wooden shelving unit stood. “There. The wires go right behind those shelves. At the top.”
Woodrow began, “You don’t think—”
But Viola ignored him by stepping forward. She examined the side of the unit and gasped. Turning back to the group, she whispered, “There are hinges here.”
“Wouldn’t that mean that these shelves … are a door?” asked Sylvester, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull.
“Try it, Viola,” said Rosie.
Pulling on the opposite side of the shelving unit, Viola managed to drag it forward several inches, the hinges screaming at her to stop. Then she noticed a small dark gap behind the shelves. “You guys, there’s a hole here. A passageway.”
BANG-BANG-BANG!
The group ran into one another, trying to get back to the stairs, but they tripped and fell and lay there tangled and unable to move until the noise finally stopped again.
“What are we going to do?” asked Viola, after a few moments of quiet. “I can’t go in there.” They all sat still, listening to the new silence, waiting for the sounds to come again.
“Well, we can’t stop now,” said Woodrow. “If you won’t go, then I’ll do it by myself.”
“I’m with you, dude,” said Sylvester.
Rosie looked at Viola, but she didn’t need to say a word for her to understand. Finally, Viola said, “Oh, all right. But if I die, my parents are going to be really mad at you.”
The boys struggled with the shelves, yanking hard, until the group was staring into a deep, dark tunnel. “If that banging sound comes again right now, I really might just run back upstairs,” said Sylvester.
Woodrow pointed the light forward, and they all had a better view of what lay inside. The ghostly light illuminated what appeared to be a narrow corridor. The walls were made of ancient-looking stone, and the ceiling was pitched, like doorways in old churches. The pipes and wires that Rosie had noticed continued down the passage along the ceiling, held up with small rusted hooks. Every few feet, the wires drooped where an empty light socket hung. “Check it out,” said Rosie. “Someone must have once used this tunnel a lot. It even had its own lighting system.”
“Too bad there aren’t any lightbulbs hooked up now,” said Sylvester.
“Come on,” Woodrow said. “Let’s go.”
And in they went. They stayed close together, as if someone or something might suddenly come whooshing out of the darkness to attack. After walking several feet, they noticed the floor begin to slant upward at a slight angle. In the front, Woodrow crunched glass beneath his sneaker. “One of the lightbulbs,” he whispered. “Be careful.”
Eventually, they came to the end—what appeared to be a solid wooden wall. “Strange,” said Rosie. “What now?”
Woodrow reached out and knocked quietly on the wall. Tap-tap-tap. The sound echoed up and down the tunnel behind them.
“Hey!” Viola said, exclaiming quietly. “That was just like the sound I heard from my bedroom at night. A tapping noise.”
The kids all stared at one another, as if an answer was slowly materializing before them. “Obviously,” said Rosie, “someone was down here. Maybe they were tapping on the door at your end of the tunnel.”
Viola lit up. “Then that would mean this end isn’t a wall. It’s got to be another door.”
“Leading where?” said Sylvester.
“Well, we know we’re facing northeast,” said Viola. “We figured that out a long time ago. The tunnel didn’t bend, so wherever we are must be directly across the street and uphill from my house.”
“No way!” said Sylvester. “Then that means—”
But Woodrow had already begun to push at the wooden wall. Slowly it began to open. A crack of light appeared at the side, and before they knew it, the group was staring into the basement of another house. “This is the Reynolds place!” said Viola.
The room was about the same size as Viola’s basement. However, this basement was furnished. Wood paneling lined the walls. Books were stacked in haphazard piles everywhere. A carpeted staircase rose up just a few
feet away from where they stood, presumably to the house’s main floor. It was strange how ordinary the place looked, considering the circumstances.
“You guys,” said Woodrow, “if the sounds that Viola heard at night were someone tapping against the door of the tunnel in her basement, then that means someone must have been banging on something down here tonight. The sound probably echoed through the tunnel.”
“Then they’re here!” said Sylvester. “What if they are burglars? What if they catch us?”
