The Peculiar Incident on Shady Street

by Lindsay Currie

  Mom untangles herself from me and stands. She looks at the light switch and then down at me. Holding out a hand, she helps me to my feet. “I’m no expert on old houses, but I think there might be a simple explanation for both of those things.”

  I tilt my head at her, curious. “What?”

  She gestures to the light switch. “See how the switch is halfway between on and off? I’m willing to bet that these Victorian houses have some pretty finicky electrical systems and maybe that was what caused all the flickering lights.”

  I stare at the light switch. It is frozen between the on and off position. “Did I almost burn down the house or something? I mean, the sound was really scary.”

  Mom laughs, a quiet sort of giggle that warms my heart. “Nah. I don’t think you did any damage at all. Just scared yourself a little.”

  Exhaling a shaky breath, I try for a smile. I know it’s weak, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m about to walk out when I remember the doorknob. Finicky electrical systems can’t explain that. Are the doors really so old in this house that they don’t open properly?

  “The door was stuck, too. That’s why I was calling for you.”

  She looks confused. Her bright eyes linger on me for a moment longer than usual before she shrugs. “I didn’t hear you calling me. Honestly, it was pure coincidence that I walked in here. I needed to brush my teeth.” She lifts up her left hand to reveal the cosmetic bag she’s holding.

  “You didn’t hear anything?” I say, stunned. “Not the loud sounds or me screaming? Nothing?”

  Mom shakes her head. “I’m sorry, sweetie. The real estate agent said no one builds houses like these anymore because the materials were too good. Too expensive.” She knocks on the door as proof. “Hear that? This is a solid wooden door. Not hollow. Everything is just thicker than in newer constructions.”

  Remind me that if I’m ever going to fall down or hit my head or pass out, I should try to do it in a room with an open door. Jeez. I turn back and face the mirror. All the pink has drained from my face, leaving behind an ashen-white mask.

  “You going to be okay?” Mom puts her hands on my shoulders and gives a squeeze.

  Nodding, I try to shake off the fear. I am okay. If I could survive the trip and the first day here, I can survive this creepy old bathroom.

  4

  MY LEGS ARE STILL SHAKY as I walk down the creaky stairs toward the kitchen. Not a good way to start my second full day in this new place. Prehistoric, dust-covered furniture. Strange sounds in the night and now, possessed electrical systems. This house is starting to really bother me.

  I pause to inspect a small painting on the wall—another one of the little things the previous owner left. It’s not very big—maybe the size of a normal sheet of notebook paper—and based on the cracks in the thick layers of color, I think it’s an oil painting. A simple, chipped tack is holding the top edge in place.

  “Why would they just leave this here?” I ask myself, leaning closer. Mom leaves her art places sometimes, just to surprise someone who might not otherwise have money for “luxury purchases,” but I don’t. I don’t want anyone else seeing my drawings. Not yet.

  I squint in the dim light, cursing the bare bulb hanging over my head. The image looks almost like a garden, with long tendrils of flowers winding up a high stone fence. It’s kind of creepy, nothing but a wall and those bright red petals, but at the same time it’s beautiful. Good contrast, as my art teacher would say.

  Swallowing hard, I tell myself not to think about my art teacher, Jane. She was short and blond and had the highest-pitched voice I’d ever heard. And she was also amazing at pastel drawing. My throat tightens with the threat of tears, and I shake my head, hoping maybe the memories will just fall out permanently. At least then they wouldn’t hurt so bad.

  “Good morning!” Dad says, gently laying down his violin as I cross into the kitchen. Jonah is up now and grinning like a maniac. Syrup dribbles from his chin, and half a dozen McDonald’s containers are strewn around the table. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Ahh, yeah. I guess so. Had some weird dreams.”

  “Me too,” Jonah says with a frown. “There were ghosts in the hallway.”

  I stifle a laugh. Thanks to Mom and Dad’s laid-back parenting style, Jonah gets away with way more than any four-year-old should. Including watching all those crazy staged ghost-hunter shows on the Travel Channel. Dad says Jonah is a man after his own heart. Mom says he’s a free spirit. I say he’s one bizarre little boy.

