The Peculiar Incident on Shady Street

by Lindsay Currie

  Andrew starts clicking away at his phone. “Got it. Where’s your computer?”

  Oh, no. The family computer has always been off-limits to me before—for anything that isn’t homework-related, that is. We don’t have a television, either. Mom and Dad don’t hate technology, really. They just believe there are better things to fill our time with. Now I’m going to have to explain that and look like a complete psycho.

  Or am I?

  I glance up at the clock, noting that Dad walked out about three minutes ago. With traffic, he should be gone for at least another twenty. Plenty of time to do a little digging on Inez and then erase everything from the computer history. If Nina and Richie get here soon, that is.

  Taking a deep breath, I tell myself this is pretty much homework. I’m not really breaking the house rules. Right?

  “Upstairs, first door on the right. But the minute they get here, we’re going to have to be fast.”

  27

  THE BUZZER RINGS AND ANDREW beats me to the front door, tossing it open to reveal a waterlogged Nina and an obviously angry Richie. I rush out and throw my arms around Nina’s neck.

  She tightens up in my grip like she’s not used to being hugged, but I don’t care. I’m too happy to see her to stop. “Nina! I’m so glad you’re okay!”

  Pulling back, she gives a half-smile. “Yeah, well . . . me too. I thought we were goners.”

  “What happened to you guys?” Richie asks, his deep brown eyes landing on me skeptically. “One minute Nina was hogging the bathroom with that stupid water flosser of hers, and the next she’s calling me in a panic . . . saying there’s a ghost after her.”

  I take a step back and stare at Nina. “You said that? That a ghost was after you?”

  She nods and her cheeks flush pink. “Listen, I didn’t just agree to help you with all this because I like you. I mean, I do. But I also think you need help.”

  “So you agree that what’s happening to me isn’t just my imagination?” I ask, hope soaring through me for the first time since we left Fort Myers. If Nina believes me—if a girl who is obviously this smart honestly believes I’m being haunted—then I can’t be wrong.

  Nina nods. The smile that stretches across her face isn’t shy or nervous . . . it’s happy. Whoever thought a terrifying paranormal experience could bring me such an amazing new friend? And something tells me it’s helping her, too. I’m starting to think investigating this ghost is showing Nina how awesome she actually is. Maybe this is a new Nina . . . a more confident one.

  Clapping suddenly, Andrew draws a scream from Nina. She looks at me sheepishly and the four of us burst into laughter. “O-kay, so Nina is still a little on edge. Think you guys are up for doing some research on Inez or Amos or whoever seems to be following Tess around?”

  Tess. My parents call me that all the time, but it sounds nicer . . . more sophisticated coming from him. I think I like it.

  Richie holds his hands up in the air. “I’m not committing to anything until I know exactly what kind of research you’re talking about. Is this like the time you asked me to help you figure out if catnip affects humans?”

  “No. And how many times do I have to say I’m sorry about that?” Andrew asks, tossing his own hands in the air in annoyance. “We were eight!”

  “You dumped it directly into my nostrils! I couldn’t breathe right for a week!” Richie shouts.

  The image in my head is too funny and I can’t help it. I start laughing. “Why would you think catnip would do something to Richie?” I manage to ask between giggles.

  Andrew shrugs and fights off a laugh. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be great if it did.” He paws at the air like a demented cat, and Richie mutters something about not being able to smell anything but mint and leaves for days. Those two. What I wouldn’t give to have known them as long as they’ve known each other.

  Nina tips her head toward the kitchen. “Is that where your computer is? We should get working.”

  “Agreed. But the laptop is actually upstairs. C’mon.” I take Nina’s and Richie’s jackets and toss them onto the couch. Then I gesture for them to follow me. Even with three friends at my back, I’m still nervous in here. Still feel like I’m being watched.

  We march up the steps slowly. Quietly.

  “This is the painting,” I whisper, stopping in the dim stairwell to show them the image that seems to darken with each hour that passes. The winding tendrils are completely brown and the petals are faded. The smudge in the corner is still there, too, like a warning. I’m here and I’m not leaving until you give me what I want.

