Allie shook her head. “It’s okay,” she said. “I didn’t mind.” They walked a few steps in silence. Then Allie said, “Mr. Henry?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think anything like that could really happen?”
“Do you mean something like what happened in your story?” asked Mr. Henry.
“Yes.”
Mr. Henry looked into Allie’s face for a moment before answering carefully. “I think this, Allie: The world is a very complex, interesting place. Sometimes things happen that we don’t understand. It doesn’t mean there isn’t an explanation. We simply haven’t found it yet.”
Allie thought about that. It made sense.
“Why do you ask?” said Mr. Henry. He wasn’t making fun of her; he looked serious, as if he really wanted to know.
For a second she thought about confiding in Mr. Henry. Then she remembered her parents’ conversation the evening before. If they talked to Mr. Henry…
No, she’d better keep quiet. For now. They were approaching the library door, anyway. “Oh, I don’t know,” she answered. “I just wondered.”
“Well, keep wondering,” said Mr. Henry with a smile. “That’s how we learn.”
They walked into the library. As usual, it was a busy place, filled with children choosing books, watching filmstrips, listening to cassettes, working on projects, and clicking away on the computers. Mrs. Foster, the librarian, was everywhere at once, it seemed, answering questions and offering advice on how to find things. There was a table piled high with materials she had gathered for Allie’s class.
“Mr. Henry tells me you want to know everything,” she said with a smile. “So I’ve pulled out information on fossils, lake and stream ecology, and the Seneca Indians, for starters. There’s a pile of newspapers, too, containing articles about the recent and not so recent history of the glen. Come to me if you have any questions, and I’ll be happy to help you.”
After looking through the stacks of materials, the students scattered to tables to work. Mr. Henry had told them each to think of one question about Fossil Glen and try to find the answer. That afternoon, they would share what they had learned.
Allie headed straight for the information Mrs. Foster had gathered about fossils. She was about to reach for a book called Secrets in Stone, when she heard the voice inside her head.
“Look at the newspapers,” it said.
Allie froze.
“The newspapers,” repeated the voice.
Forcing herself to act natural, Allie walked toward the table that held a stack of old editions of the local paper, The Seneca Times. She riffled through the pile. A photograph of a young girl with dark curly hair caught her eye.
It was the girl from her nightmare, the girl whose face had appeared to her in the kitchen!
Fourteen
The headline blared in large black letters: RESCUE WORKERS SEARCH FOSSIL GLEN FOR MISSING GIRL. The paper was dated Thursday, May 19, 1994. Allie began to read.
The search for Lucy Stiles continues.
Lucy Stiles! Allie’s mind flew to the small, lonely grave she and Dub had found in the cemetery. With a mixture of curiosity and dread, she continued reading.
Village and state police are asking for the public’s help in locating an eleven-year-old girl who was last seen by her mother at about 5:30 Wednesday night.
Rebecca A. Stiles, the girl’s mother, reported to police that she became worried when it grew dark and her daughter had not returned from fossil hunting in Fossil Glen. Searching the glen, Mrs. Stiles found a blue sweatshirt belonging to her daughter on the cliff above the third falls, along with a small pile of fossils. When it began to grow dark, Mrs. Stiles left the glen to call for help.
Police, fire and rescue workers, and volunteers searched through the night. Officials speculate that Lucy lost her footing on the steep, rocky precipice and fell.
“There was a drizzly rain last night, and that made the cliff real slick,” said Police Chief Ron Webster. “If she fell onto the rocks, we’d have found her. We figure she must have fallen into the creek and gotten washed downstream. That creek’s running pretty good, so we’ve been searching along the banks, hoping she pulled herself out.”
So far, searches have found no further sign of the girl. Tomorrow, officials are planning to drag the lake bottom near the mouth of the creek. Divers will also join the search.
“We’re still hoping to find her alive,” said Chief Webster. But he admitted to reporters that that possibility was becoming increasingly remote.
The missing girl is described as being 4′ 6″ tall, with blue eyes and black curly hair. She was last seen wearing jeans, sneakers, a red-and-black-checkered flannel shirt, and the blue sweatshirt that was found at the scene.