  “There were ghosts!” Jonah insists, stuffing another spongy bit of pancake into his mouth.

  “Okay, okay. That’s enough, J. Let’s focus on good things today, huh?” Dad says, pulling Jonah up into his lap. “We’re in a new city, and it’s beautiful out!”

  My eyes track his gaze to the window. I don’t see anything but clouds in the sky. It’s gray out, just like this building.

  “So, your first Sunday in the big city. Once we get settled in, we’ll resume our normal Sunday family days, but your mother and I both have about a million forms to fill out and companies to call. So . . . the world is your oyster today! Whatcha gonna do?” Dad asks, a broad smile stretching across his face. There’s stubble on his chin and bags under his eyes, but he looks happy.

  I shrug. I want to be happy with him. I really do. Dad is awesome and I know how hard he’s worked for this. Mom, too. But right now nothing sounds better than crawling back into bed, burying myself under the covers, and pretending none of this ever happened.

  “C’mon, Tess. Chicago is filled with history. And beautiful spots for drawing.” Dad pauses and glances over at the counter, at an old Mason jar sitting on it.

  I watch in horror as he crosses the room and grabs it, then brings it to me. With a clunk he places it on the table, leaving me to stare at the folded paper squares inside it. Dread fills me.

  The adventure jar. Mom and Dad came up with this idea two years ago. They both write up “adventures” on little slips of paper and drop them into the jar, then wait for the perfect moment to spring them on either Jonah or me. Usually me.

  “I don’t feel like using the adventure jar, Dad,” I mutter weakly.

  “Nonsense!” Dad laughs as he lifts the jar and shakes it to mix up the papers inside before setting it back down. “This jar has been the catalyst for many a Woodward adventure! Remember that time we used the adventure jar and decided to just head over to the Keys for the weekend?”

  Oh, I remember, all right. “Yeah, I missed a sleepover that weekend because no one checked the schedule before we left.”

  Dad snorts. “There’s a sleepover every weekend, Tessa, but the chance to see something new doesn’t come along that often. You had so much fun in the Keys. Jonah, too. Remember all the amazing things we saw? And that was because we didn’t sit around talking someday like most people do. We just did it.” He nudges the jar toward me.

  Sighing, I take it from his hands and begin unscrewing the top. I know Mom and Dad are trying to teach Jonah and me to be what they call “students of the world,” and that I should appreciate it, but some days a girl just wants to sit on the couch and zone out. Apparently, that day is not today.

  I cringe as I pull out a slip of paper. I was really hoping for an adventure that Mom came up with . . . something simple about finding one’s inner peace, or whatever. That would at least have earned me some private time to chill. But there’s no way that’s going to happen now.

  “ ‘Explore the unknown,’ ” I say, balling the paper up into a wad in my palm and chucking it onto the table.

  Dad’s face lights up like he just won the lottery. “Wonderful! There are tons of opportunities! If you think about it, moving to Chicago is really just one big adventure.”

  “I’d rather have stayed in Florida, where I could be sitting on the beach right now.” I stare back out the window, my eyes landing on the gray sky.

  His face falls slightly. “Hey, I know the first few days are going to
be rough. They will be for your mom and me, too. But think of it this way—you can’t see the world or all the wonderful things it has to offer if you keep your eyes closed.”

  My eyes are wide open; that’s the problem, I think.

  “Remember the place the real estate agent told us about? North Pond? That could be a perfect spot for you to explore today!”

  I look at him like he’s got three eyeballs. “I don’t know where I am, Dad. I don’t even know the name of our street. How am I supposed to get to North Pond?”

  “Chicago is set up on a grid system, honey. If you know the coordinates of where you’re at and where you’re going, you’ll get there.”

  I mash my lips together to keep from speaking. I don’t want to wander around a strange neighborhood by myself. I’m not afraid or anything, I just don’t want to. Not yet.

  “Oh, and Shady,” Dad adds, forking a bite of sausage into his mouth. He lifts the greasy napkin from the table and dabs at the corner of his lips.

  “What?”

  “We live on Shady Street. Literally just a few blocks away from the pond. I wouldn’t suggest it if it were dangerous; you know that. You’ll be fine, sweetie.”

