“Mobsters makes sense. Maybe they just got so caught up in keeping the secret, the secret took over.” He grinned ruefully. “I’d say we should ask Thatcher but, awkwardly enough, we’re suing him.” He folded the ladder neatly back into its chest. “That pretty much takes care of the attic. Now, ladies, if you will please accompany me downstairs to the wine cellar.” Ben bowed with a flourish and led us down the worn stairs from the attic, then the carpeted stairs to the main floor. Finally he stopped outside a scarred, chestnut-colored door to the basement.
“We’re not supposed to go down there,” Janie muttered.
Ben grinned. “See? That’s why you only discovered the bookshelf. You obey too much. Access your inner gangster.” He leaned one shoulder against the door and explained to me, “This door sticks, so our mom is convinced we’ll end up sealed in or something.” Ben strained against the wood but it didn’t budge. He stepped forward, threw his shoulder hard, and almost tumbled down the cement steps.
“Or broken at the bottom of the stairs,” Janie added. She reached past me to flick on the light switch. The basement didn’t necessarily look less spooky with the lights on—instead the creep factor was simply illuminated. Gray steps splattered with white drippings spiraled down and the wood paneling featured a collection of old brooms and mops hung from nails. As we descended, the air grew danker. It smelled like wet towels and vinegar. Some of the bricks in the walls had crumbled and some were missing altogether, leaving dark hollows punctuating the peeling paint.
White sheets shrouded several large pieces of furniture. I moved cautiously past them, in case they might spring to life.
“So it’s mostly storage down here?” I said, my voice echoing through the underground chamber.
“Yes. Primarily dead bodies.” Ben kept his tone matter-of-fact, chucking me lightly on the back as we walked. “Oh come on. It’s just a basement. At least wait until I show you the best part before you go freaking out all over the place.”
“When did you find all of this?” Janie asked him.
“On all those afternoons I spent by myself while you were out adjusting better to the move.”
I pointed to a pile of metal apparatus in the corner. “What’s that?”
“Farm implements? Possibly animal extermination tools. Interrogation devices.”
“So something terrifying and possibly destructive?”
“Exactly.”
“Could you imagine if you did get stuck down here?” My voice sounded as if I was shouting down a long tunnel.
“But that’s the best part,” Ben said. “We actually can’t.” With that, he crossed the room and yanked on the handle of an ancient-looking refrigerator. It was the white kind, with curved edges. It stood on metal legs so that there was a wide gap between the floor and the appliance.
Next to the fridge, someone had drilled a circular hook into the wall and a worn rope hung there, slightly fraying at the end. Expertly, Ben tied that rope to the handle of the open refrigerator door and then stepped back. “Ladies first,” he insisted.
Janie and I leaned forward. Instead of an iced-over plastic interior, we saw a passageway. The refrigerator, while flush against the wall, had no back. “Holy smokes,” I breathed and looked back at Ben. “How did you find this?”
“I wish I could claim it was more complicated than simply opening the door.” He shrugged. “I’d been hoping for old beer.” Then he nodded toward the fridge. “Go on.”
For a short second, I remembered how barely a week before, Janie had half convinced me that Ben had written the Sentry’s letters. How she had described him as disturbed and angry and hateful. If he was the Sentry, the passage could lead anywhere. Or, more likely, nowhere. Maybe Ben would untie the rope as quickly as he’d knotted it and slam the door. Janie and I would find ourselves locked in some musty cavity carved into the Donahues’ basement.
I felt along the refrigerator’s sides and pushed. “Oh no—it won’t budge.” Ben said it like that was a good thing. “Someone bolted it to the floor. It’s a pretty solidly engineered situation, not unlike the passage built into the fireplace in the classic adventure film The Goonies.” He stepped forward and held out his hand like he was a Victorian gentleman helping me into a carriage.
The notion that I might have risked being buried alive for the chance to place my hand in Ben Donahue’s hand for a moment is not entirely unfounded. His hand was soft and warm and boosted me a bit as I stepped up. With his other hand, he grazed the top of my ponytail. “Watch your head.” If I were a Victorian lady, I might have swooned.
