The Mystery of the Whispering Witch

by Campbell, Julie

  “Oh!” Trixie’s face fell and she felt a pang of disappointment upon hearing such a mundane explanation of the stains.

  She turned Susie’s head toward the three girls, who were waiting for her. At the last moment, however, she couldn’t resist leaning from her saddle and whispering to Regan, “I found out what Caleb Lisgard died of. It was a bowl of mashed potatoes.” She laughed when she noticed the puzzled look in his face.

  The four girls were riding easily when they came in sight of Lisgard House.

  Suddenly Fay gasped and pulled Strawberry to a halt as she stared straight ahead of her.

  Startled, Trixie raised herself in her saddle to get a better look and found herself gazing at a small group of people gathered outside the mansion’s iron front gates.

  She recognized four of them at once. They were the same members of the press who had tried to get Fay to talk to them at the hospital parking lot. There were, however, two additions to the group. One, Trixie knew, was Lewis Gregory, the owner of Lisgard House. A dark-haired young man, he seemed to have no hesitation in talking earnestly to the reporters.

  Trixie had never seen the other man before. He stood quietly. His long, thin face wore a serious and intent expression. A long cape hung from his shoulders. It made him look, she thought, a little like a magician about to pull a rabbit from a hat.

  Trixie heard Mr. Gregory announce, “And so, you see, I’ve been aware all along of the strange things that have been happening in my house. Is the place haunted? Has Sarah Sligo been summoned from her grave to exact her revenge on the innocent citizens of Sleepyside? Is there any truth to the persistent rumors that the witch’s phantom inhabits my property?”

  “Yeah?” Paul Trent prompted him, his pencil poised. “And what’s the answer?”

  “That,” Mr. Gregory said, “is what we’re about to find out. Folks, I want you to meet someone. This man”—he gestured toward the silent stranger—“is none other than Mr. Simon Hunter, the famous psychic investigator.”

  “Jeepers!” Trixie muttered under her breath. “I’ve never met one of those before. I wonder what a psychic investigator does?”

  Honey leaned sideways in her saddle and then whispered in her ear, “I’ve heard they’re sort of like ghost detectives. They investigate psychic phenomena.”

  They watched as the man in the black cape stirred but said nothing.

  “And so I’ve invited Mr. Hunter to come and discover exactly what’s going on at Lisgard House,” Mr. Gregory said.

  “Is this true?” the television reporter asked. At last Trixie remembered his name. It was Ed Gaf-fey, from Sleepyside’s small television station. The Beldens seldom watched him.

  Mr. Hunter smiled. “It’s quite true,” he replied quietly. “There are many stories of hauntings in our country. Some prove to be merely rumor and gossip. Some are not.”

  Paul Trent scratched his head with the end of his pencil. “And the haunting of Lisgard House?

  Which do you think this is? Do you think it’s possible for someone around here to be dabbling in black magic? Can a person call a dead spirit from the grave?”

  Mr. Hunter hesitated. “It’s not only possible,” he said at last, “but from what I’ve been told about this case so far, I’d say it’s very likely.”

  Ed Gaffey frowned. “Then who is it who’s doing all this witchcraft-black-magic stuff? Do you have any ideas?”

  “I have lots of ideas,” Mr. Hunter answered grimly, “though not necessarily the correct ones— not yet, anyway.”

  Trixie leaned forward and strained her ears to hear.

  “You see,” Mr. Hunter continued, “the person who’s calling Sarah Sligo from her grave may not be aware that she—or he—is doing so. On the other hand, she might be doing it deliberately.” And Trixie saw him lift his head and gaze straight into the terrified eyes of Fay Franklin.

  A Ghostly Presence ●2

  I TELL YOU HE KNOWS!” Fay said for the third time. “You must have seen him. He looked straight at me and said someone was calling the witch from her grave. And it is me. I’m sure of it now!”

  The four girls stood in Fay’s bedroom, where they had arrived only moments before. The horses had been tethered close to the mansion’s back gate and were, Trixie imagined, munching contentedly on a nearby evergreen shrub. She only hoped it wasn’t a prize one.

  Di’s violet eyes opened wide as she stared around the room. “Is this where it all happened last night?” she asked.

