Secrets at the Chocolate Mansion

by Leslie Margolis

  “Nope,” said Beckett.

  “Well, tell her I say hello,” I said again and left Beckett in his room, to his imaginary friend, because Margaret had to be imaginary.

  There is no such thing as ghosts.

  There is no such thing as ghosts.

  There’s just not.

  Except the more I repeated this, the less convinced I became.

  Maybe I just needed a distraction, I thought, flopping down on the living room couch and opening up my math book. I was just getting into the first problem when suddenly I heard something from the back of the apartment—a muffled sort of dripping. I jumped up and checked on Beckett through the crack in his bedroom door. He was staring at the ceiling with his eyes wide open.

  But the sound wasn’t coming from his room.

  I tiptoed into his moms’ room. In their bathroom, the sink was dripping. I tightened the faucet, then jumped at the sight of myself in the mirror. They’d already replaced the giant mirror that had shattered; it was propped up on the wall opposite their bed.

  I moved closer and studied myself.

  I looked freaked out, which made me feel silly. Because what did I have to worry about? I’m twelve years old. I have a successful dog-walking business. I’ve solved a bunch of mysteries.

  And I don’t believe in ghosts.

  Because they do not exist.

  Period.

  It’s a fact.

  Of course, it was also a fact that I was shivering. But this had to be because it was chilly in Beckett’s apartment.

  I checked the thermostat. It read seventy-three degrees. The heat was blasting, and I was still wearing my thick wool sweater.

  When I got back to the living room the sun had set, so the room was dark. I flicked on the light switch, but nothing happened. There was a reading light on the table by the couch, and I tried to turn it on. But the bulb was out there, too.

  No reason to panic, though, because this was not a creepy apartment. I reminded myself that I was in Park Slope, a mere three blocks away from the apartment where I’ve lived for my entire life. I’ve passed by this building thousands of times, probably, and never even gave it a second look.

  I turned on the kitchen light, which cast a glow in the living room. It wasn’t enough light to read by, though.

  I wished I’d brought a flashlight, or this headlamp I got the one time I went camping.

  It didn’t help that Nofarm was acting so strange—unsettled and completely stressed out. He kept randomly barking at the walls and scratching at the floorboards, as though there was some sort of—I don’t know—otherwordly and invisible presence there. Except that was impossible.

  But maybe I was thinking about things too much. Perhaps all I needed was a distraction. Homework, for instance; I still had plenty of it.

  For my history paper I planned on going to the library, but I figured the Internet was a good place to start. Once I googled Jonas Adams, I would be able to dispel the entire haunted-mansion myth. The whole story had to be some crazy urban legend, probably not even popular enough for anyone to write about.

  But unfortunately what I found verified everything Milo had said.

  A few websites mentioned Jonas Adams and his chocolate empire—back then he was called Brooklyn’s King of Chocolate. Every site mentioned the gigantic mansion he built next to his factory, and the freak accident that took the life of a poor Irish servant named Margaret.

  But could her ghost be haunting Beckett? And if so, why wasn’t he scared?

  The next time I checked on Beckett he turned to me and asked what I wanted. “Why do you keep coming in here?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “This is my first time babysitting, so I figured I should check up on you.”

  “Most babysitters don’t do that,” said Beckett.

  “Oh,” I said. For a moment it kind of felt like he was taking care of me. I coughed and stood up straighter. “Do you need anything? A glass of water?” I wasn’t about to admit to a three-year-old that hanging out at his house was creeping me out—or that I felt safer with him than I did out in the living room by myself.

  “No,” he said.

  “Okay. Let me know if you do.”

  “Okay,” said Beckett.

  “Um, is Margaret here?”

  “Do you see her?” he asked, as if I were stupid.

  “I don’t see her,” I said, looking around the room. “But I thought she might be invisible or something.”

  “She’s not invisible,” Beckett told me.

  “Okay, then.”