Instead I coughed a little. While it wasn’t turned on, the refrigerator still smelled like the inside of a Carvel ice cream parlor. “There’s a little flashlight straight ahead of you. To your right.” Ben sounded farther away than he could logically be. I reached forward and felt around in the darkness before me. The sides and floor of the burrow were covered in grit.
Janie murmured behind me, “You good, Liv?” And in response, I turned on the tiny flashlight. A thin column of light wavered in the dark.
“Keep going?” I asked her, half hoping that she would tell me to hold up.
Behind Janie, Ben said, “Be careful of the pipes above us. You don’t want to smack your head. Don’t worry! Just keep moving forward. I’ve done it a bunch of times.”
“I’m sorry my brother is so weird,” Janie muttered behind me. “I’m sorry my house is so haunted.” Gradually, the cramped passage gave way to a wider tunnel with more room above us. I felt above my head before I slightly straightened up.
“Okay. Now point the flashlight down and you’ll find a larger one right next to your foot,” Ben directed. I kicked the metal Maglite almost immediately.
“Why not just start with the larger flashlight, Ben?” Janie asked. “You make everything so complicated.”
“Don’t question my system.” As I closed my hands around the flashlight, it occurred to me that Ben had gone on this whole other adventure this summer, finding weapon trunks and rusty ladders and secret passages. I thought back to sneaking out and to playing catch in the dark, long past curfew. He was my best summer secret. But this was his.
I made sure my expression didn’t look hurt before I flicked on the flashlight. It wouldn’t have, though; as soon as the light hit the walls a look of wonder must have washed over my face. The room was a round dome, built from stones lined with wooden crates. A few pipes ran overhead and down into the entrance through which we had crawled.
“Welcome to the wine cellar!” Ben announced triumphantly.
“Where’s the wine, though?” Janie asked, sort of hopefully.
“Gone.” Ben held up a finger. “But … not for long.” He reached out to run his index finger along one of the shelves and then showed it to us. “See? No dust. Someone’s been in here pretty recently.”
I nodded toward the passage exiting the round room. “Where does that lead?”
“It comes out right by the shed. Wooden trapdoor.”
“Does it lock?” Janie’s voice rose. “Can anyone just enter our house through the basement?”
“I don’t think so. That fridge doesn’t have a safety mechanism—it’s too old. So you can’t open it from the inside. You’d have to come down to the basement and set it up ahead of time, by tying the door open. We can go out if you want—” Janie and I both shook our heads. “It feels much farther than it actually is. We only crawled a few feet.”
“Is this how you’ve been sneaking out?” Janie asked. I looked away.
“Not really,” Ben non-answered. Apparently the secret-sharing portion of the afternoon had drawn to a close. Or maybe not. Because Ben said then, “Let’s go back through to the main house and I’ll show you the trapdoors in the bedrooms.” We moved faster heading back, leaving behind the flashlights in their proper positions.
“How can there possibly be more?” Janie asked.
Ben grinned at us. “The passages go everywhere. There’s a stairway beh
ind the pantry that goes up to Mom’s gift-wrapping room. That makes sense though, because that room is so small. It was probably the maid’s quarters.”
“Your mom has a room specifically devoted to gift-wrapping?”
Janie rolled her eyes. “She calls it the craft room.”
“In her defense, there’s no shortage of rooms,” Ben pointed out. “And it’s the tiniest one.” He showed us the little door, which looked like a fireplace that had been filled in. You’d need to walk sideways through the stairwell and duck your head and tuck your shoulders to get inside.
I peered into the darkness. “We know the Langsoms are clearly not claustrophobic.”
“I think most recently it was kids who made use of these little hiding places. There’s another space under the window seat in the living room. But I keep finding Boy Scout stuff.”
Janie and I looked at each other. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Like relics. Pamphlets and badges. A sketchbook. I found a couple of old flashlights and a bandanna.”
“We found a book too—a scouting manual,” Janie confessed.
“And a sleeping bag,” I added. “A really old one.”
