The Mystery of the Whispering Witch

by Campbell, Julie

  Honey stirred uneasily. “I don’t think I understand what you mean, Trix. Mr. Gregory and Mr. Hunter are sure the place really is haunted.”

  “But it isn’t,” Trixie said. “You see, there’s someone they haven’t even thought about. It’s someone who’s been trying all along to scare everyone away from Lisgard House. And do you know why? Ever since old Caleb died, he’s been stealing the antique furniture, Honey. He’s had clever fakes made, and he’s put them in place of the real stuff. He’s been selling that original furniture, probably for pots of money. It’s fooled everyone— even Mr. Gregory.”

  Honey sat back and gasped. “Why—why, Trixie! Who is it you’re talking about?”

  “Zeke Collins,” Trixie announced triumphantly, “that’s who!”

  “I still don’t understand,” her friend said, frowning. “I get the bit about the furniture and selling it and everything. But I don’t understand at all about any of the other things. Why did he pretend the house was haunted?”

  Trixie leaped to her feet as if she couldn’t bear to sit still any longer. “Figure it out, Honey. Everything was fine after old Caleb died and after Mr. Gregory moved in. Mr. Gregory wasn’t at the house much. He kept on going to New York City on business.”

  “I get it,” Honey said. “That left Zeke with a clear field to do what he wanted when he wanted. He could remove one piece of furniture and move another back in again in nothing flat. And then, when Mr. Gregory came home again, he never noticed anything, because he isn’t an expert on antiques, anyway.”

  “Exactly.” Trixie moved to the windows, pushed aside one of the organdy curtains, and stared out at the gray November landscape.

  To her surprise, storm clouds were gathering high overhead, and as she watched, the first gentle drops of rain plopped into the puddles that remained from the storm of two nights before.

  “It’s raining again,” she said to Honey over her shoulder.

  But Honey wasn’t interested in the weather. “Tell me what Zeke did when the Franklins moved in,” she demanded.

  Trixie turned from the window. “Zeke must have wondered how he could get rid of them,” she said flatly. “Then he had a bright idea. He remembered all the stories that had ever been told about Lisgard House. The ones he didn’t remember, he made up. He started spreading rumors and gossip, Honey. It wouldn’t have been hard to do. There’re always people who are willing to believe that a place is haunted—especially around here in Sleepyside, where everything’s so old.” Honey nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. I’m with you, so far. It sounds logical, but—”

  “But nothing! Who has a key to just about everything at that house?”

  “We don’t know that, Trix,” Honey objected. “All we know is that he has a key to the front gate.”

  “I’ll bet you he has a key to just about everything else, as well,” Trixie replied, “including the back door. Fay told us it worked on a spring lock, remember? She also said it was never bolted, because it could only be opened with a key—Zeke’s key!”

  Honey tucked her legs under her. “Go on.” Trixie plopped herself back in the chair and ran a hand impatiently through her mop of curls. “If I’m right, Honey,” she said slowly, “that means that it was Zeke all along who was causing the ‘ghost’ to walk. He was the one who kept on opening and closing doors, and moving objects, and blowing out candles—to say nothing about all that other stuff.”

  Honey was still looking skeptical. “But what about last night, Trix? You still haven’t explained last night.”

  “Tape recorder,” Trixie said smugly. “I’ll bet it was all done with a tape recorder. Remember that dumb tape Mart’s got? One minute it sounds as if a train’s rushing right through the middle of the house. And next, it sounds as if the living room’s full of barnyard animals. What it is, really, is just a whole lot of sound effects, all—what do you call it?—spliced together. The first time that Mart played it, it scared Moms and me silly.”

  Honey smiled. “I remember your telling me about that when it happened.”

  “And that’s what Zeke’s using—I’m certain of it,” Trixie declared. “He could have used the smoke from—from something or other and fanned it under the door in some way. I haven’t quite got that worked out yet. As for the figure of that ghost I saw....” She hesitated, as if she hated to speculate.

  “Yes, Trix? And what was that?”

  “I think it was all done with a film projector,” Trixie said slowly, “though I’m not sure about that.... But I’ll bet I’m right about everything else!”