  As I left his room I felt silly for acting nervous, because I’m supposed to be the responsible babysitter. That means if there is a ghost—if the building is truly haunted—it’s my job to protect Beckett. Of course, my babysitter training course covered choking, fires, break-ins, and other emergencies, but the instructor never talked about what to do in case of a ghost …

  I looked out the window. Prospect Park stretched out below, peaceful and green. I looked up at the full moon. A full moon. Great. That was just the kind of creepy detail I didn’t want to notice.

  I sat back down on the living-room couch and tried to focus on my math homework. But I found it impossible. My mind kept drifting back to the website dedicated to the haunted mansion. I went back to the computer and checked again.

  Everything Milo had told me about was there. And a whole lot more.

  I read all about Margaret. She was the only daughter of a family of potato farmers. She wrote home to her family every single week. She liked to sing. Sure, she worked as a maid, but she dreamed of being a nurse. She had just enrolled in classes at Brooklyn College, and was supposed to start in the fall. She had a fiancé in Ireland, too, a boy named Michael. He was saving up money to make passage to the United States.

  She probably came in to the United States via Ellis Island, where most immigrants first set foot on American soil. We’d studied Ellis Island in history last year, so I had an idea of what Margaret’s experience must’ve been like. I closed my eyes and tried to picture her stepping off the boat and seeing New York for the first time. All the hustle and bustle, the cars and people and new smells and sounds and sights: America—the land of opportunity, the place where good things were supposed to happen. I’ll bet Margaret was nervous, but I’m sure she never imagined her life would soon be ending, or that her ending would involve being trapped in some rich guy’s elevator.

  Suddenly I heard a strange scraping noise. I looked up, and in the semidarkness saw something move.

  At first I feared it was a mouse, but mice don’t have sharp, gleaming edges.

  Once my eyes adjusted, I saw it was Beckett’s remote-control car traveling slowly across the floor—all by itself.

  Chapter 13

  The car glided smoothly, as though propelled by an invisible hand.

  A ghost hand.

  I looked across the living room at Beckett’s door, which stood slightly ajar. Then I noticed the remote control next to me on the table. I picked it up, thinking maybe I’d accidentally triggered it somehow—but the entire remote felt suspiciously light. I turned it over and opened the battery compartment. The empty battery compartment.

  There were no batteries in the remote.

  I yelled and threw it across the room, then ducked under the afghan on the couch. As if a bunch of yarn could protect me. Yarn filled with dust, I realized as I immediately sneezed. I threw off the afghan and tried not to panic, because I was supposed to be the responsible babysitter. I had a job to do: protect Beckett. But how could I protect him from something that didn’t exist?

  I stared at the car, now sitting in the middle of the living room, a good three feet away.

  Okay, I told myself. That did not just happen. I must’ve imagined the whole incident. Except here’s the thing: I knew I didn’t.

  The car had been on one side of the room, and it drove to the other side of the room—all by itself.

  The next time I checked
on Beckett he was asleep, so I closed his door.

  I turned on the hall light. And the fancy crystal chandelier in the dining room, and every other working light source I could find in the entire house, except for those in Beckett’s and his moms’ rooms.

  Not knowing what to do with myself next, I walked into the kitchen and peeked into every single cabinet. I found dishes, wineglasses, regular glasses, and the food pantry. I munched a handful of baked potato chips, then ate some mixed nuts. Then I wandered back into the living room and turned on the TV, figuring I could use a distraction. But guess what was playing? Friday the 13th.

  Because tonight was the thirteenth of the month. Not Friday, but still; thirteen is an unlucky number any day of the week.

  I turned off the TV and opened my book, thinking I’d do some English homework. Except my assignment was to answer questions about “The Raven,” by Edgar Allan Poe. The poem starts like this: Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary. I slammed the book shut, because that opening line sounded way too creepy for tonight. Then I read about the poem online. It turned out “The Raven” was about a talking bird and a man grieving over the death of his girlfriend. Gah! That’s the absolute worst poem I could read right then. It was like I was being stalked by spooky stuff.