  Fay didn’t seem to have heard her. “I was beginning to think I’d been imagining everything,” Fay continued. “I—I was beginning to forget. Being away from this house helped a lot. But now that I’m back, I can feel Sarah Sligo’s presence around me.”

  Trixie felt worried, and she could tell that Honey and Di were as concerned as she was. It still wasn’t clear whether or not Fay was fooling them all. But Trixie was beginning to think that her agitation was quite genuine.

  “Come on, Fay,” Honey said suddenly. “This place is enough to give anyone the creeps. Let’s grab your clothes and get out of here. You’ll feel better once we get you away from here again.” Trixie knew that Honey was right. All the same, she couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment. If they left now, she’d never be able to discover exactly what a ghost detective did in order to track down his phantom prey.

  She was trying to think of an excuse that would allow her three friends to leave while she stayed behind to watch, when Fay shuddered.

  “I won’t ever feel better until Mother and I are away from here for good,” she whispered. “I can see that now. I thought I could stand it, for Mother’s sake, but I can’t! I don’t ever want to come here again!”

  “But then, my dear,” a smooth voice said from the doorway, “you wouldn’t ever be able to rest again. Running away from a problem doesn’t help, you know. You’ll be worried about it for the rest of your life.” It was Mr. Hunter.

  Fay took a step toward him. “What—what do you mean?”

  Mr. Hunter stepped into the room and gazed at her intently. “I would like you to stay here for a while today,” he said. “I want you to tell me everything you know about what’s been happening. Don’t be afraid. I won’t let the psychic forces attack. You’ll be quite safe.”

  “No!” There was a note of panic in Fay’s voice. “Things have been getting worse,” she cried. “Something is going on that I don’t understand. If I’m the one who’s calling Sarah from her grave, I haven’t—I didn’t—” She stopped, her hand over her mouth, watching Mr. Hunter with frightened eyes.

  He nodded slowly and sat down on the tumble of blankets on the armchair that had been Trixie’s bed the night before. He looked around the room. “So that’s it,” he said quietly. “I expected as much. I wasn’t sure, you see, where Sarah was getting her energy from.”

  Trixie stared. “I don’t think we understand. Are you saying that it’s Fay who’s been causing all the spooky happenings around here?”

  Mr. Hunter made a steeple out of his long, thin fingers and tapped them thoughtfully against his mouth. “Let’s just say this,” he continued at last. “It could have been your friend’s psychic energy that has attracted Sarah Sligo’s spirit. Mind, I’m not saying definitely yet that it was. I’m saying it could have been. Spirits who are in—” he hesitated— “in the other world often need a channel to allow them to return to this plane. Those channels often lend themselves willingly to a disembodied entity.”

  “And when that happens, are these channels called mediums?” Honey asked eagerly.

  Mr. Hunter nodded. “They are indeed, my child. Then there are other channels—unwitting ones, perhaps.” He looked thoughtfully at Fay. “Sometimes the unwitting channel attracts spirits who are evil. Sometimes these evil spirits cause strange events to happen. Strange rappings are heard in a house, for instance. Sometimes objects fly through the air without warning.”

  Trixie frowned. “Are you talking about polter —polter—
oh, what’s the name of them?”

  “Poltergeists,” Mr. Hunter told her. “But I don’t believe we’re dealing with a poltergeist at Lisgard House. What we’re talking about is an entity who is seeking revenge. She cannot rest, you see. And to return to the scene of her death, she had to wait until she found the correct channel—the one person who could provide her with enough psychic energy to bring her to this plane from that other world we call death.”

  “And whom did she find?” Di asked, her eyes wide.

  “I suspect she found our young friend here,” Mr. Hunter said softly. “It is well known that spirits often search until they find a teen-ager. How old are you, Fay?” His voice was gentle.

  “Fourteen,” Fay whispered and collapsed onto the side of her bed as if her legs would no longer hold her.

  “Yes,” Mr. Hunter said, nodding his head. “That is a good age for our spirit friends. A child of fourteen or, let’s say, the teen-age years, is in a period of tremendous growth both physically and mentally. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s been happening here in the last few months?”

