“So…you believe me?”
“I believe that you saw these things,” her mother said carefully. “However, I’m not sure you can draw a well-supported scientific conclusion from them. Especially one involving possession by ghosts.”
Hope drained out of Eliza like water through a cracked mug.
Without her mother’s help, she was all alone again—alone in a shop full of poisonous plants and yellow-eyed people. How could she explain? How could she connect psychical research and botany in a way that—
Eliza sat up straighter. “Mom, you know how my school took that field trip to Salem last year?”
Her mother’s left eyebrow rose. That eyebrow got a lot of exercise when Eliza was around. “Yes?”
“We went to the witch museum,” Eliza continued, speaking faster, “and we learned about the witch trials and the hangings and about why the villagers started going crazy and accusing each other of witchcraft in the first place.”
“I remember you being disappointed that the museum wasn’t creepier.”
“Well—yeah. I mean, most people don’t believe that the devil actually possessed people in Salem. But there are lots of theories about why it happened. And one of them comes from botany.” Eliza craned forward. “I guess there’s this stuff that grows on corn, and eating it can make you hallucinate—”
“Ergot,” said her mother. “And it grows on rye.”
“Right,” said Eliza. “So they think a bunch of Salem townspeople might have eaten this ergot stuff and started having visions of the devil and black magic.”
Her mother nodded slowly. “I’ve heard the Salem ergot theory. It’s an extremely strong one. Ergot poisoning causes shaking, confusion, delusions, even the sensation of being pricked by needles or pins. Exactly what the victims of the supposed witchcraft described.”
“Well, what if this”—Eliza smacked her notebook—“is something like that? What if it has to do with the secret plants in the basement and the noises in the attic and the missing plant and the yellow eyes? What if there’s some biological, botanical connection between the spirit world and the real world? Like…” She paused as the pieces fell into place. “What if a plant could help possess people?”
Her mother took a longer pause. “Like the Ophiocordyceps unilateralis fungus and Camponotus leonardi ants,” she said softly. Her fingertips began to drum together. “Now, that is an interesting line of inquiry.”
“Will you help me follow it?” Eliza climbed onto her knees. “Just look at the Carrolls’ eyes. That’s all. You’ll see that they’ve changed. Please, Mom.”
Her mother’s fingers drummed faster. She stared across the room, and Eliza could practically see the calculations unspooling in her mind.
“I’ll get a look if I can,” she said.
“And then we need to check the attic,” Eliza rushed on. “The Carrolls said there’s nothing up there but a mess, remember? But I keep hearing sounds from above. The missing plant might be hidden there. We check the attic, and then the basement, and then anyplace else that a ghost might—”
“Eliza. One step at a time.” Her mother took a breath. “I’ll start with the Carrolls’ eyes. If you’re right about that…then we’ll pursue your theory.”
Eliza launched herself across the bed. “Thank you.” She squeezed her mother as tight as she could. “Thank you, Mom.”
Her mother squeezed her back. “Don’t get too excited yet, sweet pea. Not all theories hold up.”
“Oh, I know.” Eliza bounced on her knees. “I’m just happy to have the help of another psychical researcher.”
Her mother stood up. Looking down at Eliza, she started to smile. “Call me a paranormal botanist.”
Eliza grinned back. “Team Stahl,” she announced. “Plant Detectives.”
Turn to this page.
AS HER MOTHER ALWAYS said, in any situation where the outcome is unknown, it’s best to minimize the variables. So Eliza stayed upstairs while her mother went back down to the shop. After leaving her phone on the table for Eliza, just in case, her mother headed out the door, and Eliza buckled down for some obsessive thinking and pacing.
Minutes crawled past.
What might have happened by now? Had her mother seen the Carrolls’ eyes? Did they notice that she had noticed them? And what about the ghost? Was he nearby, watching, waiting to take possession of someone else?
Eliza’s whole body felt tight, like a fishing line snagged on something huge and deep, something that refused to break the surface. Even stretching didn’t help. After ten sets of toe touches and twenty head rolls, Eliza decided to up the ante and take a hot shower.
She stepped out of the old-fashioned bathroom fifteen minutes later, feeling lightly cooked and a lot more pliable. She headed toward the bed to study her notes.
But her research notebook wasn’t there.
Eliza glanced around. Her pen was lying beside the bed, just where she’d left it. But no notebook.
Eliza looked under the bed. She looked under her mother’s bed. She checked her box and her backpack. Then she looked everywhere else: The bathroom. The mini fridge. Under the cushions of the window seat.
Nothing.
Her heart thudded. All the searching was pointless; she’d left the notebook on the bed, she was certain. Her mom wouldn’t have taken it without even mentioning it. This could mean only one thing: Someone else had come into their room. Someone had crept to Eliza’s bed while she was shut behind the bathroom door, and had taken away her notebook and the precious data in it.
Eliza flew to the door and opened it just enough to peer through.
The hallway outside was quiet.
But at the far end, where the next flight of stairs dwindled downward, Eliza thought she caught the disappearing edge of a shadow.