  A bubble of laughter slips out. “Shady? Our street is called Shady Street?”

  Dad’s eyebrows jump like he’s confused. “Yes. Why?”

  Shaking my head, I pull my sweater tighter. “Nothing, I guess. It’s just . . . I don’t know . . . ironic. The houses here are almost all gray, the art on the corner looks like a torture device, and it has barely stopped raining since we got here.”

  Dad wipes a blob of syrup off the counter. When he turns back to face me, he’s smiling. “Ah. I see. You think Shady Street sounds sketchy. Well, Ms. Woodward, I think perhaps you’re looking at this the wrong way. Shady makes me think of lying on a hammock under a palm tree listening to Jimmy Buffett.”

  I still think Shady Street sounds like it belongs in an R. L. Stine book or something, but maybe Dad is right. Maybe I’m not giving this place a chance. “Fair enough. But there’s only one problem with your plan for me today. It’s cold out.”

  “The ghosts were cold,” Jonah interrupts, and Dad gives him a serious look. Jonah’s small forehead wrinkles up. “They were! I promise! I was sleeping in my bed when they made everything like winter!”

  Dad ruffles his hair and refocuses on me, but something dark is stirring in my gut. I can’t quite shake off Jonah’s words—the ghosts were cold.

  I remember now! The crying woke me up in the night just long enough to realize that my toes were sticking out of the too-small quilt I’ve been using because my own bedding isn’t unpacked yet. They were cold. Ice-cold. And so was everything else. I sat up to pull the quilt down over them again, and I’m almost positive I could see my breath. My breath!

  That makes no sense.

  “Dad, do you think there’s something wrong with the . . . the, um, whatever the heat thingies are called in this place?” We never really needed heat back in Florida . . . especially not large, hissing metal boxes like these.

  “The radiators? No, no, I think they’re working fine. Besides, it’s not even that cold out right now.” He taps the face of his cell phone. “Yeah, it’s fifty-three outside, Tessa. It probably just feels colder to us because we’re used to Fort Myers weather.”

  Listening carefully, I hear the low psssssst of air coming from the box in the corner. The radiator. It’s warm in here now, so he must be right.

  “And as for the ghosts, I think our little man here has an unbelievable imagination. Going to make himself a fine artist or maybe even an author someday.” Dad squeezes Jonah and they both laugh.

  I stare out the window, taking some small sliver of comfort in the fact that Dad and Jonah seem happy. Why wouldn’t they, though? Dad got his dream job and Jonah is just a baby. It isn’t as hard to leave everything behind when you’re not even in kindergarten yet. When I was in kindergarten, my goal in life was to learn to count from one to one hundred.

  Dad snaps his fingers in the air, pulling my attention from the bank of clouds rolling past outside. “Go! Enjoy the leaves and the smell of wood fireplaces! Enjoy October! Before you know it, it will be November, and I’ve heard crazy things about winter in the Midwest.”

  Of course he has. Everyone has. Last year my science teacher said Chicago once had a polar vortex that killed most of the fish in every pond, lake, and stream in a nearly five-hundred-mile radius. And what did my family do? We came running here.

  “Listen, your mom will be home soon, and I need to go down to Symphony Center for a bit. Maybe you’d rather come with me? Check out my new ‘office’?” He says office with a smile, and I feel the joy radiating off him. I know he’s excited and maybe I should be, too.

  Still. It hurts. I don’t want to see Symphony Center because right now, I hate it.

  Jonah is clacking Reno’s mouth in my direction, mumbling something I can’t quite make out. The dark lines running down either side of Reno’s chin are really just cracks that allow the mouth to move, but they look like blood. Black blood. I watch the rectangular pieces of wood as they click together furiously, mouthing out something . . .

  “Wanna play, Tess?”

  Hearing the words in Jonah’s tiny, childish voice and seeing them synched up to Reno’s mouth is unsettling.

  I jump out of my chair and make a beeline toward the door. I can feel Reno watching me the entire way, sending a chill up my spine. I can never tell Jonah because it would hurt his feelings, but I don’t just think Reno is ugly . . . I’m kinda afraid of him. Dad found him at a yard sale back in Fort Myers and bought him for five bucks—which I think was robbery for that thing. It belongs in some kind of spooky artifact museum, not in our house.

