The Peculiar Incident on Shady Street

by Lindsay Currie

  “Inez?” she whispers, clutching the book tighter until her knuckles turn white. “Are you sure? Did you bring it?”

  “Yes. I’m positive it says ‘Inez.’ But I didn’t bring it. I didn’t want it in my backpack all day. I couldn’t stand the thought of it being that close to me.”

  Nina looks at Andrew, then back at me. Her chestnut hair flutters away from her face with the breeze, then settles back across her shoulders. “Inez Clarke was six years old and lived here in Chicago. She’s one of the most famous Chicago ghost legends ever.”

  “She can’t be that famous,” Andrew says quizzically. “I haven’t heard of her.”

  “If it isn’t round, black and white, and stitched together, you haven’t heard of it.” Nina laughs.

  Andrew mimics her laughter and bends down to look at the Graceland heading. “So is she buried there? Is that the connection?”

  The small hairs on the back of my neck are standing at attention again and I smooth them down. I want to know what’s going on in my house, but I was hoping I’d feel less afraid once I did. That definitely isn’t happening.

  “Yes and no,” Nina answers. “The legend is that Inez was accidentally locked out of her house by her parents during a storm and killed by lightning.” She flips to a different page and holds the book in front of my face.

  What I see takes my breath away. It isn’t a traditional grave, at least not like one I’ve ever seen before. Instead it’s a glass box, with a beautiful statue of a little girl perched inside it. The same box that showed up in my sketchpad. The same little girl drawn inside. And the same name etched into the cement. INEZ.

  19

  I STARE AT THE BOX, confused. Inez Clarke. Is she the little girl I heard crying last night in our hallways? And if so, why is she haunting my house?

  “Is that the picture in your sketchpad?” Nina asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, tracing the lines of the glass box with my index finger. “That’s it for sure.”

  Confusion grips me. If Inez is the ghost in my house, why was Reno talking and crying? It makes no sense.

  “Why me? Why my house?”

  I’m shaking now and I can’t help it. It’s one thing to know there’s a ghost in my house, but it’s another thing altogether to discover it’s a dead six-year-old girl.

  Andrew puts a hand on my shoulder. The teasing smirk is gone and now he looks reassuring. “Hey, before you get too freaked out, remember that none of this is necessarily true.”

  I toss my hands into the air, exasperated. “She’s a graveyard expert, Andrew! Of course it’s true!”

  Nina shakes her head. “I’m not an expert. It just happens to be something that interests me. That’s all. And there’s a catch to this story, anyway. One I can’t explain.”

  “What?” Andrew and I ask at the same time.

  Nina looks back down at the lifelike cement image of the girl staring up from the glossy page of her book. “There was no Inez Clarke.”

  “What?” I close my eyes for a moment so I can recall the statue. The dates inscribed under it. Glancing down at the page Nina is pointing to, I see them in black and white.

  INEZ CLARKE

  SEPTEMBER 20, 1873

  AUGUST 1, 1880

  If Inez Clarke didn’t exist, what were those dates? Why would there even be a statue?

  Nina points to a highlighted paragraph in the book. “This says that according to the cemetery records at Graceland, Inez Clarke isn’t even buried there. But that’s not all . . . . There was no Inez Clarke in the Chicago census, either.”

  “That makes no sense. It says her name right there on the statue!” Andrew objects, jabbing a finger at the book.

  “I know. But the cemetery records show a little boy buried there, named Amos Briggs.” Nina sighs.

  I try to wrap my tired brain around this. Ghosts are supposed to be tortured souls, right? So how can Inez be one if she never existed to begin with?

  Andrew looks like he’s caught somewhere between holy crap and I’m outta here. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. Let’s just look at the facts. Inez Clarke is the name on the gravestone.”

  Nina twists the thin black leather bracelet she wears around her wrist over and over again. “Correct.”

  “But the City of Chicago says no one lived here at that time with that name?” he continues, looking more disturbed by the moment.

  Nina purses her lips into a tight line and rolls her shoulders. “Also correct.”