  “And what about Mr. Hunter and what happened this afternoon?” Honey asked.

  “Zeke used his tape machine again,” Trixie answered promptly, “and probably that same fan. This time he used the fan to blow cold air into the room instead of smoke. As for Mr. Hunter, I expect he’s worked with spooks so often that he’s hearing and seeing them, even where there aren’t any at all.”

  Honey was silent and sat staring at her hands. “Are you going to tell Fay?” she asked at last.

  Trixie frowned. “I’ve been thinking about that, and I’ve got an idea Fay wouldn’t believe it. For too long, she’s been living with this thought that she’s being taken over by the ghost. It’s been several weeks, Honey, and her imagination’s been working overtime.” She paused. “I’ve got an idea that Brian’s right. If this goes on much longer, Fay’s going to need to see a psychiatrist, or something.” She clenched her fists. “Ooh, that Zeke! I’d like to see him get what’s coming to him!”

  Honey looked at her. “I can see how important it is to let Fay know she’s not really possessed, after all,” she said slowly. “But, Trix, you know we have no proof. None at all!”

  “But we do!” Trixie stuck her legs way out in front of her and tapped the sides of her sneakers together thoughtfully. “We have the proof that the antique furniture is fake.”

  “And that’s all we’ve got,” Honey stated. “Even so, Di’s not an expert. She could be wrong.”

  “Then we must tell Mr. Gregory what’s been going on,” Trixie answered firmly. “He can call in an expert himself. Then, if I were he, I’d send for Sergeant Molinson and then have Zeke Collins arrested.”

  Honey sighed and got to her feet. “I’m sure you’re right, Trix, and it does sound possible that things happened the way you say—”

  Trixie stared at her. “Possible? But, Honey, it’s the only way it could have happened! I’m right. I’m just sure of it!”

  “Then what do we do now?”

  Trixie bit her lip. The truth was that she hadn’t worked that out yet.

  She wished passionately that her own sensible father hadn’t chosen to go to Croton just when she needed him. He could have given her some sound advice.

  As she sat there thinking, she had a hunch that he would have told her to be patient—to wait until she was sure of her facts, instead of rushing off impulsively on what could be the wrong track.

  On the other hand, Trixie suspected something that her father probably couldn’t know: Fay was at the breaking point. Actually, her sanity could be at stake.

  Trixie glanced up and found Honey watching her intently.

  “We haven’t any choice,” Trixie said at last. “We’ve got to get in touch with Mr. Gregory and tell him everything—right now.”

  The two friends found Miss Trask in the Wheelers’ large kitchen. She was helping Cook prepare enormous bowls of potato salad, chips and dips, and olives and pickles, to say nothing of the Wieners and buns. A big pot of fragrant soup bubbled gently on the range.

  “Has anyone else come yet?” Honey asked, her eyes fixed on the good things to eat.

  Miss Trask shook her gray head. “Not yet, dear, but they’ll be here soon.” She glanced at the kitchen clock. “Supper will be ready in an hour. Are you hungry?”

  “We’re very hungry,” Honey told her, “and everything smells so good. But Trix and I have to go out for a while. We won’t be long, honestly. We’re ju
st going to grab our bikes and—”

  Miss Trask looked surprised as she turned to face them. “Good heavens,” she broke in, “it does sound important.”

  “It is important, Miss Trask,” Trixie said breathlessly, “otherwise we’d stay and help. But we—we need to tell someone something. His telephone’s supposed to be fixed, but it isn’t, so we’re just going to take a quick run over there.” Miss Trask never wasted time asking a lot of questions. That was only one of the many things all the Bob-Whites liked about her.

  She turned back to the counter where she’d been working and said over her shoulder, “All right, then. But, please, don’t be too long.”

  Trixie hesitated in the kitchen doorway. She noticed it was almost five-thirty. “Are you going to watch the news tonight?” she asked, thinking of Ed Gaffey and his probable report about the haunting of Lisgard House.