  A creak from the top of the stairs draws my attention and I inhale deeply, preparing myself for the possibility that the crackling is coming. Turning to look at Richie, I notice that his face has gone white. His jaw clenches and unclenches, but he stays silent.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him, but I get nothing in return but a curt nod and wide, worried eyes. This guy is more nervous in this house than I am! The creak at the top of the stairs comes again—louder this time, and Richie turns on his heel as if to run.

  “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” Andrew grabs the hood of Richie’s sweatshirt and pulls him back. “No way are we going to get eaten or maimed by this thing and you’re going to just be hanging out at home with that stupid tub of cheese puffs you have hidden under your bed.”

  “Shut up about my cheese puffs!” Richie hisses, scrambling out of Andrew’s grip. “And for the record, I’m not scared. I just don’t think I have anything to add here.”

  Andrew smirks. Fortunately, though, he’s got the good sense to stay quiet. Richie looks like he’s about to black out and I’m positive Andrew’s sarcasm is not going to help.

  A muted thump travels down the stairs and I rub at my arms, trying uselessly to make the goose bumps go away. “I would say that’s nothing, but . . .”

  “But that would obviously be a lie,” Andrew finishes. His eyes land on mine and he winks. “C’mon, Florida. No fear. This ghost obviously doesn’t want to hurt you, or she would have done it already. So let’s just ignore the sounds, get the computer, and figure out who’s buried in that cemetery.”

  Nina slips a tiny camera out of her pocket and begins fitting it into a clear plastic case. Then she attaches the case to some kind of strap and slips it onto her head. The camera rests against her forehead, and its giant eye stares at me.

  “What the . . . are you videoing?” I ask.

  “Abso-freaking-lutely. If there is some kind of presence in your house, I want to catch it on this!” She gently taps the camera, which I now notice says HERO on the front. The musty lightbulb in my brain turns on. It’s a GoPro. Tons of kids had them back in Florida for surfing and snorkeling and fishing on the beach.

  I guess I didn’t realize that city kids had anything as interesting to record.

  Nina turns and lets her camera fully take in the painting before we continue moving up. Rounding the banister at the top, I leap into the center of the hallway and turn a full circle.

  Crickets.

  “What are you doing?” Andrew laughs. His eyes are crinkled up by the giant smile that’s plastered onto his face. “Are you trying to surprise the ghost? Because I’m not sure that’s how it works . . .”

  “Oh, shut up. How would you know the way it works, anyway? Hmmm? Do you have an artistically talented ghost in your house?” I stop speaking suddenly. The idea is so simple I don’t know how I didn’t think of it before. “Wait! Maybe that’s it!”

  Andrew stops laughing and tips his head to the side in confusion. “What’s it?”

  “The drawings!” I fling my door open, no longer worried about what might be on the other side. “I never thought about it before, but if this ghost is the ghost of Inez Clarke, why is she trying so hard to reach me through drawings?”

  He thinks on this for a moment, his eyes suddenly lighting up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. “Because you like to draw?”

&nbs
p; “Bingo!” I yell. Reaching into my desk, I pull out the sketchpad with the glass box drawn in it. I hold the image up. Andrew and Nina gasp in unison.

  “Whoa! That’s the statue!” Nina pulls the sketchpad from my hands and holds it up for her camera. “It’s so obviously the exact same one!”

  I nod enthusiastically. Now that I’ve seen the real tombstone, I completely believe that Inez Clarke is behind the creepshow going on in my house. The drawings. The crying and the rattling doorknob. Reno.

  I look at the corner Reno appeared in that night, grateful to see it’s empty.

  “Look. This is a good pastel drawing. A great one, actually.”

  Richie crosses the room in a few short strides and stares down at it. I hadn’t noticed before, but he came from the window. Something tells me he was looking out and wishing he wasn’t stuck in this place. Poor guy looks like he’s actually seen a ghost, instead of just hearing about one.

  “This is really good, Tessa. And you have no idea who did it?” he asks.