  I went back to math, because there’s nothing scary about numbers.

  After I finished the assignment I looked at my watch. I’d been taking care of Beckett for over three hours now. Lisa and Caroline were only going out to dinner, as far as I knew. That’s what they’d told me, anyway; they also said they’d only be gone for a couple of hours—meaning two—so where were they?

  How long did dinner take?

  What if they didn’t come back?

  What if their plan all along was to ditch Beckett with the unassuming and inexperienced babysitter and hightail it out of town and away from their haunted house?

  At least they knew I would take good care of Nofarm.

  I wasn’t thinking straight. No way would they abandon Beckett. Why would I even think such a crazy thing? This house was making me lose my mind!

  I wandered around the apartment again, opening all the doors that had been closed, including Beckett’s. I found him asleep on top of his spaceship quilt, half his curls smushed against his pillow.

  When I glanced at the closet in his room, I jumped at the sight of myself. Apparently the back wall was covered in mirrors that I somehow hadn’t noticed before.

  I hurried back to the living room, flopped down on the couch, picked up my phone, and texted Sonya.

  What r u doing?

  Playing hearts with Felicity. U?

  Babysitting for Beckett

  In the haunted house?

  It’s not haunted.

  R u sure?

  Not funny.

  I wasn’t kidding. Careful of Mindy!

  Margaret! If you must tease me at least get the ghost’s name right

  Sorry dude.

  I tossed my phone into my bag, wishing I could call Milo, but he already owed me too many calls. Anyway, what would I tell him—I think you were right about the ghost, and now I’m stuck here. Please help me? I didn’t need anyone to rescue me. Anyway, based on Milo’s initial reaction to this house, I’m sure he would never set foot inside. Maybe it was better that we weren’t speaking at the moment. Maybe if I told him where I was, what had happened, and how scared I was, he’d say I told you so.

  Not that any of this mattered, because calling Milo was not an option. I’d already tried to get in touch with him too many times, so now I had to wait.

  I looked around the apartment, wondering what to do. A fresh copy of the New York Times sat on Lisa and Caroline’s coffee table. The story on the front page was about Amtrak’s terrible safety record and their attempts to cover it up. It made me remember something my grandmother once told me: reading the New York Times cover to cover for a year would make me smarter than studying at any university. This always seemed like the kind of great advice I’d never actually follow. But tonight I had a change of heart. Tonight I felt like I may as well try.

  I picked up the paper and began reading. And the next thing I knew, someone’s hand was on my shoulder.

  I opened my eyes, saw someone standing right in front of me, and screamed.

  “Ah! What’s going on?” I asked, scrambling to my feet.

  “It’s okay. It’s just us,” said Caroline as she took off her jacket and hung it in the closet by the front door. “You dozed off.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry,” I said, realizing it was Beckett’s parents and not the ghost of Margaret in front of me. “I can’t believe I fell asleep on the job. I’ve never done that before. I mean, I’ve never babysat before, either, but I’m sure I’ll never do it again. Fall asleep, I mean. Not babysit. I checked on Beckett six times, and he’s always been okay. Let me check on him now.”

  “It’s okay. We just did,” said Lisa. “Beckett is fine.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said again.

  “Don’t be. We should be apologizing to you because it’s so late. We weren’t expecting to be gone for so long, but there was over an hour wait for a table at al di la,” Caroline explained. “I guess we should’ve called.”

  Lisa sank down into an easy chair and kicked off her heels. “How was he?” she asked as she rubbed her left foot.

  “Beckett? He was great. We made a tower out of LEGOs and read a bunch of books, and he went to bed. Oh—this was weird. He wanted the closet door open. He kept talking about someone named Margaret visiting him …”

  Lisa and Caroline glanced at each other, and their expressions told me they weren’t surprised by my news. Neither of them seemed willing to talk about it, though.