The door at the top of the stairs creaked open, and the kids froze, collectively holding their breath. The highest step squeaked as, unseen, someone slowly stepped onto it. Whoever it was began to cautiously descend. None of the kids knew what to do. They were as curious as they were terrified.
Finally, two legs appeared on the stairs, followed by the hem of a long skirt. The unknown woman paused, as if listening, then continued down. Viola noticed she was holding something at her side. A hammer!
As quietly as possible, Viola pushed her friends back into the tunnel. Then, the woman shrieked—a piercing, glass-shattering cry. Viola turned to look, trying to pull the door shut behind them. She caught a glimpse of the woman, now at the bottom of the stairs. The woman had raised the hammer and was coming at them. Disheveled blond braids slipped down from a pile on top of her head. Her dark eyes were open wide. Viola screamed a bit herself, then they all turned and ran back down the dark tunnel, the flashlight swinging and swaying dizzily in Woodrow’s grasp, creating jagged shadows that made the walls seem like they were falling down.
When they reached the entrance to Viola’s basement, they heard a voice call to them from up the tunnel.
“Hello?” said the woman. The word bounced against the stones, becoming more and more ominous as it faded into the darkness. The group paused, shocked that someone who had been about to murder them all now seemed ready to greet them.
“We need to get out of here!” said Sylvester.
“Wait,” said Viola, her heart racing, trying to catch her breath. “Let’s just calm down for a minute.”
“But Fiona’s coming!” cried Rosie, inching toward the staircase.
“I think we let our nerves get the better of us,” said Viola. “I know who this woman is. And it’s not Fiona Hauptmann.”
“If it’s not her, then who is it?” asked Rosie.
Seconds later, a figure appeared in the doorway behind the wooden shelving unit. Viola had seen her face earlier that day on her way home from school. Betsy Ulrich—the Realtor who was selling the Reynolds house. Her picture was plastered on the For Sale sign across the street. Now, though, her hair was a mess, those extravagant braids having fallen apart in the chase.
After a moment, Viola noticed that the entire group recognized her. Still, they were in shock. They’d had quite a scare.
“I’m so sorry,” said Betsy, still clutching the hammer. “But you frightened me. I’d gone upstairs to check on some paperwork, and I heard whispering in the basement. When I came back down the stairs, I saw you all disappear into that hole in the wall. I didn’t know what to think.”
“So you tried to kill us?” cried Sylvester.
“No!” said Betsy, appalled. “I would never! You scared me, and I reacted. Imagine going into your basement and finding me peeking out of a secret door at you! Victor told me about this old tunnel, but I didn’t expect to find anyone using it. He’d explored it several times and assured me that the other end had been sealed off.”
“Oh,” Sylvester muttered. “Sorry.”
“Then Victor was the one who was making** the noises all this time,” Viola exclaimed. “He’s my ghost!”
“Ghost?” Betsy looked confused and a little embarrassed. She shook her head. “I was just organizing for the open house we’re having tomorrow.” She held up the hammer. “Hanging pictures to give it some design appeal. The previous owner, Nelson, wasn’t one for decorating. Obviously.” She glanced around at the Harts’ basement, as if suddenly understanding where she stood. “These old places have quirks, some of them dating back to the time of the Underground Railroad. I’m not sure if I should list this tunnel as a selling point for the Reynolds house. Some people might get freaked out.”
“You think?” said Sylvester.
Woodrow nudged him, silently telling him to shut it.
“Which one of you lives here?” Betsy asked. Viola raised her hand. “No one told you this tunnel existed?”
“I don’t think anyone knew. The previous owners thought the place was haunted. They heard noises. But I guess it was probably just Nelson poking around in his basement … or even inside the tunnel itself.”
A few minutes later, Viola’s parents came home to discover the small group standing in their basement. To say they were shocked that a secret passage had been hidden behind the built-in wooden shelves would have been an understatement, but they were also impressed that Viola and her friends had discovered it. Unfortunately for the group, they immediately determined that the tunnel was off-limits — at least until its safety could be confirmed.
Mr. and Mrs. Hart apologized to Betsy Ulrich for interrupting her work, and Betsy Ulrich apologized to the kids for frightening them. Just before the Realtor said good-bye, she handed Mr. Hart her business card. “In case you ever want to sell,” she told him.