“So same kid, right?” Ben asked excitedly. “Or kids. Maybe a little troop of creepy scouts. What did the book say?”
I exchanged another look with Janie and felt my cheeks burn. It sounded so obvious when he asked. Of course we should have read it.
“I can’t believe you two. Go get it.”
Janie jutted out her chin. “No way. Where’s your stash of Boy Scout artifacts?”
“Hidden. And I will go get them as soon as you let me have a look at that manual.”
I held up both hands. “You two make me relieved to be an only child. Janie, go get the book and the sleeping bag. Ben, go grab your stuff—all of it. We’ll meet back here, in the gift-wrapping room.” I gazed around. “It’s neutral territory.”
“It’s really called the craft room,” Janie mumbled as she headed out the door, with Ben smirking behind her.
When we reconvened in ten minutes, the siblings had relented. They unpacked their treasures sheepishly, sneaking peeks at each other’s collections. The small room quickly transformed. It smelled musty. Dusty articles covered Mrs. Donahue’s pristine table. It looked like a History of Scouting exhibit at a museum no one would ever choose to visit. Except maybe Ben, who gazed at each treasure almost lovingly. “You guys don’t think this is so cool?”
I’d started to accept that I would never understand him. I could not think of a single other thing that Ben found particularly cool or compelling. Possibly the old transistor radio that the other girl carried around. His baseball glove. But he was totally enraptured by vintage Boy Scout memorabilia.
“It’s interesting and all, but it doesn’t tell us much.” Janie examined all the pieces. She turned each item over in her hands and then passed it to me. I made a show of looking closely and then handed it to Ben, who caressed it, sniffed it. I half expected him to tear out a page of the manual and eat it.
“TM,” he announced, pointing at two haphazardly drawn letters in the corner of the back cover. “That’s our guy.”
“No L for Langsom,” I said and we all stared at the letters as if they might unlock some code.
“It’s the same handwriting as in the sketchbook.” Ben sounded more definite than I felt. “The drawings are sad.” He flipped pages, explaining, “I don’t mean unskilled—but they always just have this one figure—in a tent, in a house. Under a tree.” Ben pointed out all the illustrations. “But there’s only that one figure over and over—isn’t that weird?”
“Well, he’s documenting his own adventures,” I offered, feeling defensive of TM and his singular figures.
“Yeah, but it’s just him. No troop. No buddies. And look at the faces—half the faces don’t even have a mouth. Most kids draw smiles. That’s basic little kid technique.” Ben ruffled Janie’s hair. “You drew everyone: Mom, Dad, Lucy, me. I mean, even trees had smiley faces.”
Janie studied the drawings. “Maybe TM didn’t have many reasons to smile.” Ben and I stared at her. Her voice was soft and a little spooky, as if she saw into a window invisible to us. “I mean, he obviously hid in the secret rooms. But I wonder why.” She patted the sleeping bag and a cloud of dust rose up like a puff of smoke. “We need to know how many children the Langsoms had back then.”
“Again. Not sure it’s the best idea to contact the Langsoms right now,” Ben reminded her.
“So we have to ask someone else who has long-established roots in the neighborhood.”
Janie stared at me with an unspoken request. I floundered, “I mean, I can ask my parents, but it’s doubtful—”
“Not your parents. No offense, Liv. But we need someone with a bit more expertise.” She raised her eyebrows as if waiting for a name to dawn on me. “A local source of wisdom. A loyal customer of candy fund-raisers …”
“No, not Miss Abb—”
“Let’s go pay a visit to Miss Abbot.”
Janie talked Ben into staying home. “Better if it’s just us girls,” she said.
When we stood on the stoop of the little yellow house, I could feel the reassurance of his eyes on us. “We really have to do this?” I asked.
“Are you kidding?” Janie responded. “This is going to be so much fun.” She punctuated her statement by reaching out and ringing the bell.
“Girls. Olivia and Jane Louise. My goodness. To what do I owe the honor?” Miss Abbot looked absolutely gleeful to see us, which didn’t necessarily calm me. I was sure the witch had welcomed Hansel and Gretel enthusiastically too.
