The Secret Files of Fairday Morrow

by Jessica Haight

  The drapes in the room Fairday chose were maroon with silver stripes. A circular carpet with a picture of a lion and a unicorn covered the floor. She thought it was the least gaudy of all the bedrooms and kind of liked the carpet. Her window overlooked the backyard, which was covered with yellow grass and contained one old weeping willow. “Well, this is it, I guess,” she said, looking down at the depressing yard.

  Fairday left the room and was heading back down the hall when she heard the strangest sound. It was faint, and it was coming from behind the padlocked door. She walked over and put her ear up against it. Something that sounded like music was coming from behind the door, but really odd music. It was high-pitched and whiny. Was she imagining it? She listened for a minute, trying to think of what could possibly make sounds like that, and then she knew. A few years back, her father had taken her to a Scottish festival in the city. She could picture the men onstage dressed in kilts and playing the bagpipes. The sound they made was unforgettable. It was beautiful but melancholy at the same time. Fairday remembered her father laughing about how he hoped it wasn’t going to be a windy day. He had explained that it was an old joke that Scottish men didn’t wear anything under their kilts, and if a strong wind were to blow, the audience would all get to see more than they had paid for. Fairday couldn’t believe there were people who didn’t wear any underwear. Luckily, it had been a calm day, and the men onstage all kept their skirts on.

  Suddenly, there was a long, earsplitting note from behind the locked door. Fairday jumped back. She definitely was not imagining this. Someone was behind the door playing the bagpipes!

  She turned and ran, her feet flying down the stairs. In her haste, Fairday accidentally tripped over Auntie Em and bumped into her father. Jolting awake, the dog let out a confused bark, looked around in surprise, and settled back into her snoring.

  “Whoa there, missy! Where’s the fire?” Mr. Morrow said, catching Fairday by her shoulders.

  “Dad! Dad!” she said, breathing hard. “There’s someone else in the house!”

  “What! Where?” Mr. Morrow asked.

  “Upstairs! There’s a door, and I heard music or something coming from behind it!” Fairday exclaimed.

  “Okay, okay! Nobody panic. Let’s go up and see,” Mr. Morrow said, running his fingers through his unruly black hair.

  “What’s going on?” Mrs. Morrow asked. She had just come through the front door with Margo.

  “Fairday heard something upstairs, honey. I’m going up to check it out. You two stay down here.” He motioned for Mrs. Morrow and Margo to stay put. “Come on, Fairday, let’s go see what it was.”

  “Wait, Dad.” She stopped him. “The door has a padlock on it.”

  “Hmm, locked, eh?” Mr. Morrow reached into his pocket and pulled out the key ring. He looked at each key and then said, “Aha! This one looks like it could fit a padlock.” He grabbed her hand, and Fairday gave his a squeeze as they walked up the stairs.

  Mr. Morrow and Fairday stood with their ears pressed against the door. “I don’t hear anything anymore,” she said after a few moments. “I swear I heard bagpipe music coming from behind there, Dad.”

  “I believe you, but I don’t hear anything either. Let’s open it up and find out,” he said. The key he had fit the padlock, and after opening the door, they peered into the room. It was empty. There was no weird hobo piping away on the bagpipes and no ghostly specter floating about the room. It was just a circular area with a cracked stained-glass window and a spiral staircase.

  Fairday felt a little let down. She shrugged. “Uh, I guess it was just the wind coming through the crack in the window or some—”

  “Oh! That’s right, I forgot!” Mr. Morrow interrupted her. “These are the stairs to the third floor.”

  “What’s up there?” Fairday asked.

  Mr. Morrow smiled down at her. “Looks like there’s more to this house than meets the eye, eh?” He chuckled and started to climb the staircase. “Fear not the unexpected!” he announced, holding a finger in the air. “Well, come on, then, and be careful. Some of these steps look rickety.”