  “None. Only that they keep adding to it. Almost daily there’s more drawn, but I never see signs that anyone has been in here.”

  Andrew narrows his eyes at the image, then looks up at me. “Why isn’t there a face, though? It’s like it’s only an outline.”

  “Exactly! Only a real pastel artist starts with an outline like this.” I’m so excited that I’m almost screaming. Yet Andrew still looks . . . lost.

  “I’m saying maybe that’s the connection!” I tell myself to slow down before I lose Andrew completely. “Let’s start at the beginning. It seems like this ghost is a girl—Inez. It also seems like maybe she liked to draw and that’s why she’s haunting me!” I remember about the crying I heard in the hallway and how it didn’t sound like Jonah. It definitely sounded like a girl.

  Maybe the graveyard records have it all wrong. Maybe Inez Clarke isn’t the one who didn’t exist. After all, what proof do we have that Amos Briggs ever existed? None.

  Andrew stays perfectly still for a minute, deep in thought. His eyes flick back and forth between the drawing and me; then he exhales. “Smart, Tessa. That could be it!”

  “I don’t know,” Nina says. Her voice sounds skeptical. “She was only six when she died. Could a six-year-old be this good at drawing?”

  She has a point. But outlines are the very first thing that an artist who works with pastels learns. And the other drawings I found—the secret ones from behind the brick—are pretty rough. If I can connect those to Inez somehow, maybe this all makes more sense than we thought. It’s possible Inez was just learning to draw and that’s why the images aren’t all complete.

  “What other connection is there?” Andrew asks Nina. “Tessa’s not from Chicago, she’s not dead . . .”

  I punch him in the arm. “That was mean. And she could be listening!”

  “Fine.” He looks up at my ceiling. “I didn’t mean it, Inez.”

  I make a tsking sound at him. “Better hope she forgives you. Unless you want her following you home, that is.”

  “I’d rather stuff catnip in my nose,” Andrew admits sheepishly.

  This time it’s my turn to laugh at him. And I do. Hard.

  Richie and Nina laugh along with me, and for a moment I forget why we’re here. That there’s something ominous in my new house and I’ve recruited my only friends in this entire city to help me solve it.

  It might not be the start I was hoping for here in Chicago, but it isn’t the end of my life, either. And Inez . . . if she is the one haunting me, she’d better watch out, because thanks to these guys, I’m on her trail.

  28

  “HEY—WHAT’S THIS?” NINA STOOPS down on the opposite side of my bed. I walk over to her, my blood going cold at the sight. A moving box. It’s sitting right next to my bedside table and is labeled with my mother’s name.

  Her supplies.

  “Oh my god,” I whisper. “My mom was looking for these. They disappeared from our kitchen right after we moved in.”

  Nina tightens the strap of her camera. It makes her brown hair stick out even more than it did when she first put it on. “I’m guessing this wasn’t here earlier today?”

  I shake my head grimly, then kneel down and lift the lid to be sure. It’s Mom’s good set of watercolors. I’m willing to bet Mom has no idea they’re in here. I didn’t even know they were in here! That’s because someone . . . or something . . . wanted me to get the message first. But what is the message? That the ghost can get into my room? The ghost already proved that by drawing in my sketchpad, so why go a step further? Why keep tormenting me?

  Richie looks at me nervously as he begins to fidget with the zipper of his hooded sweatshirt. “And she wouldn’t have brought them in here after you left for the day? Like, maybe stuck them in your room so she could have more space to unpack other stuff?”

  “Nope.” It’s a good guess, but no way. Mom is very protective of her art supplies, just like I am about my pastels. There’s no good explanation for why they’re in here. Nina walks the edges of my room, quietly documenting everything she sees for the big black eye of her camera. I hope that thing catches something we don’t, because right now I feel completely outmatched.