Anyone with information about Lucy Stiles or her whereabouts is asked to call the Seneca Village police department.
Allie refolded the paper and grabbed the next day’s edition, marked Friday, May 20, 1994. The headline announced: LUCY STILES STILL MISSING. The article continued:
Publicly, rescue workers speak hopefully about finding eleven-year-old Lucy Stiles alive. Privately, they express fears that the girl did not survive an apparent fall from the cliffs above Fossil Glen.
Officials searched the creek bed downstream from where the girl’s blue sweatshirt and some fossils were found on the cliff, without result. A thorough search of the waters near the mouth of Fossil Creek also failed to produce any sign of the girl, missing since 5:30 p.m. Wednesday.
Seneca Village Police Chief Ron Webster commented, “Every year we warn kids to be careful in that glen, and every year we end up rescuing someone. I sure hate to see a thing like this happen.”
He added that “there is no reason to believe this was anything but an accident.” Near where Lucy’s sweatshirt was left, police found what appeared to be evidence of Lucy’s slide off the cliff edge. “We couldn’t see clear footprints because of the rain that fell Wednesday night, but there was a long mud slick heading right off the edge of the cliff. I figure that’s where she lost her footing,” he said.
The search will continue in Seneca Lake. Chief Webster stated grimly, “Except, now, I guess it’s a search for the body.”
Allie was totally absorbed, reaching for one newspaper after another. The articles became smaller and smaller and less and less hopeful. After five days, the search was abandoned. There was no mention of Lucy Stiles for a week. Then Allie came to an article with the headline: MISSING GIRL BELIEVED DEAD; FUNERAL SERVICES TO BE HELD.
She read that local, county, and state officials had completed their investigation into the death of Lucy Stiles, ultimately declaring it “a tragic and fatal accident.”
Lucy’s mother, Rebecca Stiles, reluctantly accepted the verdict that Lucy had not survived. Funeral services were to be held at the Presbyterian Church, followed by a burial in Fossil Glen Cemetery.
With amazement she read:
“Seneca Heights School officials were unanimous in their praise for Lucy and their sorrow over her death. Mr. Justin Henry, Lucy’s sixth-grade teacher, said, “This has been a nightmare for our whole class. We all loved Lucy, and hoped so much that she’d be back. We will miss her terribly.”
Allie looked up, feeling dazed. She caught Dub’s eye and motioned for him to come over.
“Look at this,” she whispered.
Dub’s eyes grew wider as they traveled down the columns of newsprint in one paper after another. When he finished, he let out a low whistle. “Wow. I don’t remember hearing anything about this.”
“It was four years ago,” said Allie. “We were dumb little kids; we didn’t know anything.”
“I can’t believe she had Mr. Henry for a teacher!”
“Let’s ask him about it,” said Allie. She raised her hand and Mr. Henry came over. Pointing to the newspaper article, she said, “Lucy Stiles was in your class?”
Mr. Henry nodded, and a shadow darkened his usually sunny face. “That was a
terrible time,” he said. “Sometimes I still can’t believe she’s dead. Lucy was great; smart and imaginative.” He smiled at Allie. “You remind me of her, as a matter of fact.”
Allie blushed at the unexpected compliment.
He went on. “I had just begun teaching, so Lucy was one of my very first students. When they said she was dead, I—” He stopped for a moment, swallowed, and shook his head. “It was so sad and senseless, the way it happened. She knew that glen like the back of her hand. She wasn’t a careless, reckless kid. That’s why I kept hoping it was all a mistake. But after a while there was no point in pretending she was still alive.”
Allie and Dub were quiet as Mr. Henry stood by their table, a faraway look on his face. Then Allie asked, “Was she the only kid in the Stiles family?”
“Yes,” answered Mr. Henry. “And her father had died a few years before that, so Mrs. Stiles was left all alone.”
“Where did she go?” asked Allie.
“To California, I think,” said Mr. Henry. “She had family there. I imagine this town was full of painful memories for her.”