  The stairs led to an archway that opened to a short hall with a door on either side. Directly in front of them stood something covered with a yellow sheet. Fairday watched as her father walked over and pulled it off, revealing a mirror. When the dust settled, she jumped with fright. She was looking right at herself, but for a second, Fairday thought she saw two red, glimmering shoes stepping backward through a door behind them. She spun around but found only the open archway and the spiral staircase. Was she seeing things? How had that door appeared? And who was behind it wearing sparkling red shoes?

  Fairday’s fleeting thoughts were interrupted when her father cried, “Ah!” and pointed at the mirror. “Well, at least it isn’t a bagpipe-playing burglar.” He nodded at Fairday’s shocked reflection looking back at them.

  “What a weird mirror,” Mr. Morrow said. “It’s kind of pretty. I could clean it up for you if you want it in your bedroom.”

  “No thanks,” Fairday said. “I’m not into possessed mirrors.”

  “Maybe it’s possessed by someone cool.” Mr. Morrow laughed and patted her head as he turned to open the door on the right side of the hallway.

  Ugh! Dad, the eternal comedian, Fairday thought as she rolled her eyes and followed him into the room.

  “Would you look at all this stuff!” said Mr. Morrow. The room was as large as the bedrooms on the second floor but was packed with boxes, covered furniture, and odds and ends.

  “This is really bizarre,” Fairday said, picking up a doll with a cracked head and one glassy, staring eye. “Whose stuff is this, anyway?”

  “I don’t know for sure. The previous owners’, I presume. You can come up here later to check it all out. I need to get back to unpacking or your mother will kill me,” he said, and Fairday followed him out of the room.

  “Well now, young lady, let’s see what fabulous prizes we have for you behind door number two. Whoa!” Mr. Morrow exclaimed as a crisp breeze blew in, freshening up the stale air. The door opened onto a small balcony. He gingerly placed one foot on the wooden boards, which creaked and bowed under his weight. Stepping quickly back inside, he tried each key in the lock, but none was a match. He placed a hand on Fairday’s shoulder. “I don’t want you out there. It doesn’t look safe. Since I’m not sure which key locks this door, I’ll have to seal it the minute I get a chance. Until then, just picture an intimidating sign on it that says ‘Stay Out.’ ” Then he added, “You know what intimidating means, right? Intimidating is someone or something filling you with fear.”

  “Sure, Dad, I get it,” Fairday said. She had no plans to plummet down the back side of the house and break her neck. Incidentally, Fairday did know what the word intimidating meant. What she couldn’t possibly know then was just how familiar with its definition she was soon to become.

  Fairday wasn’t sleeping well her first night at the Begonia House. Tossing and turning, she listened to the sounds of her new surroundings. The old house clanged and groaned as the wind wrestled the willow tree outside her window. Lightning cracked as the branches banged into one another, casting monstrous shadows along the walls. A crash of thunder jolted her upright and a flash of light lit up the room. In that instant, Fairday caught sight of a figure standing at the end of her bed. Everything went dark as she pulled the blankets up to her chin in terror.

  Reaching for the flashlight that was strategically positioned beneath her pillow, she shined it all around her room. No one was there. Had she been imagining things?

  Fairday could’ve sworn she saw someone but supposed it might’ve been a trick of the mind. Maybe she was dreaming about Muriel from Fablehaven, which she’d been reading before bed. A chill ran down her spine when she noticed her door was open. She was sure her dad had closed it after saying good night. Fairday used all her courage to sneak over and shut the door. Leaping back into bed, she invoked the power of the flashlig
ht, but the room proved to be devoid of intruders, except, of course, for herself.

  Exhausted from trying to sleep, Fairday was up early the next morning. She knew her thoughts had probably just been running wild after the events of the day before. She went downstairs and found her father up and about. He was sorting through some boxes on the kitchen counter, grumbling under his breath. “Where is that toaster? Hmmm, maybe in…AH!” Mr. Morrow shouted, jumping back when he noticed Fairday standing in the doorway. “You scared your old man half to death!” he laughed.

  “Sorry, Dad.” Fairday pulled the toaster out of a box and handed it to her father. “Looking for this?”

  “Aha!” Mr. Morrow said. “You’re up early on this dreary Sunday.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t sleep very well last night.” Fairday yawned. “Bizarre new house and all,” she said, handing her father a couple of slices of bread.