  “So, what’s up with that?” I asked.

  “We should’ve mentioned Margaret. She’s his imaginary friend,” said Caroline. “Just like the ghost who supposedly haunts this place. I’m guessing he heard someone talk about her and invented his own Margaret character.”

  “Ha!” I forced a laugh, but it sounded choked. “That’s what I figured, but I just wanted to make sure he’s not being visited by the actual ghost.”

  Lisa and Caroline laughed, too. “Nope. We haven’t seen any ghosts around.”

  “Good,” I said. “But have you noticed all the creepy noises in the building? I can see why people think it’s haunted.”

  “I know it’s got that reputation, but trust me, it’s just an old house,” said Caroline. “That’s what happens. Buildings are alive; they have their own quirks and personalities, in a sense. The pipes clang when the heat goes on, and wood expands and contracts with the weather. Mortar crumbles. Foundations shift over time. Basically, the building is still settling. It always will be, to some degree, and sometimes that produces strange noises.”

  This made sense, but it didn’t exactly ease my mind. I was already worried about Margaret the ghost—but now I had to worry about the building, too? How much more stress could I handle?

  Let me answer that question for you: not much! I was itching to get out of the apartment—the whole building, even. At this point, I’d avoid the entire block if I could. Because now that I was fully awake, I remembered why I was so freaked out in the first place. “The remote control car started working on its own,” I blurted out.

  Both Lisa and Caroline cracked up, which was not the reaction I was expecting.

  “I’m sorry,” said Caroline, “but you ought to have seen your face just now. And I shouldn’t laugh, because I probably had the same reaction when it happened to me the first time last week.”

  “It’s happened to you more than once?” I asked.

  “We should’ve warned you,” said Caroline. “It’s because the car runs on the same frequency as our neighbor’s remote control, so anytime they turn on the TV next door, the car shifts a little.”

  “But it didn’t just shift a little bit,” I said, “it moved at least three feet.”

  “That’s
probably because the floor is slanted,” said Lisa. To demonstrate, she went to Beckett’s toy box, pulled out a Matchbox car, and placed it in the corner of the room. She lifted her hand gently, and the car rolled all the way across the floor as if propelled by an invisible hand.

  I sighed in relief and giggled out of nervousness all at the same time. “I so wish I had known that two hours ago,” I told them.

  “Sorry,” said Lisa. “We were in such a rush to get out of here we forgot to mention it.”

  “I didn’t even think it would come up,” said Caroline. “But other than that, I’m so happy everything went well. Beckett loves you, I can tell. So will you babysit again? It would help us out a lot.”

  I didn’t know what to say at first. I couldn’t exactly admit that their apartment creeped me out—not when I didn’t believe in ghosts.

  “Know what?” I said. “I have a twin brother named Finn, and he’s trying to break into the business. So could we maybe babysit together next time? He’s amazing with kids, and super sweet, too.”

  “Okay,” said Lisa. “That works for us. And maybe you two can keep each other awake.”

  “Right.” I cringed. “So sorry about that!”

  “I’m kidding,” Lisa said as she looked down at her phone and pressed some buttons, pulling up her calendar. “How about Friday night?”

  “You mean next weekend?” I asked. “As in, six days from now?”

  “Yes. Is that okay?” asked Lisa. “My company is hosting a benefit downtown, and I really need to show my face.”

  I felt totally put on the spot. If I said no, I’d seem like a wimp. But if I said yes, I’d be stuck babysitting. Of course, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad with Finn there. And he did need the money. And once I got around to having Mom sign my test, she’d probably never let me babysit again anyway. So maybe I should just do it while I still had the opportunity. “Sure,” I said softly. “Friday works for me.”

  “That’s wonderful,” said Caroline. “Six forty-five okay?”

  “Yup.” I nodded, reasoning to myself that I could always text them tomorrow and cancel.

  If I wanted to admit to the world that I was a big, fat, scaredy-cat.