  “Good idea,” a voice said from the doorway, and they turned to see Mr. Gregory smiling at them. “I’d like to hear this story, too. Some of it I’ve already heard from your mother, Fay.”

  Fay looked startled. “Mother? Mother knows what’s been going on?”

  “Of course.” Mr. Gregory looked surprised. “Do you mean to tell me the two of you haven’t discussed this between yourselves? Ah!” He clapped a hand to his head. “I forgot! Your mother didn’t want you to know. She had an idea that things happened only when she was here alone.” He smiled. “Don’t be afraid, Fay. Nothing can hurt you now. Let’s discuss this in another room—the living room, perhaps.”

  As if in a dream, Fay and her friends followed the two men until they were seated, if not comfortably, then at least spaciously, in the large room with its gloomy, massive furniture.

  Mr. Gregory began by saying that he’d learned of his housekeeper’s accident from Dr. Ferris only a short time before. He sounded concerned and said he would call the hospital as soon as his telephone was fixed.

  Then he and Mr. Hunter listened quietly as Fay repeated the story she had already told the Bob-Whites.

  Fay told them everything—even about Trixie’s fright over the “mouse.” Trixie didn’t correct her. For some strange reason, she decided not to mention the scary figure she’d seen in the kitchen hall. She still needed time to think quietly about this by herself.

  She supposed the ghost detective really knew what he was talking about. All the same, the information he’d given them was incredible. She wondered what her brothers would say about it when she told them.

  Soon Fay was at that point in her story where Trixie and Honey could confirm the previous night’s strange events.

  Mr. Hunter’s face grew stern and grim as he listened. At last he stirred, his fingers formed another steeple, and he leaned back in his wing chair by the empty, blackened fireplace and closed his eyes.

  “And you say you thought you heard the back door close?” he asked suddenly. He opened his eyes and directed a penetrating stare at Trixie.

  From her seat on the couch, Trixie gazed back at him and nodded firmly. “Yes,” she said. “The more I think about it, the more certain I am.”

  “Couldn’t have been what you thought it was,” Mr. Hunter said suddenly. “What I mean is, it couldn’t have been through any human agency. That door must have been closed by Sarah. There’s no doubt about it. This is a fine example of what we were talking about before. Spirits often open and close doors—”

  “That’s true, Trixie,” Fay interrupted eagerly. “I often heard them doing that when I was here by myself. I’m not sure I mentioned that before.”

  Mr. Hunter got to his feet and stroked his chin. “I think you’ve called me in just in time, Lew,” he said grimly. “It’s quite obvious what’s happening. Things are getting worse. I don’t yet know why. But I’ll find out—oh, yes, I’ll find out before I’m through.”

  He began prowling around the room, stopping every so often to lift his head as if he was listening to sounds—or voices—that only he could hear.

  “What is it?” Di asked. “What’s he doing?”

  Mr. Gregory, seated on the other side of the fireplace, put a finger against his lips. “Hush, my dear,” he said softly. “Mr. Hunter is not only a psychic investigator, but he’s also a medium himself. He communicates with the spirit world. And he’s promised me he’ll try to get in touch with Sarah’s spirit, in order to try to turn her away from her evil purposes—whatever they may be.”

  Trixie was fascinated. “Now?” she couldn’t resist asking. “Is he going to do it now?”

  Honey gripped her arm, warning her to be quiet, then watched as Mr. Hunter turned, as if irresistibly drawn, to the doorway leading to that small study where the witch had died so many years before.

  Trixie heard Fay gasp as, with a sudden movement that startled his watchers, Mr. Hunter flung open the study door.

  She was entirely unprepared for the strange, startling events that happened next.

  A blast of cold air rushed toward them. It brushed their staring faces with icy fingers. A tall vase on the mantlepiece swayed, then crashed to the floor and smashed into fragments. The thin drapes at the tall windows bellied inward toward the room’s startled occupants.

  Mr. Hunter flung back his head, threw his arms wide, as if in welcome, and cried, “Sarah Sligo, if this is your spirit, I command you to tell me. Speak!”

  At once, all movement stopped. Then, in the stillness, someone laughed.