  “No thanks. I think I’m going to take your advice and get out of here for a while.” I won’t be gone long, and I won’t go too far. I silently add that last part for myself. Dad wouldn’t care if I hopped a bus to the next town.

  5

  Hi Rachel,

  Chicago sucks and I miss you. It’s cold here and it rains SO much. Have you started school yet? I have to start tomorrow and I don’t know how I’m going to do it without you. I’m still wearing my locket. Write me back!

  Love,

  Tessa

  P.S. We aren’t getting a house phone, but we will have Internet hooked up soon so I can e-mail you. Finally.

  I tuck the letter to Rachel and my pastels into my messenger bag and then take my first steps down Shady Street. I know I should be unpacking, and right now I’d actually rather do that, but I also know Dad. He won’t drop it until I’ve explored something, even if it is just the park in the middle of our cluttered new neighborhood.

  North Pond is just southeast of our house. Dad showed me on a map before I walked out. I have a compass with me, one my parents bought for me two years ago when we were in our camping phase. All that connecting with nature was fun . . . when we didn’t get lost or poured on. Mom doesn’t like to obsess over the weather forecast, says you can stick your hand out the window and see for yourself. That might be true, but having a smartphone would make things easier. If I could use GPS to get to the pond, my phone would shout out the directions. I’d be there in no time! Instead I’ll be trying not to fall on my face as I wobble through this strange neighborhood, completely focused on a tiny plastic bubble so I don’t get lost.

  I stop to wrap my sweater tighter around me as the wind picks up, looking down to make sure I’m keeping the needle of my compass tipped between the S and the E. The air smells gross, kind of like a combination of hot dogs and bathrooms.

  “It’s the sewer,” Dad said as we caught a whiff of that same sour smell while we unloaded boxes from the moving truck. “Chicago’s sewer system still has a lot of old clay pipes in it, and they’re fragile. The constant construction causes leaks in them from time to time.”

  “The sewer?” I asked, wrinkling my nose as I grabbed another box. “Gross. How do you
know that?”

  Mom wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead and sighed. “Your father and I did a lot of research before deciding to move you kids here. A few odd smells here and there aren’t enough to keep us from following your father’s dream.”

  I stewed inside at that. What about my dreams? What about the school play and the art club I was planning to start? What about my first school dance—the one Rachel and I were going to attend together?

  Something ahead catches my eye, and I shake off my thoughts. There’s a clearing, a cluster of trees so beautiful it takes my breath away. Bright oranges and reds light up the cloudy sky like another planet shimmering off in the distance. I continue toward them, the first rays of hope welling inside me. The air smells cleaner suddenly . . . crisp and a little sweet, like fresh sketchpad paper. I like it.

  Crossing one final street, I find myself standing in the most gorgeous stretch of grass and trees I’ve ever seen. No buildings. No car horns or muffler exhaust. No ugly sidewalk artwork. Just color. Orange, red, and even a few bright yellow trees line the walking paths. I’ve never experienced autumn in the Midwest before, but I’ve seen pictures and this . . . this is it. As much as I hate the chill in the air, the leaves sure are beautiful.

  A soccer ball lands at my feet. A boy who looks like he’s about my age skids to a stop just in time to avoid crashing into me. He swipes his messy blond hair out of his eyes and smiles.

  “Sorry. That one got past me.” Dirt covers the entire front of the long-sleeved T-shirt and track pants he’s wearing. A few splotches of mud speckle his tan skin. Except for his faintly nasal accent, he could almost fit in back in Florida.

  I shrug and pick up the ball, then toss it back to him. “No biggie.”

  He grips the ball between his hands and looks me up and down. “You lost?”

  Shaking my head, I try for a smile. “Nope. Just moved here, and I’m trying to find North Pond.”

  The boy’s eyes light up, and I notice how blue they are. Like the ocean. “You found it. It’s right over there.” He points to our right, where I can see the light reflecting off something . . . presumably water. “Where’d you move from?”