by R. L. Stine
It was great to see the house again. But it no longer held any secrets for Stephanie and me.
After the tour, we thanked Otto and said good night.
We were halfway down the hill when a police car pulled up to the curb. A dark-uniformed officer stuck his head out of the passenger window. “What were you kids doing up there?” he called.
Stephanie and I made our way down to the police car. The two officers eyed us suspiciously.
“We just took the tour,” I explained, pointing up to Hill House.
“Tour? What tour?” the officer demanded gruffly.
“You know. The haunted house tour,” Stephanie replied impatiently.
The police officer stuck his head farther out the window. He had blue eyes, and freckles all over his face. “What were you really doing up there?” he asked softly.
“We told you,” I said shrilly. “Taking the tour. That’s all.”
Behind the wheel, the other policeman chuckled. “Maybe a ghost gave them the tour,” he told his partner.
“There are no tours,” the freckle-faced officer said, frowning. “There haven’t been any tours in that house for months.”
Stephanie and I both uttered cries of surprise.
“The house is empty,” the police officer continued. “Shut down. There hasn’t been anyone in there all winter. Hill House went out of business three months ago.”
“Huh?” Stephanie and I exchanged startled glances. Then we both turned to gaze up at the house.
The gray stone turrets rose up into the purple-black sky. Nothing but darkness all around.
And then I saw a trail of soft light across the front window. Lantern light. Orange and soft as smoke.
In the soft light, I saw Otto and Edna. They floated in front of the window. I could see right through them, as if they were made of gauze.
They’re ghosts, too, I realized, staring into the soft, smoky light.
I blinked. And the light faded out.
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