SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2

by Beverly Lewis

  Chapter

  7

  After school, the long yellow bus automatically stopped near the willow grove on SummerHill Lane.

  I called to Mr. Tom, the driver, that I wasn’t getting off. “I’m going over to Chelsea’s today.”

  He waved his hand. “No problem!”

  When we arrived at the Davises, I spotted a car in the driveway. “Hey, look! Someone’s home.”

  Chelsea groaned. “It’s my dad’s car. This can’t be good news—he’s home way too early.”

  We made our way down the narrow aisle toward the front. The bus door screeched opened and we got off.

  “Why do you think your dad’s home so early?” I asked as we moved toward the bricked walkway.

  Chelsea didn’t speak. Her eyes scanned the front of the house.

  “I hope it’s not about…” I didn’t finish. No need to heap worry on top of whatever else was flitting through her mind.

  “C’mon, Mer.” She pulled me around to the side of the house where a massive white ash tree stood sentinel. “We’re not going inside yet. I have an idea.”

  For a second, I grinned. Chelsea was starting to sound like me. “What’s up?” I asked.

  She pointed to a slight clearing in the woods behind their house. “Remember the old hut back there? The one that nearly scared us silly when we were kids?”

  I strained to see past the thick underbrush, but I knew very well what she was talking about. My childhood memories of the ancient place were clear enough. “What about it?” I said, trying to hide my apprehension.

  “Something in Mom’s diary makes me think that maybe, just maybe, we might find something important back there in the woods.”

  “Something important? Like what?” A creepy shiver crept down my spine.

  Chelsea turned, heading toward the arbor gate. “Are you coming or not?” Her eyes dared me.

  “Look, if we’re gonna do some real sleuthing, I oughta have my camera, don’t you think?” The thought had literally popped into my head—a clever way to postpone the inevitable moment, perhaps. I kept talking. “That way if we do discover something, we’ll have proof to show the police or a private investigator.”

  Chelsea stared at me like I was wacko. “Who said anything about cops? And a private eye—hey, they cost big bucks. Right now, according to my dad, we’re broke.”

  I refused to back down. I wanted a camera—now. “Still, I think it would be smart to take pictures.”

  We stood under the giant ash, its purple leaves covering us, having our first major standoff. After a few more desperate pleas, Chelsea came to her senses. Maybe she realized I wasn’t going to budge. Best of all, she didn’t appear to have sensed my uneasiness.

  “Why don’t you ride my bike down to your house?” she offered, going around to the overhang under the back porch. Her bike was in perfect shape, as though she never, ever rode it.

  “You sure?” I asked, noting the fancy leather seat and other expensive touches.

  “Go ahead.” She parked her books on the patio table nearby before helping secure my schoolbag on the bike.

  “Thanks. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” I called to her as I pushed off and headed for the driveway.

  The distance to my house was all downhill. Coming back, I’d have to pedal hard to make it.

  Mom was cooking something wonderful when I dashed into the house and through the kitchen. “Mm-m, smells great!” I said. “Special dinner for Skip?”

  “He should be home soon,” she called up the back steps. “What’s your hurry?”

  “I came home to get my camera,” I said. “Never know when I’ll stumble onto a glorious shot.”

  Mom didn’t respond. Either she hadn’t heard, or she was already lost in her culinary dreams and schemes. Skip was her one and only son. Naturally, she’d want to knock herself out to make his first homecoming extra-special.

  Upstairs, I deposited my schoolbag on the bed. Then I filled my camera pouch with film and both my 35-millimeter camera and the smaller digital one. I wanted to be fully prepared. No stones left unturned and all that detective-sounding stuff.

  Mom’s eyebrows arched when I rushed through the kitchen again, telling her I’d see her later. “Chelsea’s expecting me back at her house. We’re doing some investigating, I guess you could say.”

  “Nothing too serious, I hope.”

  She had me. “Well, maybe. But I won’t be long. ’Bye!”

  Mom called after me, “Be careful.”

  “I will,” I shouted back. “I promise.”

  “And be back in time for supper!”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  I made a run for it on the steep hill, but eventually slowed to a steady pumping. My latest mystery—our latest mystery—could possibly be wrapped up and solved in one afternoon. That is if Chelsea and I were brave enough to go where the solid leads might be lurking.

  I should’ve been jumping for joy about the prospect of finding Chelsea’s mom, but something about the mission made my mouth go dry. It was the old shack. The eerie place out there on the edge of the dark forest.