“Yeah,” agreed Allie and Dub solemnly.
“The house just sits there getting more rickety and creepy-looking,” Dub said. “I wonder why she never sold it.”
“It had been in her husband’s family for generations,” Mr. Henry answered. “Maybe she couldn’t part with it for that reason.”
Allie was struck by a sudden perplexing thought. “Hey!” she exclaimed. “The newspaper said Lucy was going to be buried in Fossil Glen Cemetery. Dub and I saw her grave. But if they never found her body…” Her voice trailed off in bewilderment. “Who’s buried there?”
“It’s—what would you call it?—a symbolic grave, I guess. Since there was no body, the family buried a box of mementos. The students in my class all wrote letters saying their goodbyes to Lucy. Other people added things, too,” said Mr. Henry.
Allie and Dub thought about that for a moment. Mr. Henry glanced around the library and saw that Joey’s hand was raised, indicating that he needed help with his research. “Well, you two,” he said with a sigh, “I guess you’ve learned a bitter truth: Fossil Glen is beautiful and interesting and peaceful at times. But it can be plenty dangerous, too.”
Dub and Allie looked at each other as Mr. Henry walked away.
“Poor Mr. Henry,” said Allie. “It must have been awful for him.”
Dub nodded. “Think about Mrs. Stiles,” he added.
“What about Lucy?” Allie said. “No wonder her spirit can’t rest.”
“Do you mean what I think you mean?” asked Dub, his eyebrows lifting with excitement.
“Yes!” said Allie. For she was sure now. “‘L’ is Lucy. She’s the ghost. I saw her falling in a dream last night, just the way it says in the newspaper! Dub, she looks exactly like that picture!”
“Wow!” said Dub. “So what does she want from you?”
“I don’t know,” said Allie. “But I hope I’ll find out soon.”
Fifteen
On her way home from school, Allie noticed a FOR SALE sign stuck in the lawn in front of the Stiles house. A bit farther down the street, another sign caught her eye. Large and freshly painted, it stood at the edge of the meadow that led to Fossil Glen:
COMING SOON
GLEN VIEW ACRES
AN EXCLUSIVE COMMUNITY. 50 LUXURY HOMES,
COMPLETE WITH WATER, SEWER, AND ELECTRIC
There was more writing in smaller print, and a phone number to call, but Allie didn’t read any further. She was too stunned by the idea of houses filling the lovely meadow that bordered Fossil Glen. She wondered if Mr. Henry knew about it and, if so, what he would say.
That evening, Allie and her family discussed the news as they sat at the dinner table.
“Is Mrs. Stiles the developer?” asked Mr. Nichols.
“No, the developer is Mr. Curtis’s boss. Mrs. Stiles must have sold the property to him, or given her permission for the project,” said Mrs. Nichols. “Mr. Curtis came back today, and told me that his boss has been planning to sell the house and develop the land for a long time, but there was some sort of delay. I feel sick about it.”
“It’ll be gross to have all those houses there,” said Allie. “Will it mean we won’t be able to go to the glen anymore?”
“I imagine so,” said Mr. Nichols. “The Stileses used to let people come and go, but now that the land is being developed, well, who knows? The meadow and the glen itself are both private property.”
“So, anyway,” Mrs. Nichols went on, “as I was saying, Mr. Curtis came back today.”
“Did he have more furniture to sell?” asked Allie’s father.
“No,” said Mrs. Nichols, looking pointedly at Allie. “He came back to ask if I remembered seeing a red leather-bound book in with the things he’d sold me.”
At that, Allie’s hand, which had been lifting a forkful of mashed potatoes to her mouth, stopped in midair. Slowly, she lowered it to her plate.
Mr. Nichols looked up with interest. “Allie’s journal?” he asked.
“That’s what I thought of right away,” said Mrs. Nichols. “All he said was that when he was clearing out the house he was supposed to keep his eye out for a red leather-bound book, and it slipped his mind. He said it was very important to his boss to get it back. Mr. Curtis seemed quite distraught, poor man. I got the feeling his boss wasn’t at all happy to hear it was missing.”