  Miss Trask didn’t even look up. She was busy slicing onions. “Gracious, Trixie,” she said, “I’m sure I’m much too busy to watch television right now. Why do you ask?”

  Trixie pretended she hadn’t heard the question and let the door close quietly behind her. She could tell from the look on Honey’s face that her friend was as relieved as she was.

  As soon as they were safely out of the house, Trixie said, “I wonder if Miss Trask would have let us go to Mr. Gregory’s if she’d known what happened last night?”

  Honey sighed. “I’ve got a better question, Trix,” she said. “I know the scary things that happened last night. So why am I going back there with you now?”

  “To save a friend,” Trixie answered softly, “and—oh, Honey!—I only hope we’re not too late.”

  Strange Behavior! • 16

  TRIXIE RACED HOME across the wet grass to grab her bicycle from the garage, while Honey, already mounted on her bike, waited for her patiently at the end of the Beldens’ driveway.

  It was still drizzling as they sped once more toward Lisgard House, and by the time they reached the mansion’s tall front gates, both girls felt wet and uncomfortable.

  Trixie wouldn’t have been surprised if the reporters and cameramen had still been camped there, hoping to find an opportunity of yet another interview. But there was no one.

  It didn’t take Trixie long to discover something else: The gates, which had been so firmly locked before, now opened easily to her touch.

  Honey giggled nervously as they wheeled their bikes along the overgrown driveway toward the big front entrance. “What would you have done if we’d been locked out, Trix?” she asked.

  “I’d have found a way to get in,” Trixie answered confidently, though she had no idea how she would have accomplished it.

  It was Mr. Gregory himself who hurried to answer the door. He flung it wide and looked startled when he saw who had been pounding so insistently.

  “Why, it’s—umm—Trixie Belden and Honey Wheeler, isn’t, it?” he said. “Perhaps you misunderstood. Mr. Hunter said he’d call you when he was ready to conduct his experiment—”

  Trixie could feel her heart pounding with excitement. Now that she was at the point where she had to tell Mr. Gregory that his odd-job man was a crook, she wasn’t sure how to begin her story. She glanced desperately around her, as though trying to get some sort of inspiration. But all she saw were the drab walls and the animal heads staring down at her.

  She drew a deep breath. “Your furniture’s been stolen,” she blurted.

  Mr. Gregory stared at her. “What? What in the world are you talking about, little girl?”

  “Oh, I don’t blame you for looking so surprised,” Trixie rushed on breathlessly. “I—that is, Honey and I—were surprised ourselves when we figured it out.”

  A sudden movement from the stairs made her stop. She glanced up, and her heart skipped a beat when she noticed a still figure standing there. In the hallway’s dim light, the figure looked almost like a ghost. But it was only Mr. Hunter. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Mr. Gregory seemed bewildered. Puzzled, he ran a hand through his dark hair. “I’m blessed if I know,” he said. “Maybe we’d better talk about it. This way, girls.”

  He led the way into the living room. This time, Trixie was glad to see, a small fire flickered in the hearth. It did little to warm the room, though neither Mr. Gregory nor Mr. Hunter seemed to notice. Trixie shivered in her damp clothes.

  Even while she was trying to marshal her thoughts, Mr. Gregory hurried around the room, turning on lights here and there, as if trying to banish the gloom. Outside, dusk had fallen, and Trixie had a weird idea that someone was watching them through the window.

  She turned her head but saw no one.

  At last she began to talk, telling Mr. Gregory all that she had discovered—all that she had guessed—and when she had finished, she looked at the men’s serious faces and wondered what they were thinking.

  Mr. Gregory stirred. “And you say your friend thinks my furniture isn’t genuine?” he asked.

  Honey brushed her hair back from her face. “We can’t be sure, of course,” she said hurriedly, “but our friend, Di, usually knows an awful lot about stuff like that, Mr. Gregory.”

  Trixie leaned toward him. “In any case, you could easily check it out.” She hesitated, then added, “My father’s a banker. He’d know whom you could get in touch with to make sure. He’d be glad to help you, I know. Or Honey’s father would be glad to come and take a look.”