  The Eavesdropper ● 13

  THE GIRLS SAT, as if frozen, until that terrible laughter died away. Then there was silence.

  Mr. Hunter turned toward his stunned audience. “It’s all right,” he said. “Please don’t be afraid. I had to find out, you see. I needed to know if the vengeful spirit really was Sarah’s ghost. And now we know.”

  Mr. Gregory looked shaken as he got to his feet. “And is it?”

  Trixie wasn’t surprised when Mr. Hunter answered grimly, “It is. And now all we have to do is to find out how to get rid of her.”

  “But can you do that?” Trixie burst out. “Is it possible to exorcise someone who’s been dead for years and years?”

  For a moment, the psychic investigator didn’t answer. Then he looked at Fay and said gently, “That depends on how much our young friend here is willing to help.”

  Fay sat pale and shaken. She stared down at her hands, which were clasped tightly in her lap. “Yes,” she said at last, “I’ll help you. I—I can’t live with this fear anymore.” She looked at Trixie. “I don’t want to be a channel for a spirit. I’ve got to get rid of Sarah once and for all.”

  Honey looked as shaken as Fay. Trixie guessed that the past few minutes had frightened her a great deal. She was glad to see, though, that Honey was doing her best to hide her feelings.

  “We understand,” Honey told Fay, leaning forward to pat her hand, “and if you need any help, we’ll be right here with you.”

  “Sure we will,” Trixie added warmly and waited for Di to add her assurances to theirs.

  To her surprise, Di said nothing. Then, when Trixie turned her head to look, she noticed that Di wasn’t even there. She had moved quietly to the study door and was gazing curiously around the little room.

  “Di?” Trixie called.

  Di had already taken several steps into the study, but now she retreated hastily. “I just had to see where the witch died,” she confessed. “I’m sorry. I was listening, though, honestly. And of course I’ll help you, Fay.” She smiled. “You’ll soon learn that our motto is ‘all for one and one for all.’ Well, if it isn’t, it should be.”

  Mr. Hunter looked pleased, as if things were working out the way he’d hoped. He rubbed his hands together. “Thank you, girls,” he said. “You won’t regret this, I’m sure. And now that we have this settled, al
l I need to know now is exactly what the circumstances were surrounding our entity’s death.”

  Trixie was startled. “You mean you don’t know?” Mr. Hunter settled himself back into his chair. “I know what Lew Gregory has told me,” he said, “but perhaps it would be as well if I heard yet another version from someone who’s lived here for a long time.”

  “That’s Trixie,” Honey said, still looking as if she wished they could leave.

  Trixie repeated the story of Sarah Sligo, while once more her audience listened quietly.

  When she had finished, Mr. Hunter stirred in his seat. “And you say she was burned to death on Thanksgiving night?” he asked.

  Trixie nodded. “Yes.”

  “And she was also born on Thanksgiving day thirty-four years before that,” Fay put in suddenly.

  Trixie stared. “She was? Why, I didn’t know that! Who told you? I thought no one knew the exact day she was born. Her grave was never found.”

  “Her grave is here on the grounds of Lisgard House,” Fay said, her voice low. “I’ll show you later, if you like. I—I was interested, you see, and when Zeke Collins offered to show me where she was buried....”

  Trixie, Honey, and Di exchanged startled glances over the top of Fay’s bent head.

  Trixie in particular was astonished. She’d never had any inkling that Sarah’s final resting place was right there at Lisgard House. She supposed someone should have suspected that it would be, long before this.

  “Not only that,” Fay was continuing, “but it’s a well-known fact that a person who dies a violent death on the day of her birth is doomed to haunt the scene forever.” She raised her head and looked at the investigator. “Is that true?”

  Mr. Hunter nodded his head. “Yes, my child. It’s quite true.” He sighed heavily. “And that presents us with a problem I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to mention.” He hesitated. His steepled fingers once more tapped gently against his pursed lips. His hands dropped to his lap as if he’d come to a sudden decision. “It means that everything is now explained,” he said simply. “It’s the anniversary not only of her death but also of her birth. Sarah can’t rest, you see, and she’s becoming more and more active as that date approaches.”