  Black clouds roll across the endless gray, blanketing my room in darkness. I flip on my reading light and shoot Richie a look I hope is comforting. The wind picks up, and the massive tree in my front yard shimmies back and forth like it’s being shaken by invisible hands. Maybe it is.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Richie whispers, his eyes glued to the menacing sky. “It had finally calmed down out there after the storm earlier. No wind. Nothing. And now it looks like a zombie apocalypse is coming. Again.”

  Nina walks over to the window and surveys the wind and clouds for herself, muttering something that sounds like “weather anomalies” for her camera. Then she turns back to face me with a serious look in her eyes. “This seems to be a theme, doesn’t it? Stormy weather when the topic of Inez comes up?”

  “Ahhh, I don’t know if we can connect those two things, though,” Andrew says, pulling back my curtains to reveal more of the window. “Fall is always weird here. Sometimes it still feels like summer and other times—” A sharp crack of thunder rings through the room, interrupting him.

  The four of us stay silent as the air in the house grows heavy. My reading lamp flickers on and off, the bulb humming with an energy I wished I’d never have to feel again. It’s her. The ghost. It has to be.

  A soft wailing fills my room. It’s so quiet I almost miss it. But I know Andrew, Nina, and Richie don’t. The look of utter horror on their faces tells me they hear it.

  Is it . . . is it coming from under my bed? I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply. Visions of Reno hiding just beyond my dust ruffle dance behind my eyelids and I try to ignore them. He’s just a doll. He’s just a doll. He’s just a doll.

  Nina adjusts the camera on her forehead with trembling fingers and gives me a small nod.

  Slowly, I slide down onto the floor and lift the dust ruffle. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely hang on to the lacy fabric. I force myself to look underneath, exhaling a breath of relief. It’s empty. I can take wind and thunder and rain—even crying—but I cannot take Reno. If he shows up right now, I’m outta here.

  “Tessa, what are you looking for?” Richie has moved to my door and has one hand tensed on the doorknob. “And what is that sound? Tell me it’s your little brother!”

  There’s still zero color in Richie’s face. A few small pinpricks of sweat shine on his forehead and his hand is gripping the doorknob so tightly that his knuckles are white. Guilt crushes me. Richie is nice, and despite the fact that he’s tall and looks more like he’s in high school than in seventh grade, that doesn’t mean I should expect him to be any braver than us.

  “My mom said the plumbing is weird in these old houses,” I lie. “It was probably just the pipes whining.”

  Richie looks unconvinced. “A
nd you were looking under the bed because . . .”

  “I was just thinking maybe I left something we might need under there, is all.” I could tell him I was looking for a possessed ventriloquist dummy, but why? Expecting Richie to investigate this with us is no different than my parents expecting me to move here and love it. Things like that take time. And sometimes . . . sometimes they never come.

  A bolt of lightning streaks from the sky and appears to go straight down to the city’s core. The thunder that follows is deep and makes the glass in my window shake. The wailing goes silent, but the entire house buzzes with a dark energy. Her energy.

  Inez is here. She’s here and she wants something from me. In my mind I again run through the drawings I found behind the brick, desperate to make sense of them. If I could just understand her clues, maybe I’d be able to figure out what she wants. Bedroom. Music box. Bedroom. Music box. Bedroom. Music box . . . I. B. I’m lost. Completely lost.

  Richie cranes his neck as if he’s listening for the crying to return. His eyes are darting around, landing on nothing for more than a split second before moving again. I remember what Andrew said about him earlier and smile. Twins or not, he and Nina are very different people, and that’s okay. I know what I need to do.

  “Hey, don’t you have something today? Soccer?”

  Richie nods. “Yeah, it’s starting in twenty minutes.” He looks back out the window to the swirling torment outside. “Practice will probably be inside now, thanks to this stupid storm.”

  “You should call your mom or dad and have them pick you up so you aren’t late,” I say, hoping he gets the hint. It’s like the time my mom told me I needed to take a break from my pastels—just a day or two. I’d been making myself crazy over this one image, erasing and starting over, erasing and starting over. I’d done it so many times I was in tears, and although I couldn’t see my problem, Mom could. I just needed to get away from the pressure I was putting on myself. Maybe Richie needs an out, too.