  “Well, one of those is obviously wrong. What else do you know?” I ask Nina, picking up the book with trembling hands.

  “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

  “But . . . but you’re the graveyard expert!” I sputter out. “You have to know! I need you to know!” The tug-of-war between my imagination and my common sense begins. And right now, my imagination is winning.

  Nina shifts uncomfortably on the dock. “Listen, my parents aren’t exactly big fans of my graveyard hobby. It creeps Mom out, and—well, my dad loves history, but not enough to drive me to cemeteries every weekend.”

  “So what are you saying?” I ask.

  “I’m saying I don’t own every book and visit every graveyard and research every ghost. I can’t! Not unless I want my parents to think I’m even weirder than they already do.”

  Her voice tapers off a little at the end and my heart sinks. Nina seems so smart. She’s nice, too. It makes me sad to think that her parents don’t notice that. It also scares me, because if Nina doesn’t know more about Inez . . . no one does. And that means I’m in a lot of trouble.

  Nina looks between Andrew and me somberly. “Forget about my parents. They’re . . . it’s all good. It isn’t possible to know everything about all the Chicago ghost legends, anyway. There’s Resurrection Mary, the Eternal Silence statue, the Red Lion Pub . . . . There’s too many! Besides what I’ve already told you, Inez is a mystery to me.”

  “It sounds like she’s a mystery to everyone,” I say numbly. Disappointment floods me from the inside out. Short of a miracle, I have no idea how I’m going to get rid of this ghost.

  “Field trip!” Andrew says, popping up from his spot and startling me. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s about to enter a boxing ring. “Graceland, here we come!”

  “What? No! No way,” I say immediately.

  Andrew grips my shoulders and gives them a gentle shake. “Yes way. How else are you going to end this, Florida?” The nickname slips out and he suddenly looks worried.

  “It’s okay. I have bigger things to worry about than that stupid nickname,” I say. “I want to end this, but if you’re suggesting we prowl around Graceland Cemetery—”

  “He’s right. We need to go there,” Nina says, stuffing the book back in her backpack. “The cemetery’s front office will know more about this than we can find in books. If we can get them to talk to us, we might have a chance at figuring out what she wants.”

  What she wants. The words bounce around in my head like a possessed Ping-Pong ball. Does Inez want something from me?

  I stay frozen in place, the reality of my situation sinking in. Out of the millions of people in Chicago, for some reason this ghost has chosen me.

  I look up at the rapidly dropping sun.

  “You guys would really do this for me? Go into that cemetery?” My voice cracks slightly as I ask the question. I can’t help it. I’m a little overwhelmed. Back home, Rachel was the only one who would have done something like this for me. And even then, she had her limits. But Andrew and Nina seem so determined to help me that I almost feel guilty.

  Nina’s eyes soften. “Of course. You’re having a bad time and you need help right now. You need friends.”

  I grin. I do need friends. Everyone does. My thoughts shift back to Cassidy. I can’t help but think about the way her shoulders hunch over and her mouth turns downward when she thinks no one is looking. Is that what she needs, too? Friends? I shake off the thought, wishing I’d never met her to b
egin with. Cassidy obviously doesn’t want anything to do with me, but still. I can’t stop wondering why.

  “Okay. So we go to Graceland. But not now. I’m not going there unless it’s bright and sunny outside.” I sneak a glance at the screen of Nina’s cell phone. It’s 5:15 right now. The sun sets early here, so early that in the next hour the streetlights will begin flickering on. I won’t go to Graceland in the dark. I can’t.

  Nina pauses, looking thoughtful. “Agreed. We might want pictures or at least detailed notes, so there’s no point in going there when it’s getting too dark anyway. Plus, I think the gates close at some point every day.”

  Thank goodness for that, I think. Otherwise Andrew and his wild ideas would get us all in trouble.

  Nina thumps her sneakered foot against the dock as if she’s thinking. “Saturday, then. Today is Wednesday, so hopefully whatever’s happening in your house doesn’t get much worse by then. Meet here at eight a.m. and bring your bikes. We’ll go to the front office. Hopefully they’ll answer some questions about Inez.”

