The Secret of the Scarab Beetle

by William Meyer

  Horace was about to resume the story, when he started coughing. Ms. Neely suddenly appeared in the doorway, her floral perfume wafting in ahead of her.

  “Yes?” Mr. Witherspoon asked in frustration.

  “I’m sorry, but the caller says it’s important.”

  “Important?” He paused, and his eyebrows twitched just slightly.

  “I’m afraid it’s Mrs. Edwards, Horace’s mother.”

  Mr. Witherspoon scratched his brow. He looked just as confused as Horace did now.

  “I’d better answer it.” He reached down and picked up the phone. “Hello?” A short pause. “Oh no . . .”

  Horace was staring at the phone and trying to catch his breath.

  “I have him right here.”

  How did his mom know about the fight already?

  “Yes, I think it’s best you take him.” Mr. Witherspoon looked at Horace and then put the phone down. “Horace, we need to get your stuff. Your mom’s coming in a few minutes to pick you up.”

  Horace didn’t know whether to be happy or terrified. Mr. Witherspoon seemed to have completely forgotten any thought of punishment or detention. But if his mom were coming to punish him instead, it would certainly be worse than anything Mr. Witherspoon had in mind.

  As they walked into his homeroom, seventeen kids sat in stunned silence, an unusual scene from the daily bustle of the class.

  Mr. Witherspoon motioned to Mr. Petrie to meet him at the door and told Horace to get his things. His old teachers in Ohio had loved to hang stuff from every nook and cranny, but Mr. Petrie’s room had a much simpler style. Perfectly laid out, the bulletin board had little quotes stapled around its edges. A row of evenly spaced markers lay beneath a spotless whiteboard.

  Horace collected his books from his desk. Anna, who sat in the seat next to his, leaned over. “What happened? Where’s Seth? Milton said they had to call an ambulance to take him to the hospital,” she whispered.

  Horace just shrugged. He didn’t have an answer.

  “Are you in trouble?” Anna asked. Her face was bright red, which was, coincidentally, also the color of her hair and the bands on her braces.

  He didn’t have an answer for that, either. He didn’t know what was going on. But he looked around the room and saw Seth’s desk was empty too.

  “Wally got a week’s detention last year for clogging all the sinks in the bathroom with paper towels, but I can’t imagine they would do that to you. You’re new.” She tried to comfort him.

  Horace was hoping to avoid his other classmates’ stares and any more of Anna’s questions. He quickly approached Mr. Witherspoon and Mr. Petrie. They immediately stopped talking.

  “Don’t worry about your homework tonight,” said Mr. Petrie. “We can catch up with your writing later.” Horace was surprised by the change in his teacher’s tone. For most of the morning Mr. Petrie had been furious with Horace and Seth for not finishing their homework the night before, but now he was being nice.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Horace saw Milton smiling from ear to ear and giving him a thumbs-up. Then another boy started clapping. Soon the whole class was cheering and shouting Horace’s name. Horace couldn’t believe it. Neither could Mr. Petrie.

  “What is going on? Stop it! Stop it or there will be no gym this afternoon!”

  Horace didn’t hear what happened next because Mr. Witherspoon took him back down the hall. The bird attack, the phone call from his mom, and now this—the whole day had been so strange. Nothing like this had ever happened to Horace. He didn’t even get to go home early when he sprained his arm at recess in first grade.

  As they reached the front doors, Horace’s excitement faded. He immediately knew something was wrong when he saw his mom. Her rusty red station wagon was parked right outside, and two dark circles framed the bottoms of her eyes.

  She took Horace’s bag off his shoulder. “I’ll meet you in the car, Horace. I have to speak with your principal.”

  “Okay.” Horace shrugged.

  As he walked over to the station wagon, his mind started racing at the sight of his two older sisters sitting in the backseat. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Lilly just sat staring out the window. She wasn’t at all like her usual chatty self. And Sara, the oldest of the three, looked equally as confused.

