by Lois Ruby
Mom sniffs the hankie. “Rosewater,” she declares. “This doll must have been quite the lady of her time.”
I’m more interested in the object under the handkerchief, a small mirror framed in a pink-and-purple mosaic. Holding it up to my face, what I see for a split second steals my breath away — a sea of tiny faces behind me. Suddenly that image fades and it’s my face, me, clutching the mirror with trembling hands.
Mom is staring at me. “You okay, Shelby?”
All I can do is nod.
“I’m beginning to think you two kids have been probing the mysteries of this house a lot more than I suspected. I remember Aunt Amelia saying she wanted you to tie up loose ends. What else have you found out? Any more about how poor Sadie died?”
“Maybe poisoned with wildflowers, but I don’t think so, and neither does Mr. Caliberti.”
Then my genius brother pipes up with something totally unexpected. “Maybe it was the parrot. Maybe Plumy brought some yucky disease from way far away, and Sadie caught it.”
Far-fetched idea. But it sends me to Google, and what do you know? There was actually a parrot fever mini-epidemic in the early 1930s.
“Brian Tate, how did you get so smart?” Mom says proudly.
“Years of practice,” he replies with a grin.
Meanwhile, I’m thinking it all through: It wasn’t the governess, Dotty Woman, and it wasn’t Mariah’s grandmother Truva who poisoned Sadie Thornewood. It was her very own parrot’s deadly germs that did her in. Yes, that had to be it! Now Truva O’Donnell and the dolls can rest in peace. But there’s something we have to do to make that happen.
With my me-doll in my pocket, I climb in through the basement window of the abandoned house on the hill one last time. Brian’s with me, and we’ve brought a wheelbarrow lined with a blue flannel blanket.
“Sheesh.” The word whooshes out of Brian’s lips when he sees the shocking pile of broken dolls. One by one, we gently lay the parts and pieces, heads and bodies, into the wheelbarrow outside and cover them all with another blanket. Neither of us has words to fit this solemn job of wheeling the dolls to the little graveyard, digging one large grave, and burying them all together.
I know now what Mr. Caliberti meant when he said there should have been one more grave that sometimes was occupied, sometimes not. He meant it was for the me-dolls that each of us — Emily and I, and probably Sadie, too — had received from the other dolls. Gently I lay mine into the earth, feeling a piece of me go with her. We shovel soft dirt over them all and plant a marker that says Loyal Friends.
SATURDAY, AT HIGH NOON, WE’RE STANDING solemnly in the doll graveyard. I’m wearing my favorite seafoam-green dress with the little cap sleeves. I need to feel the wind, the cold, the mist, and everything else for this important occasion.
The dolls are warm. All of them, including Isabella, are wrapped in the red-and-purple pot holders Mom made, with just their heads showing. But I’m not sure what we should do with Isabella. Should she be buried with the rest?
Brian and I lay all the named dolls out on the ground. Chester sniffs each one, then curls in the center of the horseshoe. We’ve dug a new grave for Lady so she can be closer to the others instead of being banished across the cemetery. We’ve made new markers, too, these out of clay, and etched each doll’s name while the clay was soft. One of them has a large gravestone with this epitaph on it:
Here in this grave lies young Betsy Anne, The sweetest doll of the whole Thornewood clan. The best parts of Sadie she carries to heaven, For the girl sadly perished at the age of eleven.
Mr. Caliberti and Terpsichore are the first to arrive for the funeral. He’s wearing a black suit and one of those old-fashioned hats Mom calls a fedora. He sits on his little cane/stool and gazes at the Miss Amelia doll, which Terpsichore is tickling with her whiskers. We’ve cleaned up Miss Amelia, painted over some of the cracks on her face, and combed her black hair into a sleek mane. She looks almost beautiful, for a witch.
As he leans over and gently toes Miss Amelia, he says ever so sadly, “My dear Amelia simply wouldn’t accompany me to the altar.”
“Why not?” I ask, helping him straighten up. Mom thinks I’m too nosy and gives me a look that could shrivel me into a prune.
“Ah, we all have our sacred secrets, do we not, people?”
“Tell us what yours is,” Brian says, “and then I’ll tell you that I cheated in chess once when I beat my dad. Just once, though. He caught me.” His face turns red in embarrassment.
“My indiscretion is far worse, young Mr. Brian. You see, I was drafted and ordered to Germany during World War Two. I begged my dear Amelia to marry me at once before a justice of the peace and come abroad with me, but she declined. She wanted a full-stage church wedding with all the fanfare of a coronation.”
“Our no-frills Aunt Amelia?” Mom asks in surprise.
“The same. So, as ashamed as I am to say it, I tarried, went AWOL, which is to say, I left my military unit and walked three hundred miles back to Amelia.”
Terpsichore is winding herself around and around Mr. Caliberti’s legs, as if she knows what’s coming next.
“Well, Amelia Stanhope was a girl of highest, uncompromising standards. She simply refused to marry a man who would desert his patriotic duty. Even though later I served on the front for two years, she remained steadfast. Alas, there would be no wedding, church or otherwise.”