  “And Amos Briggs,” Andrew adds. “I’m supposed to be at soccer Saturday, but if you guys think I can help, I’ll skip.”

  Nina raises an eyebrow. “You? Skip soccer? Who are you and what have you done with the Andrew who would marry a soccer ball if it were legal?”

  “Shut up,” Andrew mumbles. Still, he can’t keep the smile from creeping onto his face. A smile that reminds me of how lucky I am.

  I shoot a silent thank-you to the universe. Then I start trying to prepare myself for the trip we’ve all agreed to make.

  20

  THERE’S NOTHING IN MY ROOM. There’s nothing in my room. There’s nothing in my room. I put this phrase on repeat in my mind, hoping it will slow down my racing heart, but something tells me it isn’t going to help.

  It’s funny, I can almost make myself forget about the ghost in our house when we’re all at dinner—Dad mimicking Grandma and her opinions about “the big city” and Mom laughing so hard she has to stop eating so she doesn’t choke. I can even overlook the fact that Jonah is still allowed to bring Reno to the table—even though that doll almost gave me a heart attack!

  But at night . . . late at night when the whole house is asleep, that’s when things get ugly. I close my eyes and hear stuff. Creaks. Thumps. Even the darkness has a sound of its own, and I hate it.

  I jump out of my bed and yank all the covers off. Wrapping them around me mummy-like, I head into the hallway. My breath catches in my throat as I stand there for a moment, squinting into the pitch black. This sucks. I can’t sleep in my room, but taking my chances with our terrifying stairwell doesn’t sound much better. I imagine a bony hand reaching out of the dark and snagging my ankle, or Reno’s gaping wooden mouth hissing my name, or the crackling. I hate the crackling.

  Stay calm, Tess. Just stay calm.

  Easing down the first couple of steps, I notice that the painting hanging in the stairwell is crooked. Not just a little crooked, either. It’s about to fall off the wall crooked. I inch closer, cursing myself for not being able to ignore it. In this house, I’m probably the only one who would notice, anyway. Mom still spends a lot of time hunting for her missing watercolors, Dad is busy practicing his new music, and Jonah . . . yeah, Jonah has Reno. The doll that never takes a vacation.

  Even in the dark, I can tell the picture has changed again. The paint colors are so deep that they’re almost black now, and the flowers are gnarled and brown. Dead. My hands shake as I reach out to straighten the edges.

  A dark smudge appears in the corner of the picture where I just touched it—a smudge that wasn’t there before. I pull my finger back and squint through the darkness, holding my breath. Paint. My finger is covered in wet paint.

  Scrambling away from the painting, I grab the railing, then stagger down the rest of the steps. Inez did that to the painting. She had to! Mom would never touch up another artist’s work like that, and there’s no other explanation for it. Just like there’s no other explanation for the drawing in my sketchpad.

  When I finally reach the living room, I’m such a shaky mess that I almost cry. How did things end up like this? Everyone else is sound asleep, probably having good dreams, and here I am . . . alone and shaking in a house I’m terrified of. I wipe the reddish-black paint off my finger onto my pajama pants, not even caring that it will probably never come out. Then I start turning on all the lamps. I need light, and lots of it.

  Once every lamp we own is turned on, I plop down on the couch under Mom’s paintings and pull my knees up to my chin. The sudden brightness hurts my eyes but feels good at the same time. Safe.

  Yup. Until I find out for sure what Inez Clarke wants from me, this is where I’ll be sleeping. With the lights on, of course.

  * * *

  I wake up with a start. Fear trickles into me like slivers of ice as I glance toward the window. It’s still dark outside. Still nighttime. I’m in the same spot where I fell asleep—the couch in the living room—and I don’t hear any crying or moaning or doorknob rattling. The house is quiet.

  So why did I wake up?

  Sitting up, I scan the room. There’re a few stray boxes still waiting to be unpacked, a mountain of Jonah’s Lego toys in the middle of the rug, and a stack of Dad’s sheet music sitting on the table. So far so good. Nothing unusual.