  Mr. Morrow popped them into the toaster and pushed the knob down. “There! One feat accomplished!” he said, and pretended to wipe sweat off his brow.

  “So, what’s happening today?” she asked, smiling at her father’s antics as she pulled herself onto the countertop and crossed her ankles. Auntie Em was wagging her stubby tail for a treat. Fairday noticed that the cookie jar had been unpacked and tossed her a biscuit.

  “I would say you should go and explore the grounds, but unfortunately it looks like it’s going to pour any minute. Why don’t you check out that room on the third floor? I bet there’s some neat stuff up there.” Catching the toast that popped out of the toaster, he added sternly, “Remember, Fairday, do not go out onto that balcony no matter what. I mean it.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad, I won’t.” Fairday nodded. She grinned at her father, adding, “I guess sifting through all that junk could turn out to be mildly interesting.”

  Mr. Morrow winked at her, and Fairday launched herself off the counter. In the exuberant manner of her father, she exclaimed, “Here I go! Off to reveal the mysteries of the Begonia House! I shall uncover all of the dark skeletons hidden in its many closets!” She grabbed a piece of toast and stuffed it into her mouth before dashing out of the kitchen.

  Auntie Em barked her approval as Mr. Morrow laughed theatrically. “There goes Fairday T. Morrow! The world’s greatest detective!”

  Fairday stopped off in her bedroom and walked over to the trunk, which was thrown in the middle of the room and still packed. She clicked it open, revealing a black backpack with the initials DMS sewn in gold thread across the flap. Hanging off the strap was a badge that announced in bold black letters:

  FTM, SENIOR INVESTIGATOR

  DETECTIVE MYSTERY SQUAD

  Fairday set the backpack on the floor and unzipped all the pockets to check that the tools were in order. She reviewed the pack’s contents, running her fingers lightly over each item while taking inventory. Fairday’s DMS pack contained one slightly scratched magnifying glass, three well-used artist brushes, two ink pads, a half-filled jar of fingerprinting powder, a small black leather flip-up notebook with a pen, and one small flashlight. Lizzy’s pack contained some of the tools that the DMS used on a regular basis, such as a strap-on headlamp, brand-new binoculars, an older but fairly good digital camera, and Lizzy’s older brother Mark’s multitool key chain, which Fairday recalled had come in handy more than once. She wished she had someone to dote on her and give her little treasures. Fairday guessed that was the difference between being the baby of the family and being the oldest.

  Certain she had everything she needed, Fairday zipped up her pack, slung it over her shoulders, and exited the bedroom. She wound her way up the spiral staircase that led to the third floor, and when she reached the top step she jumped when she found Mirror Fairday staring back. Luckily there was no sign of the mysterious door. The memory of a quick flash of red shoes materialized in her mind’s eye. Not wanting her imagination to get the better of her, she brushed away the strange vision.

  Opening the door on the right, she slowly began to climb into the cluttered room and noticed a large object in the corner. It was covered with a sheet, and she stumbled her way over to it. “Voilà!” Fairday exclaimed, pulling the sheet off with a flourish, feeling dramatic like her dad. At that moment, the walls seemed to ripple around her, and she felt off balance. Dropping her DMS pack to the floor, she fell onto the flattened cushion of the chintz armchair she had just uncovered. Was she imagining things? Had the walls really just moved?

  Sitting there quietly, Fairday steadied herself. Now everything seemed normal as she observed the messy room, which had a gloomier feeling about it this morning. It was also quite dusty and stale, smelling of mold, but Fairday was intrigued by a place that was filled with someone else’s life, someone else’s secrets. One corner contained a toppling stack of newspapers, and ghostly sheeted pieces of furniture were scattered about. She struggled a bit to pull herself off the cushion and sat cross-legged on the floor, setting up the DMS pack next to her. Fairday took out the notebook and pen. She flipped through a couple of pages until she came to a blank one. At the top of the page, in bold letters, she wrote:

  Begonia House Inventory: The Third-Floor Room

  Fairday began pulling out the contents of the nearest box. The first item she found was a tarnished silver hairbrush. She held it up and examined it. The brush had flowers and twisted vines etched into the silver. On the back, just near the base of the handle, were the initials RB. They were very small but elegantly engraved in looped letters. She set down the hairbrush and jotted a description of it into her notebook:

  Silver hairbrush with the initials

  RB engraved on the back

  She thought about the initials RB and deduced that the B was most likely for Begonia. But what did the R stand for? Fairday figured it had to be a girl, as there weren’t many boys who would have a hairbrush with flowers on it.