Allie had been quiet throughout this exchange, her thoughts whirling. Her red book hadn’t been with the things in her mother’s shop; it had arrived in the mailbox. But it seemed logical to Allie that there was some connection between her red leather-bound book and the one Mr. Curtis was looking for.
“Did you tell him about my journal?” Allie asked.
“Yes, of course. But when I told him it was empty except for what you’d written in it, he said it couldn’t be the book he was looking for.”
Allie thought about the words “I am L,” which she certainly hadn’t written, but she decided that this was not the moment to bring that up.
“There was only one book, wasn’t there, Allie?” her mother asked.
Allie nodded.
“Well, it’s interesting that you’re using it as a journal,” Mrs. Nichols went on, “because the book he’s looking for is a diary, too.”
“A diary?” said Allie. “Whose?”
“He didn’t say,” answered Mrs. Nichols. “He just repeated that it was very important to his employer to get it back.”
“So can I keep mine?” Allie asked.
“I guess so,” said Mrs. Nichols. A quizzical expression remained on her face. “Although it’s rather an odd coincidence, don’t you think, that he’s looking for a book just like yours?” She shook her head, perplexed.
“It sure is,” said Mr. Nichols.
“It sure is,” piped up Michael.
“It sure is,” Allie repeated with a grin in Michael’s direction. “But it doesn’t sound as if it’s the same book at all,” she added, getting up from the table. She asked to be excused and carried her dishes out to the kitchen.
It was time to write her next journal entry.
Sitting at her desk, she opened the book to Mr. Henry’s last remarks. With a thrill of excitement, she saw that there was a new entry, written below Mr. Henry’s, in the same slanting hand as before. This time, the letters were firmer and steadier.
Look in the desk.
She stared at the words for a moment. Then, with trembling hands, she lifted the lid of the desk. The slanted writing surface gleamed in the light from her reading lamp. The cubbyholes that lined the back were still empty.
She opened the long, thin center drawer. Nothing. One by one, she opened the large drawers on the right side, then the left. Empty.
The words on the page insisted:
Look in the desk.
“All right already,” she said aloud. “I’ll look again.” This time, she used her
fingers to feel into every corner, nook, and cranny in the desk. She even tapped the underside of each drawer, hoping to discover a false bottom. But each time she heard the same hollow, empty echo.
There was nothing in the desk. Zip. Zero. Zilch.
Look in the desk.
Sitting back in her chair with a frustrated groan, she pounded her fist on the desktop, right on one of the raised brass hinges. It let out a metallic click.
Carefully, she examined the hinge and saw that her banging had caused a small latch to pop open. The latch was cleverly disguised as part of the hinge. More gently this time, she tapped the same place on the left hinge. Again she heard the metallic click and another latch popped open.
Her heart beating fast now, Allie saw that the hinges at the top of the desk served a cunning dual purpose. They allowed the bottom edge of the slanted desktop to be lifted in the usual manner, revealing the large open area beneath, with its slots and pigeonholes for paper, pens, envelopes, and odds and ends. But when unlatched, the hinges opened again from the top edge: the slanted desktop was made of two layers of wood, with empty space between.
And in that hollow space in the desktop lay a book bound in red leather, a book identical to Allie’s journal!
Murmuring “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it,” Allie lifted the book out of its hiding place. She closed the desk, set the book down, and opened it.
On the first page, in handwriting that seemed almost as familiar as her own, were the words:
This diary belongs to Lucy Stiles.
PRIVATE - KEEP OUT!
(This means you!!)
Allie began to read.
Sixteen
January 1, 1994
Dear Diary,
You and the other book just like you are the best Christmas presents I got. It was hard to wait until today to begin writing, but I decided that New Year’s was the perfect day to start a diary. All your clean white pages and all the days of a brand-new year are ready to be filled. It makes me feel kind of solemn (that’s a new vocabulary word) and excited to think about it. Mom says the other book looks just like you, so I didn’t even unwrap it. I’m going to save it for next year.
The Ghost of Fossil Glen Page 6