  Then my eyes skip across the floor. I freeze. There’s a scattering of something there, at the base of the brick wall. Dirt? Graham cracker crumbs from Jonah? I shake my head, remembering how hard I tried to convince Mom and Dad to tear that dumb wall out before we moved in. I told them how weird it is to have a brick wall inside our house, and that it was just one more thing about Chicago that felt cold and creepy. They said it was vintage architecture and we were lucky to get it. Right. Lucky.

  I drag myself off the couch and crawl over, curious. As soon as I get close I realize it isn’t even dirt. It’s dark red dust. There are some bigger chunks of brick in it, like the wall is crumbling. Huh. My parents were here for an entire day before they bought the house while some guy inspected it for problems. He told them about the pipes and the old water heater. He even told them about the tiny crack in the kitchen window. But he missed this? I mean, he should have noticed it, right?

  Unless it wasn’t there . . . .

  My stomach does a flip-flop. Maybe this is another clue.

  I swallow hard, wishing my friends were here. They’d know what to do and they wouldn’t be as scared as I am. Especially Nina. She definitely wouldn’t pretend she didn’t see the dust and just go back to sleep like I was thinking about doing. No. She’d investigate. I should investigate.

  Placing my palms against the wall, I follow the line of bricks straight up from the dust pile. One at a time, I press on them. Press, wiggle. Press, wiggle. Press, wiggle. The fifth brick up from the floor crackles when I touch it. I knock on it gently, gasping as more dust rains down onto the floor. I found it. I found the loose brick! A lightbulb goes on in my brain; I know exactly what I need to do.

  With shaking hands, I grip the rough edges of the brick and start jiggling it back and forth. It grows looser and looser in its spot until it feels like I could slide it out entirely.

  Here goes nothing.

  I slide the brick out, mesmerized by the yawning black hole left in the wall. I want to know if I’m right and there’s something hidden in there, but not bad enough to stick my hand in. I’ve seen way too many scary movies to do something dumb like that.

  I make a mental note to tell Mom and Dad about this when it’s all over. I don’t just want a phone anymore. I need one. If I had one right now, I’d be able to use the flashlight on it to see inside the gap. Now I’m stuck with either searching the house for a flashlight (no thank you), trying to sneak into Mom and Dad’s room to get one of their phones (double no thank you), or using a lamp.

  I settle for the lamp. Placing it on the floor, I angle the shade so that all the light is aimed at the hole in the w
all. Then I creep back to the hole and peer in. There are some yellowed papers tucked deep inside. They’re tied up with twine.

  Hesitantly, I reach in and grab them. The second my fingers touch the brittle paper I gasp. The memory of what woke me up is back, and it isn’t just scary. It’s terrifying.

  21

  I REPLAY THE SOUND IN my head over and over again as I sit there on the floor, clutching the rolled-up papers. It was a slow scrape, followed by a clink. The sound of a brick being shoved back into the wall. I’m sure of it.

  Standing up on shaky legs, I grab the brick and tuck it back into its original spot. Then I peel the corner of our rug up and use my sock to sweep the dust underneath it. I don’t want Mom and Dad to know about that loose brick. Not yet. Maybe not ever, depending on what’s written on the papers I found behind it. Papers hidden in an ancient wall can’t be good. It’s like a teacher asking to speak with both parents at midterms, or the lunch lady bragging about sauerkraut being on the menu. All kinds of bad.

  Crouching down next to the lamp, I straighten the shade and carefully begin to untie the twine. The paper is so old that it stays rolled up even when the twine is removed. Slowly, I flatten it out on the floor, then use four of Jonah’s bigger Legos to pin down the corners.

  It’s another pastel drawing, but this time it isn’t of a grave. It looks like a room. I blink at it, trailing my index finger over the simple lines that make up the dresser and the bed. I move the Legos and switch to the next paper. The drawing on that one is of a rectangle. A rectangle on tiny legs. At first I think it might be an old-fashioned bathtub with feet like ours, but then I notice the line at the top. The rectangle looks like it should open. Plus, there are a few crooked flowers outlined on each corner. I’ve never seen a bathtub—even an old one—with flowers on it.