She couldn’t see it clearly, but the way it moved—low and hunched, like an animal—made her pretty sure it wasn’t Tommy’s. Moggie must have followed her up the stairs. Moggie wouldn’t have stolen her notebook, would she? Not unless there was bacon pressed between the pages. And there wasn’t.
Eliza held her breath.
But the shadow was already gone, if it had ever been there at all.
* * *
In late afternoon, her mother burst through the doorway. She locked the door, marched straight to the table, and set down a brown paper package.
“You were right,” she said matter-of-factly as Eliza ran to meet her. “Yellow eyes. Yellow eyes.” She stared into the distance for a moment. Then, shaking herself, she reached for Eliza’s arm. “Sweet pea, you feel like chicken someone just pulled out of the freezer. Do you need a sweater?”
Eliza didn’t even hear the question. “Now do you believe me?”
“I believe, as you do, that something strange is going on here.” Her mother’s voice was brisk but low. “It seems likely that this strangeness has to do with the missing plant—and considering that the Carrolls both live and work here, it seems likely that the root of this mystery is somewhere on the premises.”
“What’s in the package?”
“Keys.” Her mother dumped the packet onto the table. A half-dozen skeleton keys clunked out. “From the antiques store next door. There are only so many different types of old locks.”
Hope started to beat in Eliza’s chest. “You mean…”
“First we have some dinner,” her mother cut her off. The tiniest curve of a smile began to form on her lips. “We wait until the Carrolls are likely to be asleep. And then we go to the attic and try these keys out.”
Eliza smiled back.
* * *
Just after ten o’clock, the lights in the Carrolls’ apartment blinked off. Eliza, who had been watching them from the turret’s window seat, gave her mother a nod. They gathered their tools and slipped out into the hallway. Eliza wore her backpack of ghost-hunting equipment. Her mother carried a hef
ty flashlight. Its beam led them down the hall, straight to the keyhole of the attic door.
The first three skeleton keys didn’t fit. Eliza’s shoulders were growing painfully tight when her mother slid key number four into the lock. There was a click.
The attic door swung open.
The Stahls tiptoed through. Her mother led the way up a set of narrow, dingy stairs. At the top, they paused, listening to the quiet. Her mother reached up and tugged the chain of a hanging light. Its dirty bulb sputtered on.
Mrs. Carroll was right: The attic was a mess. A sloping, fly-specked, cobweb-draped mess. Broken vases and planters littered the corners. The floor was strewn with half-empty sacks and crumpled paper. Rickety shelves lined the walls, stacked with bottles and jars and jugs whose labels were almost too faded to read.
“Well,” murmured her mother. “There’s no one here now.”
“Nope,” Eliza murmured back. “But somebody was here.”
She pointed to a wooden crate in the center of the room. Its edges were covered with a thick fur of dust, but the middle had been swept clean.
Her mother bent down for a closer look. “You’re right. Someone used this surface. And quite recently.” She dropped to her knees, sweeping the beam of her flashlight across the floor.
Meanwhile, Eliza checked the nearest corner. Through a window, she could see the pointed metal roof of the turret, just outside. There were no cold spots, as far as she and her thermometer could tell; if anything, the attic was too warm, stuffy with the trapped heat of long summer days. Eliza took out the candle and lit it. Its flame burned a steady gold. The Spectral Translator didn’t move. Still, Eliza could sense that something had happened here. Something secret. She could feel it wavering in the air, like a fading scent.
Her mother gave a sharp gasp.
“What?” Eliza hurried closer. “What is it?”
“A leaf.” Her mother lifted something from the floorboards. “It’s from the missing plant.”
Eliza looked at the leaf on her mother’s palm. It was limp and gold, with a vague diamond shape. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. The distinctive color. The rhombic shape.” Her mother frowned. “But how did it get here? That’s the question.”
“Maybe the rest of the plant is here, too,” Eliza whispered.
They searched every shelf, every dented box, every burlap sack. They found nothing but a lot of ancient garden supplies and many extremely long-dead beetles.
“No other sign of it,” sighed her mother at last. “The plant was here, or someone who handled it was here. And now it’s gone.”
Eliza’s shoulders sagged. “Why would somebody—”
She was halfway through the question when from nearby there came a soft, metallic click.
Eliza and her mother froze.
For an instant, Eliza wondered if the click had been the cocking of a gun. An instant later, she realized the truth.
What they’d heard was the sound of a locking door.
Turn to this page.
ELIZA’S MOTHER HURRIED DOWN the steps, the beam of her flashlight bouncing on the scuffed planks. She tugged at the doorknob. “It won’t even budge.”
“Can you use the key?” Eliza asked.
Her mother aimed the flashlight at the knob. “There’s no keyhole on the inside.” She slammed her shoulder against the door’s solid surface. “I don’t believe I can break this down.”
“The Carrolls locked us in,” Eliza breathed.
Her mother climbed a few steps before replying. “That does seem like a safe conclusion. There’s no one else in the building, as far as we know. And there’s no way it was accidental. Anyone at the door would have seen the attic light burning. And they would have needed a key.”
“They know we’re onto them,” Eliza whispered as her mother reached the top of the flight. “They had to get rid of us before we could tell anyone else about the weird plant and the yellow eyes. The ghost who’s possessing them must have made them do it.”