  She continued to dig through the box, looking for something else that had an RB engraving. The next object of interest was a photo in a black oval frame. It was in color, though the glass was grimy and smudged. She wiped it off with her shirtsleeve and saw a portrait of a young woman with fiery red hair. She had an elegant face and green eyes that seemed to pop off the aged paper. The lady was sitting in a chair, which was mostly covered up by her blue dress, with her hands folded in her lap. Her lips curled up slightly at the corners, as though she knew something cryptic or classified. And in a creepy but captivating way, the piercing eyes gave Fairday the impression they were watching her.

  “Hmm, I wonder who she was,” Fairday said, breaking the spell that seemed to have fallen over her. She turned over the frame, slid the photo out, and grabbed the magnifying glass to get a better look. The lady’s left index finger was slightly raised instead of folded in her lap and seemed to be pointing to something off in the distance. Fairday flipped the photo over and found writing scribbled at the bottom of the picture, but even with the magnifying glass she couldn’t make out what it said. She would have to talk to Lizzy about this. Her best friend was amazing on the computer and could possibly create an enhanced photo of the writing so they could read it. Fairday slid it back into the frame, then set it down to log the photo into her notebook.

  Small black oval frame with picture of red-haired lady. What is she pointing at? Talk to L about writing on back.

  The hairbrush could have belonged to her, Fairday thought as she continued sifting through the box. Maybe there was something that could provide more information about the mysterious lady in the picture. Unfortunately, she found only odds and ends.

  Fairday decided the time had come to unveil everything in the room. She pulled the sheets off in a swishing motion, creating puffs of dust that whirled about the room like mini-tornados. Suddenly, Fairday froze. She couldn’t believe it! In the corner, peeking out from underneath a table, sat an ancient-looking bagpipe. It was covered in cobwebs and had a cracked mouthpiece. How could this be possible? She was sure she’d heard bagpipes playing just yesterday, but this in
strument looked as if it hadn’t been touched for years. Could the rumors be true? Was the house really haunted?

  Taking a step closer, Fairday noticed an old-fashioned hourglass resting among knickknacks scattered on the table. Sparkling red sand was in both the top and bottom of the glass container. Picking it up by the tarnished silver sides, she flipped it over and gave it a shake. The sand did not drop; each grain seemed to be frozen. Strange, she thought. Fairday looked closer but couldn’t see anything preventing it from working. Why wasn’t the sand moving? Wanting to examine the hourglass further, she brought it over to her journal, made a note, then placed it carefully in her DMS pack.

  The bagpipe??? Covered in cobwebs and spiders/reed gross and moldy/Could it have been played?

  Silver hourglass—red sand is stuck.

  A glint of gold caught Fairday’s eye. A brass key was hanging over the top edge of the wardrobe. She walked over and pulled it down to find it had the same shape as the one that opened the formidable front gate of the Begonia House.

  “Fairday! Time for lunch,” Mrs. Morrow called from below.

  “Okay, Mom,” Fairday answered, thinking how fast the time had flown by. She quickly shoved the hairbrush and frame into her DMS pack, along with the brass key. Whipping the pack over her shoulder, she exited the third-floor room, banging the door closed behind her.

  Renovations of the Begonia House began at eight o’clock sharp on Monday morning. Fairday was awake, listening to the banging of tools and sloshing of paint buckets as workers got ready to battle the crumbling walls. She could hear rushed footsteps in the hallway and knew there were going to be herds of people clattering about in the house that morning. She felt almost happy to be going to school. Almost.