Viola was happy to hear his response.
“Oh, we don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon.”
One Saturday a couple of weeks later, the trees were nearly bare. The familiar patch on the lawn where the four properties met was covered with colorful leaves. Each member of the Question Marks Mystery Club stood, armed with rakes. Their parents had asked them to come together for a common goal. Nothing mysterious this time — they were simply supposed to clean up the yards.
Viola, however, had ulterior motives. Before any of them had a chance to touch their rakes to the ground, she spoke up. “I have news,” she said, with an enigmatic lilt in her voice.
Sylvester, Woodrow, and Rosie suddenly perked up. Whenever Viola said something like this, they knew it was going to be good.
“I didn’t tell you guys, but after the incident with the black car in the garage across the street, my mom made me write a letter to Vincent Reynolds in New Hampshire to apologize for trespassing on his property. In my letter, I did mention I was sorry … but I also decided it would be the perfect opportunity to ask him some questions. He wrote back!
“He confirmed that he was the one who had been knocking around, explaining that he remembered his brother saying something about the house’s secret passage. Vincent keeps strange hours, he says, because he has a hard time sleeping. He didn’t realize that I could hear his nighttime explorations of the basement and the tunnel. And he thought the door at the other end had been sealed off a long time ago. But he kept coming back to it, wondering what was on the other side. I guess he had no idea that if only he’d pushed hard enough, he would have found out.
“His response got me thinking. What was the tunnel used for, anyway? The Realtor, Betsy Ulrich, told us that it dated back to the secret Underground Railroad, so the original owners must have helped smuggle runaway slaves into Canada.
“The wires and the light sockets that are in the tunnel now tell a different story, though. The tunnel must have been used by someone within the past century. For what? I thought about it for a long time and, as usual, I came up with a theory. After I wrote to Vincent one more time, he responded and told me that I was right.”
“What was your theory?” Rosie asked, clutching the handle of her rake so hard that her knuckles had turned pale.
“Our mystery has one final clue. And it’s right here in our yard.”
“Here?” said Sylvester, glancing around. “Where?”
Viola continued as if she had planned this speech and would not be interrupted, which was, in fact, what she’d done. “I believe it explains everything we need to know about the secret of the tunnel in my basement. C
an you guys guess what it is?”
Sylvester, Woodrow, and Rosie looked at one another with confused determination. Since the end of the summer, they had solved a dog-napping and discovered a forged autograph. They had revealed a faked photograph and dispensed with a couple of phony psychics. They had learned the true nature of a couple of haunting experiences. They must figure out Viola’s latest clue — they were members of the Question Marks, after all.
“A clue to the mystery of the tunnel …,” Woodrow whispered, dragging his rake behind him as he began to wander around the yard.
“What could it be?” said Rosie, swiveling swiftly on her heels, turning toward each compass direction, trying to decide which way to walk.
Sylvester stood still and closed his eyes, as if what he saw in his mind was more powerful than what was all around him.
Viola simply crossed her arms and smiled. She knew they’d figure it out eventually.
Can you?
Rosie suddenly spun, facing the street beside Viola and Sylvester’s house, along the northwest quadrant of their yards. “You guys!” she called. Woodrow and Sylvester rushed over to her. She whispered in their ears, then they all whipped their heads toward the maple tree near the road—the one where they had come together for the very first time on the day Viola moved to Moon Hollow.
Slowly, the three of them walked to the tree. Viola followed not far behind, unable to make out what they were saying to one another. Finally, standing at the base of the maple, they all met again.
“So?” asked Viola. “What do you think?”
Rosie pointed up, at where someone had long ago carved initials into the bark.
N. R.
+
F. B.
“And?” said Viola, smiling.
“They’re Nelson Reynolds and Fiona Hauptmann!” said Sylvester.
“Actually,” Woodrow said, patting the tree trunk, “it would have been Nelson Reynolds and Fiona Branson, right, Viola? That’s what you said her name was originally, before she got married.”