  Horace looked between the two of them. “So . . . why are you here?”

  “We don’t know,” Sara finally answered. “Mom won’t say.

  After a few more minutes of talking with Mr. Witherspoon, their mom walked to the car and opened the driver’s door. She placed Horace’s bag next to her on the empty passenger seat but said nothing. This didn’t feel like it was about the fight. And when she turned left out of the school parking lot and drove past their house without even a side-glance, it suddenly hit Horace: They weren’t going home. They were heading to the farm.

  Chapter Three

  Horace bit down on his lip, totally confused why they were heading to his grandparents’ farm. He hadn’t been out there since school had started.

  When he had first moved to Niles over the summer, Horace used to ride his bike over to his grandparents’ every day. He would work side by side with his grandfather, sometimes planting flowers, other times helping around the house. While they’d work, his grandfather would talk about his travels throughout the world, and sometimes even about his adventures from the past. Horace would fall asleep at night dreaming about all his grandpa’s stories, and the next morning, if he could get to the farm early enough, he’d arrive to the sound of sizzling bacon and the smell of buttery pancakes. There was no place on a summer day he’d rather be.

  Lilly and Sara had very different opinions about the farm, though. They insisted the whole house was haunted, full of secret passages and hidden rooms. According to the two of them, Niles was part of the Underground Railroad, and their grandparents’ farmhouse was one of the first stops in Michigan. Lilly, who almost never visited the farm anymore, said there were probably tons of ghosts roaming around the place.

  The sound of gravel under the tires awoke Horace from his thoughts. He could see the black shutters and whitewashed brick of the Victorian farmhouse. Behind the house stretched a sea of endless fields. In the midst of all the corn towered an impressive sycamore tree. The lone tree seemed to predate everything on the farm.

  Horace’s uncle was waiting at the door and nodded at their car as it rumbled up the drive. He was a real estate agent in Niles. Last year he’d sold more houses than any other person in the county and had been named Realtor of the Year. Everyone always raved about what a nice guy he was. There was something about his droopy eyes and his overenthusiastic laugh, though, that Horace didn’t quite trust, no matter how many houses he sold or birthday gifts he gave.

  Two cars were parked next to the garage; both were from the Niles police.

  His mom turned off the engine and scanned their faces in the rearview mirror. “I want the three of you to stay in the car.” With that, she got out.

  The exchange among the police, his uncle, and his mom lasted only a few minutes. One of the men was Milton’s father—they had the same deep dimples and dark skin—but he was twice Milton’s size. The name Williams was written across a patch on his shirt. Soon Horace’s mom was walking toward the car, and Officer Williams and his uncle were heading to the rear of the house.

  “Are we going home?” Sara seemed confused by their mom’s quick return and decision to squeeze into the backseat with them.

  “No.” His mom paused. “I have to tell the three of you something.” An audible strain was growing in her voice. “Last night there was a break-in at the house, and”—she began to choke up—“in your grandfather’s struggle to stop the intruder, he had a heart attack. Before the ambulance could arrive . . .”

  Horace’s mouth started to go dry.

  “He died.”

  Sara slumped down in her seat.

  “You’re lying!” Lilly shouted.

/>   Horace fell into a silent shock. A break-in? His lungs suddenly tightened; his hands lost all sense of feeling. Dead? He closed his eyes and squeezed, hoping to push out the word. What did she mean a break-in? How could his grandpa be dead? He was fine. He was alive. Tears started to run down Horace’s face.

  His mom reached out and grabbed the three of them in a firm hug. Horace still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Niles was boring, and maybe a little weird, but he hadn’t thought it was dangerous.

  There was something else deeply unsettling about the news. It seemed to awaken a memory tucked into the recesses of his mind. His grandpa was always worried about security. He’d often ask Horace if he remembered to lock the door, or if someone knew where he was going. None of it ever made any sense to Horace, since the farm was the quietest place in Niles, and Niles might well be the quietest place on Earth.