I held up a handful of packaged candy like I was trick-or-treating in reverse. But before I could recite, We wondered if you might continue your support of the Glennon Heights Athletic Association, Janie cut me off. “Oh, Livvie—let’s not use the old selling candy door-to-door ruse.” My mouth opened and closed, speechless. “Miss Abbot’s too quick for that. I’m so sorry, Miss Abbot, but we could really use your help.”
“Why, girls!” Miss Abbot exclaimed, looking as surprised as I at Janie’s confession. She blocked Horatio, the cat, from escaping with one dainty, sandaled foot.
“You see, Olivia and I—we’ve been playing a fair bit of detective. You know—like in Nancy Drew?” I wished that Ben could see Janie work her magic. He would have been either proud or horrified. “We’re really trying to get to the bottom of those letters.”
Miss Abbot nodded her head thoughtfully and led us into her living room. “Yes. I see the efforts your whole family has been making—what with the publicity and the ghost chaser on a Saturday morning. It would be difficult not to notice, dear.” Miss Abbot spoke with the sweetness of arsenic dusting her words.
“I really love this town.” Janie covered her face with her hands. When she lowered them, her eyes were miraculously damp with tears. “But these letters are tearing my family apart. Olivia will tell you—my parents barely speak to each other these days. My sister just locks herself in her room with her homework. And my brother … Well, I worry about him most of all. He has a bit of a rebellious streak, you know.”
“Most teenage boys do.” Miss Abbot patted Janie’s hand indulgently. “Maybe the move has turned out to be the wrong choice for your family.” Miss Abbot smiled but her eyes narrowed, measuring Janie’s reaction. “For more than one family, in fact.”
Janie looked up with hard eyes. “Well, my family is here now. Not much anyone can do to rewrite history. It might help to know more of the local stories, though—specifically about the house itself. My father has behaved irrationally, but we all found those letters so disturbing …” She trailed off and then perked up, as if just remembering. “The last time Liv and I dropped by, you mentioned the magical Halloween celebrations the Langsoms once hosted. That must have been so wonderful for the children. How many sons and daughters did they have? Do you recall?”
Miss Abbot looked up, rememb
ering. “Let’s see—most recently there were three Langsom sons. I believe the youngest, Thatcher, attends school with you. According to the papers, he is quite an athlete.”
“Yes.” Janie practically bounced out of her chair with impatience. I nudged her knee with my own.
“That’s right. I know the Langsom brothers. And Mrs. Langsom always made the best treats for us kids around holidays. Jane and I are more curious about maybe when Dr. Langsom was a boy—did he have siblings?”
“Yes. The Langsoms have always had large families. I was surprised when Hunter and Helena stopped at the three to speak completely out of turn. But sleuths like us cannot just go on minding our business can we? What fun is that?” Miss Abbot giggled. “I remember telling her, ‘Helena, it seems to me you have more rooms to fill.’ But you know how these modern women are. You just rarely see big families anymore. Such a shame. I love to see a full pew at church.”
“Right. So Dr. Langsom had lots of brothers and sisters?” I prodded.
“Oh yes. There was he but also William and Thomas and Phillip and Matthew. The baby of the family—Margaret—was the only girl. Her brothers doted on her. That’s probably why she was such a handful. But you know she was very close to the VonHolt girl. And when that terrible business happened, well, it was as if it just extinguished Margaret’s inner light. It left us missing her troublemaking ways.”
“Wow. You mean the murders.”
Miss Abbot blinked. “Yes.” She looked at the clock. I cringed—I was so clumsy with people. We were losing her.
Janie stepped in. “What about other kids? When we first saw the house, it was a dream come true. And I have to admit I imagined moving here would go differently. It’s been harder than I expected to make friends.” Janie’s voice trembled ever so slightly. I recognized the theatrics but also knew there was a kernel of truth to what she said. “I don’t get the sense it was ever like that for the Langsoms. Those kids had lots of friends, right? Kids over all the time? I bet the dad coached Little League or led a scout troop. And Mrs. Langsom was class mom every year. Was it like that back then too?”
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