Her mother folded her arms. “There’s one problem with that theory,” she said. “They haven’t gotten rid of us.” She flashed Eliza a quick, dry smile. “Let’s weigh our options. First, we could call the police.”
“Call them how?”
“With my phone.” Her mother held out a hand. “I left it with you earlier.”
Eliza felt something crumble in the base of her stomach. “I left it downstairs. I didn’t think of it when…Mom, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” said her mother briskly. “It’s my phone. My fault. All right. Other options.” She scanned the room, aiming her flashlight at one of the windows at the attic’s far ends. “Climbing out a window isn’t much use when we’re on the fourth floor. Yelling for help does nothing if only the Carrolls can hear us.” She frowned. “No phone. No help. No one else who knows where we are.”
Eliza sidled closer. “What do you think they’re going to do to us?”
Her mother was quiet for a moment, considering. “At this point, I could only make a wild guess, but I don’t care to collect enough evidence to make a decent one. We can’t just wait around on the chance that someone will let us out. We need something that can take down a door.”
“Like a screwdriver or a crowbar?”
“Something like that.” Her mother’s eyes took on the faraway look they usually only got in laboratories and libraries. “Eliza, may I borrow your candle?”
Eliza passed it over. Her mother hurried off toward a set of rickety shelves.
Without her candle, Eliza burrowed through the boxes again, no longer worried about keeping quiet. She found nothing that would help them to escape.
“No luck,” she sighed, turning around.
“Down here,” called a voice from the bottom of the stairs.
Her mother was crouched by the attic door, wedging a scrap of fabric around the doorframe. Several jars and bottles of old chemicals—fertilizer or pesticides or Eliza couldn’t guess what—were scattered around her feet. Halfway up the steps, a battered fire extinguisher sat beside the burning candle.
“What are you doing?” Eliza asked.
“Something extremely irresponsible.” Her mother flashed Eliza a sharp look. “These are not ideal conditions. I want you to know that,” she continued, pouring the contents of one bottle onto the fabric around the door. “But I’m not going to let anyone trap my daughter in an attic indefinitely. It’s like something out of one of your ghost stories.”
“Huh.” Eliza started to smile. “You’re right!”
Her mother tucked the fire extinguisher under one arm. She stuffed a wad of newspaper into the neck of an empty plastic bottle, its end sticking out like a tissue in a dispenser. Then she picked up the candle.
“Stand back,” she told Eliza. “Stand way back.”
Eliza rushed to the far wall.
Her mother lit the newspaper and blew out the candle in one quick motion. Then, running up the steps, she threw the burning bottle over her shoulder toward the attic door.
The explosion wasn’t like the ones Eliza had heard in movies: deep and rumbling, complete with slow-motion images of rolling fireballs. This was one quick, whooshing BANG that seemed to suck all the air out of the room. A wave of heat swept over her face.
She and her mother skidded back toward the top of the steps. Sour, chemical-scented smoke poured up the staircase. Fire crackled in the doorway and along the edges of the dingy attic stairs. The door gaped on one intact hinge.
“Let’s hope this is still functional.” Her mother passed Eliza the candle and aimed the fire extinguisher. A gout of white foam spattered through the stairwell. The flames hissed out. “That was fortunate.” Her mother dropped the extinguisher. It hit the attic floor with a clunk. “As I said, those were not ideal conditions. Far too many variables. Too many risks.” She grabbed Eliza’s hand. “Hold your b
reath. Come on.”
Together, they charged down the steps, leaped over the soot and foam, and flew out through the open doorway.
“Hey, Mom?” said Eliza, as they ran back toward their room. “You would make a really great ghost hunter.”
Her mother threw her a half-smile. “And I’ve always thought you’d make an excellent scientist.”
They raced through the door.
“Grab your most important things,” her mother instructed. “We’ll worry about the rest later. Ten seconds and we’re out of here.”
Eleven seconds later, with Eliza’s tablet and Poe collection in her backpack and her mother’s laptop bag swinging over her shoulder, they barreled back into the hall.
They raced down the stairs, past the entrance to the Carrolls’ apartment. Eliza heard voices and movement from inside. She and her mother ran faster, plunging down the steps into the darkness of the shop. Behind them, the voices grew louder. A door banged. Footsteps pounded away up the third-floor stairs.
The Stahls rushed through the leafy shadows.
“I’m going to grab my notes from the workroom,” hissed her mother. “If that missing plant is at the root of this—excuse the pun—we can’t lose all proof that it ever existed.”
The workroom was darker still. Her mother flicked on the flashlight and made a beeline for the table. “I was afraid of this,” she muttered.
“What?”
“They’re gone. My notes. My sketches. Everything involving that plant.” She whirled back to Eliza. “Someone is trying to hide every bit of evidence that you and I have collected. We’re clearly not safe here, either. Let’s go.”
Grabbing Eliza by the arm, her mother charged out of the workroom.
They were still several steps from the front door when the shop lights flashed on.
Eliza and her mother spun around, blinking, blinded.
The Story Pirates Present Page 8