  It felt like an hour, but it could have been five minutes before his mom finally loosened her grip. His sisters gazed unblinking out the windshield, still in shock, as Horace wiped his eyes with the end of his sleeve.

  “I need . . . the three of you . . . to be strong.” His mom collected herself and looked at them. “No one expected this, especially not your grandma, but there are things we have to take care of before we can go home. And I need each of you to help.” Horace could have sat in the car for the rest of the day, but he knew his mom meant it. They needed to be strong, not just for their grandma but for their mom, too.

  As they slowly got out of the car, he noticed a piece of yellow police tape hanging across the porch. Muddy footprints littered the white floorboards, and two wooden posts were snapped at the base. At the far end of the front porch was a broken windowpane, and on the lawn a series of burnt marks in the grass.

  His mom lifted the tape so they could walk under it.

  The whole house looked as if it had been turned upside down and shaken violently. Mail had been strewn across the floor, and furniture was everywhere. A pile of broken glass littered the floor, and a clock dangled by a single nail on the wall. Even the hallway, which he remembered having been meticulously lined with antiques and old photographs, was now almost impassable.

  His mom stepped over a stack of books and turned toward the three of them. “Sara and Lilly, I need your help upstairs. And, Horace, I need you to watch Grandma. We’ll be right back.” She pointed at the rocking chair in the living room.

  His grandma held a pair of crochet needles in her hands, and her silver hair glowed in the afternoon sun. Through the window, Horace could see his uncle and Officer Williams outside, still walking around the yard.

  Over the last two years his grandma had started to change. Her eyes had dimmed, her laughter wasn’t as loud, and her memory was no longer sharp. She had also become a little feisty, too. At Thanksgiving she accidentally cooked an empty tray in the oven for three hours, leaving the whole family with a turkey-less dinner. The doctor explained that these were all signs of early-onset dementia, a disease that made its victims lose their memories one by one.

  Horace began to carefully navigate past the upended wooden chairs and pillows strewn across the floor. The living room looked even worse than the entry, with its smashed furniture and scattered papers. He finally reached the couch after high stepping a pile of glass, this one from a knocked-over reading lamp.

  It was hard to tell if she was asleep or awake.

  “Grandma?” he said in his softest voice. “Grandma?” he repeated, this time a little louder, but still afraid to startle her. He bent over and could see her eyes were open. She was staring blankly out the window at the yard.

  “Grandma, it’s me, Horace.”

  It was subtle, but he was certain this time she had moved.

  “Grandma, are you okay?”

  She blinked again, recognizing his voice, or maybe his words.

  There was a quilt on her legs. He pulled it up over her frail shoulders.

  “Can I get you something? A glass of water?” He was about to walk over to the kitchen, when she started speaking.

  “Horace.” Her voice was warm, just like always, but underneath was an almost unnoticeable quaver. “Thank goodness you’re safe.”

  His first thought was about the fight. But how did she know about the fight with Seth? He reddened in embarrassment.

  She continued. “They found us. I don’t know how, Horace, but they found us.”

  Suddenly the afternoon sun fell behind a thick cloud, and the room was covered in darkness. This wasn’t about the fight.

  “Who, Grandma?”

  His grandma’s stare became more distant and her words even more cryptic. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re safe. You must find the key.”

  Now Horace was the confused one. He anxiously bit down on his lower lip, a habit he’d formed whenever he got nervous. “What? What key?” He wasn’t even allowed to lock his bedroom door.

  “The key. You have to find the key. The one that opens our secret door.”

  “What are you talking about, Grandma?”

  But his grandma ignored his question. “You’re the only one who can help. Find the door, and you will find the boy. Help him before it’s too late.” For the first time she stared directly at Horace with an intensity he hadn’t seen in years. “Promise me, Horace. Promise me you will find the key and help the boy.”