I have a bunch more questions, but I panic when Mr. Caliberti leans over so far that I’m afraid he’ll land on his nose in the middle of the graveyard. Maybe he’s fainting!
But no, he’s just noticed Isabella for the first time. He picks her up and shucks off her pot-holder cover to reveal her gorgeous golden, bejeweled gown and hat. “This one is not to be buried,” he says sternly, clutching Isabella to his chest as he settles back on his stool.
“How come?” Brian asks before I can get the same words out of my mouth. My brother, who never used to talk much? Boy, he’s making up for it.
“Forgive me, I’m a smidgen dizzy,” Mr. Caliberti whispers, his eyes sort of spinning. Terpsichore circles him protectively until he clears his throat to speak. “Mark my words, people, this doll is not like the others.”
“Who does she represent?” I ask.
“Whom,” he corrects me. “We must be precise in the THEE-uh-tah. Clever young Miss Shelby and young Mr. Brian, have you not figured out who Isabella is?”
I’m scrolling through the whole cast of characters I know from Sadie’s time and Emily’s time, and I can’t come up with a single person Isabella might represent. Yet Aunt Amelia must have thought this doll was important in the mystery of Cinder Creek, or she wouldn’t have given me Isabella’s floppy golden hat.
Mr. Caliberti asks, “Are you bewildered? Flummoxed? Then I shall tell you, tragic though it is. You see, just as Betsy Anne represents all of Sadie Thornewood’s best hidden qualities, Isabella represents Sadie living on into adulthood, grown to a beautiful young woman, even though the poor child knew that she was dying. This she whispered in my ear, handing me Isabella, days before she closed her eyes for the last time.”
“Oh …” Mom and I cry together.
“You see,” Mr. Caliberti continues, “that is why she never meant to bury Isabella, but asked me instead to hide this doll where a worthy person would find her and understand what swelled in Sadie’s heart at that moment when her anger turned to hope.” He faces me with that same intense look I’ve seen in his eyes before. “And that is why our dear Amelia arranged for you to grasp the secrets of this house.”
Before I can even think about the astonishing thing he’s just told us, Mariah arrives, pulling Grandmother Truva behind her. Truva’s wearing an ankle-length navy-blue cape with a red silk rose at her throat. Her hair looks like she’s just come from the beauty parlor, but her eyes are as lifeless as ever.
Mr. Caliberti gets up off his stool. “Why, Truva O’Donnell, you look as lovely as ever. You haven’t aged a day.
Come over here. Let me have a better look at you.” He takes her by the hand, and for a flash of a minute, her eyes light up as he seats her on his stool and stands unsteadily beside her. Mom moves closer in case he starts to toddle.
Mariah whispers to me, “I explained everything to my grandmother, about the parrot and all. I think she’s okay with it now.”
Mr. Caliberti asks me to hand him the C.B. doll, his me-doll. He says, “ ‘Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!’ ” And he hands me C.B. to place in his grave.
Mariah raises Betsy Anne, wrapped in red and purple, and turns the doll to face the rest of us. In her usual flat voice, cracking just a little if you listen carefully, Mariah says, “Sorry I never knew this side of Sadie Thornewood, but I’m glad to meet her now.” She lays Betsy Anne into her own little grave and sprinkles a handful of dry dirt over her.
Then Grandmother Truva shuffles to her feet and says, “Yea, though I walk through the valley …” She stops, all confused, adds “God bless,” then retreats into silence again. Mr. Caliberti has looped his arm through hers.
No one knows what to say next. Mom glances around, and when no one speaks up, she says, “I guess it’s my turn.” Kneeling, she tucks Baby Daisy into her red-and-purple bunting and nestles her into the tiny grave. “Sweet little one, if I’d been your mother, I would have loved you fiercely, and your sister, Sadie, just as much.”
Lady is the largest of the dolls, even larger than Isabella. I’m amused to see that Terpsichore and Chester are both dozing, with Isabella sitting between them like a referee.
Brian has a few words to say about Lady as we pour fresh earth over her wrapped body: “Lady Thornewood, thanks a lot for the queen. If I win the chess tournament next month, I’ll come and tell you.” That gets a tension-bursting laugh, which seems like a good time to bury Dotty Woman. I stand her up in her grave so everyone can see the perpetual wide grin on her playful face.
Mr. Caliberti squints to see her better and says, “Ah, yes, the young thing brought such laughter to a sad and troubled house. Pity there are no dandelions to accompany her on her journey.”
There’s only one doll left. I kneel beside Mom and motion for Brian to join us. “Miss Amelia, we didn’t know you until you were our pipe-smoking old aunt Amelia.” Mom and Brian both smile. And suddenly I’m choking up, unsure what to say, because my family knows Aunt Amelia wasn’t my favorite person on earth. But she gave me a huge, enormous gift, so I say the four most meaningful words that spring to my mind: “Thank you, Aunt Amelia.”