  Mr. Hunter said heartily, “It seems to me, Lew, that these young ladies should be congratulated on being so neighborly. It’s not everyone who’d have the courage to come and tell the story we’ve just heard.”

  Mr. Gregory was silent. It was as if he hadn’t quite managed to get over the shock of Trixie’s news. “I just can’t believe it,” he muttered. “Zeke Collins! After all these years of working for my uncle! It seems incredible!”

  “Not only that,” Trixie declared impulsively, “but it means this house isn’t haunted, after all.

  Don’t you see? Fay Franklin wasn’t a channel for any old witch’s ghost. It was Zeke Collins who was trying to scare the Franklins away.”

  Mr. Hunter’s fingers formed their steeple once more, and he nodded slowly. “It’s possible,” he muttered, as if to himself. “Yes, it’s possible that I could have been mistaken.”

  “Would you, please, tell Fay that you could have made a mistake?” Trixie asked eagerly. “She’s been so worried about this whole thing, you see.”

  Mr. Hunter looked up suddenly, as if he’d just come to a decision. “Of course I’ll tell her,” he said. “Bring her here tonight. About nine o’clock, I think. Is that all right with you, Lew?” He glanced quickly at Mr. Gregory.

  “Yes, of course,” Mr. Gregory answered, but he sounded as if he were thinking about something else. Then, suddenly, he seemed to realize it. “I just can’t get over it,” he explained. “But, of course, you bring young Fay here at nine. I’ll be glad to see you, and we can talk some more. In the meantime, I’m going to have a long talk with Zeke. That man’s got a lot of explaining to do. You leave it to me, okay?”

  Trixie felt so relieved, once she and Honey were standing outside again, that she didn’t even notice the gray sky or feel the rain beating harder and harder now against her bare head.

  She didn’t notice the raindrops trickling down the back of her neck until she and Honey were almost to the front gate. Then she shook her head vigorously, just the way Reddy shook himself when he was wet.

  “Jeepers!” she exclaimed. “Am I hungry! I can’t wait to get at those yummy hot dogs. And wait till I tell the others about this!”

  “Not so fast!” a rough voice said. “First, you’re going to tell me!” A large hand reached out and grabbed Trixie’s arm.

  Trixie gasped. Her bicycle, suddenly released from her nerveless hand, crashed sideways to the ground, its wheels spinning. The relentless grip on her arm tightened.

  She caught one glimpse of Honey’s white face as she stared over Tr
ixie’s shoulder.

  “Oh, Trixie!” Honey breathed, one hand over her horrified mouth. “It’s Zeke Collins!”

  Afterward, Trixie was never proud of what she did next, even though her reaction was instinctive.

  She wrenched her arm free, turned on her heel, and ran madly for the front gate, leaving her bike on the wet grass behind her.

  In another moment, she was racing homeward as fast as she could go, her heart pounding, her breath sobbing in her throat, and her legs pumping as fast as if she were in a race.

  Then soon—too soon—she heard the sound of bicycle wheels singing toward her along the wet road.

  Trixie wished with all her heart that she hadn’t left her bike behind for her pursuer to use. But it was too late! Those singing tires were gaining on her—there wasn’t any doubt of it.

  She tried to summon an extra burst of speed, but by now her tired legs refused to obey her terrified brain. Suddenly she knew she was defeated.

  She stopped, trembling, bending double, her hand pressed to the pain in her side, and struggling for breath. She waited to feel the rough hand grab her arm. She waited to hear the rough voice demanding an explanation, even though an explanation wasn’t necessary. She knew without question that Zeke Collins had stood outside that living room window, had eavesdropped, and had heard her accusations.

  She closed her eyes.

  “Brother!” Honey’s voice said behind her. “I thought I’d never catch up with you, Trix! I’ve never seen anyone run so fast in my life! I had to pedal like crazy even to get close. Didn’t you hear me calling you? Are you all right? I’ll bet you’ve broken the record for running the mile in two seconds flat. You aren’t hurt, are you?”

  Trixie opened her eyes and was relieved to see Honey’s concerned face bending toward her. “Where’s Zeke Collins?” Trixie said in a croaking voice.