  After a long moment of silence, he answered, “I promise.”

  Chapter Four

  The conversation with his grandma had been cut short by his sister’s arrival. Lilly had found an amethyst upstairs and, in the excitement of her new charm, it seemed like she had forgotten all about their grandfather’s death. But not Horace. He couldn’t stop thinking about his grandpa or his grandma’s cryptic message. What did she mean by “a key”? Where was there a secret door? And who needed help?

  The sun was low on the horizon by the time they got home. Horace made his way up to his bedroom, too tired to eat and too sad to do any of his schoolwork. He collapsed on the edge of his rumpled bed. It had been a long day, and for a while he just stared out the window, in a daze. He probably would have eventually fallen asleep then and there had it not been for a sudden knock on the door.

  “Come in.” Horace’s voice was quiet.

  His dad stood in the doorway. He was an accountant and still wearing his suit from work. While he usually greeted Horace with a smile and a hug, tonight was different. His eyes, usually two beacons of light, were dim and red-rimmed.

  He joined Horace on the edge of the bed. “I know you’re sad. We all are.”

  Horace just sat there, scratching his thumb against his index finger. It took too much strength to answer.

  “It’s been a tough day.” His dad began to rub Horace’s back. “You and your grandpa were lucky to spend so much time together this past summer.”

  Horace tried to recall his grandpa’s voice. Look at this, Horace. Can you believe that? Wow! His grandpa was so excited about everything. He wasn’t like anyone Horace had ever met. To him, the world was a wonderful adventure, ready to be explored. And the past—he loved the past. It wasn’t just about some facts to be memorized or some bones to be dug up; with his grandfather’s stories, the past was alive. His grandpa’s favorite place was the museum he had worked at in Niles. He took Horace to exhibits on the Potawatomi Tribe and the other Native Americans who had first lived in Michigan. He’d even shown him the famous two-headed lamb, the pride of the whole collection.

  One memory stood out above all the others, though. It was toward the end of the summer, only a little more than a month ago. One afternoon, Horace had ridden his bike over to the museum to help his grandpa. The two of them ended up climbing the old turret at the top of the Chapin Mansion, the historic house that held the main collection. From the window, they could see the entire town. His grandpa pointed out all the buildings, telling stories of their past and naming some of the famous people who lived in them. He was so excited to have his grandchildren living
in Michigan now. “You know,” he said in his gentle way, “you have an important name too, Horace, one connected to Niles’s most famous resident.”

  “Who, Grandpa?”

  “Horace Dodge. The same man who started the Dodge car company with his brother, John. It was here where they had their first idea for a car.” He pointed toward a water tower in the distance. “That’s where they lived.” He then turned and smiled. “You never know what great things you’ll find here in Niles.”

  At the time Horace had felt so much possibility sitting there above it all, but now there was no future—or at least not an exciting one without his grandpa. And nothing new to discover in Niles but sadness and grief.

  Sensing Horace’s growing despair, his dad squeezed his shoulder. “See those?” Dad asked, pointing at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. “Your grandfather may have left us, but I promise you, he is watching and guiding you from heaven now. You only need to stop and listen to hear his voice.”

  There was something about his dad’s words Horace knew was true. A piece of his grandfather was still with him, even though he was no longer alive.

  “I know it’s hard for you to hear, Horace, but this, too, will pass in time. Everything changes in time, even these tough moments. Out of them will grow something good.” His dad gave him a soft kiss on the forehead. “Now why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

  Horace was still in his school clothes, but he didn’t have the energy to change.

  His dad pulled the sheets up to Horace’s neck and turned off the lamp. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Dad.” He knew his dad was trying his best. It wasn’t easy for any of them.

  Just as Horace was drifting off, a strange and hushed conversation made its way up through the vent next to his bed. He’d often overheard his parents talking late at night, usually about money, but this conversation was different.