All the graves are covered now, each with a marker: Betsy Anne, Miss Amelia, Dotty Woman, Baby Daisy, C.B., and Lady. Terpsichore wakes up and dances lightly over each grave, with Chester’s eyes following her suspiciously. As Mr. Caliberti once said, Terpsichore “trips the light fantastic.” And it has been fantastic.
Suddenly there’s nothing more to say, except “Rest in peace,” which we all murmur.
“And leave my children in peace,” Mom adds.
The next time Dad comes, I’ll bring him out here to see the doll graveyard and tell him all about the funeral.
Tonight, after Mom’s asleep, I’m going to find the page that’s smack in the middle of the diary and sign in a black Sharpie, SHELBY TATE WAS HERE, with the date. Then I’m going to stash it back under the floor at the foot of the stairs. It’s the right thing to do, because it belongs to the house. To Sadie Thornewood. To Emily Smythe. Not to me. Then tomorrow I’m going to figure out how to get a phone number for Emily because she deserves to know that the things she saw and heard about the dolls and their mischief really happened, that she’s not crazy. And that all the dolls are resting in peace now and the drama’s over.
Unless the dollhouse up in the attic has other plans for us. I’ll know as soon as I step in the house — if the grandfather clock bongs five o’clock again.
Mom wipes tears out of her eyes and smiles brightly. “Well, who’s ready for lunch? A nice big bowl of steamy-hot soup? Chicken noodle or posole, your choice,” she offers.
We all head back into the house just as the America’s Most Amazing van arrives, and the producer guy, Drue What’s-His-Name, waves a letter at us and yells out merrily, “Hey, I got clearance from the bank to shoot the house up there on the hill, woo-hoo! My crack production crew’ll be along in uno minuto.”
We all laugh, even Chester, even Terpsichore, maybe even Grandmother Truva, because it’s too late now.
Everything amazing has already happened.
Looking for more haunting stories? Turn the page for a sneak peek at Suzanne Weyn’s creepy new series The Haunted Museum!
JESSICA’S BACK WAS TURNED TOWARD SAMANTHA as she searched through the cabin, combing through each of the still-empty dresser drawers.
“Oh, good. You’re here,” Samantha said. If Jessica was here, it meant she wasn’t on the deck with John. “I got so lost trying to find the costume room, but maybe you can help me?”
Samantha stepped inside and saw that Jessica was wearing a black maid’s uniform with a white apron and ruffled mobcap. Black stockings and ankle-high boots completed the outfit. Of all the costumes she could have selected, why would she decide to be a maid? It wasn’t like Jessica to pick such an unfashionable costume.
“What are you looking for?” Samantha asked as she stepped farther into the cabin.
“The locket! I have to find it!”
Samantha froze. The voice she’d just heard was high and raspy. It wasn’t her sister’s voice.
The figure turned.
It definitely wasn’t Jessica.
Gaping, Samantha stared at the girl she had mistaken for her sister. No more than fifteen, the girl was thin and pretty but with pale skin and deep shadows beneath her dark, burning eyes. Her lips were dry and her hands trembled ever so slightly. Her dark hair hung lifelessly at the sides of her gaunt face.
Samantha couldn’t stop staring.
“The locket — you stole it from me.”
“What?” Samantha asked. “I didn’t steal a locket from anyone. I don’t know what you mean.” She didn’t like being around this girl. Samantha hoped she would leave right away. “Honestly, there’s no locket here.”
“You’re lying,” the girl insisted. “I know you are. Give it back to me.”
As the girl spoke, her face was changing before Samantha’s eyes. It appeared to be contorting into a different shape, shifting into someone — something — else.
“What are you doing?” Samantha asked, her voice a quaking whisper. Although she wanted to look away, she was too amazed to even turn her head.
When the girl replied, her voice dropped to a low growl. “I’m not doing anything.”
“But your face,” Samantha said, backing away.
“What about my face?” the girl asked in a snarl.
Samantha grabbed the doorknob as she realized what the face was becoming.
A skull!
LOIS RUBY is the author of several books for middle graders and teens, including Rebel Spirits, Steal Away Home, The Secret of Laurel Oaks, and Strike!: Mother Jones and the Colorado Coal Field War. She and her husband live in Albuquerque, New Mexico, at the foothills of the awesome Sandia Mountains. While traveling, Lois explores ghostly locations in Kansas, Pennsylvania, New Mexico, and even a few spots in Australia, Spain, and Thailand. No spirits have tapped her on the shoulder yet, but she’s ready for that to happen anytime now. Please visit Lois at www.loisruby.com.
Copyright © 2014 by Lois Ruby
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First printing, July 2014
COVER ART AND DESIGN BY WHITNEY LYLE
Cover art comprised of photos by the following: Jill Battaglia/Trevillion Images, Stockbyte/Getty Images, C. Romance/Getty Images, Willard/iStockphoto, Faruk Ulay/iStockphoto, David Svetlik/Shutterstock, Inc.
e-ISBN 978-0-545-62065-9
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