  I licked my lips as I pedaled for all I was worth. If only we didn’t have to deal with the mysterious woods and that hut.

  The feverish dryness in my mouth persisted even after I arrived back at Chelsea’s house and gulped down a full glass of water in her kitchen.

  I gazed through the window at the trees beyond the rickety wooden arbor gate. In the foreground, the arbor was cloaked in rambling grapevines now brittle and brown.

  The gateway beckoned.

  Chapter

  8

  Goose prickles popped out on the back of my neck. I poured more water and drank. The cool water helped—but only for a moment.

  Looking out through the kitchen window, I surveyed the fairy-tale entrance to the dark, foreboding forest. The arbor gate seemed to summon me. White stepping-stones, bordered on both sides by a stone foundation wall, scattered away from the arbor, creating a mysterious pathway.

  I shivered, thankful for daylight.

  Chelsea noticed. “Are you afraid?”

  In all the years Chelsea and I had known each other, neither of us had ever set foot in the vine-covered shack. The first time I’d ever gotten close enough to investigate, I’d promptly decided it was too far back in the woods for a kid’s hideaway. Too far from the safety of the house.

  Chelsea, being a timid sort of girl back then, had wholeheartedly agreed.

  Better to use it for storing tools and the lawn mower, I’d thought at the time. But the place hadn’t been used that way. As far as I knew, the vine-tangled shanty had stood empty all these years.

  “So…are you afraid?” Chelsea repeated, eyeing my camera bag.

  I stood tall, ignoring the question. “Ready?”

  “I’ve got the diary.” She held it against her chest. “Now, if I can just find the right page.” She glanced toward the living room. “Dad’s in there making phone calls, so we’ll have to keep our voices down.”

  “Does he know I’m here?” I leaned around the fridge to peek at him.

  “Not really. But if we’re quiet…” Her voice trailed off, and I struggled to push away creepy thoughts.

  Chelsea held the diary open. “Right here.” She pointed to a four-line passage that looked like poetry. “I’m pretty sure my mom is referring to the hut out back.” She pushed the diary into my hands. “Read it for yourself.”

  Carefully, I studied the cryptic words.

  Approach a labyrinth of snarls and tendrils,

  Follow the white-stone way.

  Spirit.dew, rain on they who here reflect.

  House of secrets bids you stay.

  “It’s a poem—it rhymes.” My lips quivered. “When did your mom start writing poetry?”

  “Beats me. Mom’s never written any before, at least not that I know of.”

  Her answer concerned me even more. “Chelsea”—I turned to her, pressing the diary pages shut�
��“what on earth is this writing? These words…that spooky stuff…it doesn’t feel right to me. I think it might be coming from an evil influence.”

  She pouted. “You’re only saying that so we won’t have to go out there and look around.”

  The tension, the urgency of the situation, made me forget about her dad. “No!” I shouted. “No, that’s not it.”

  “Sh-h! Merry!”

  Suddenly, I heard footsteps. “What’s all the noise?” Mr. Davis came through the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey, you two having a party without me?” He smiled casually.

  “Oh, sorry, Daddy,” Chelsea said.

  I kept the diary hidden behind my back. “Hello, Mr. Davis. I didn’t mean to be so loud.”

  He ran a hand through his thick graying hair, grunted something, and left the kitchen.

  Chelsea motioned me outside on the back porch. “Dad’ll probably want to eat supper soon, so we’d better get started. That is, if you’re ready.”

  I nearly choked. Truthfully, I was glad for the momentary encounter with her dad. Anything to take the edge off what I’d been feeling.

  The word occult drifted through my thoughts, and although I didn’t plan on telling Chelsea about it, I knew I’d have to pray extra-hard tonight. If her mother’s mind was being controlled by someone or something outside herself, we were in big trouble—in way over our heads.

  Then unexpectedly—like the swift flutter of wings—a Scripture verse I’d learned as a little girl came to me. For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways…

  Over and over, the verse echoed in my mind.

  He will command his angels…to guard you. His angels will guard you.…Angels…

  Adjusting my camera case straps, I moved forward. I glanced around me, wondering, Are they here? Are God’s angels with us now?

  Chelsea followed close behind me, clutching her mother’s diary. Together we passed beneath the tall, rectangular arbor gate to get to the white stone pathway.

  They will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.

  I looked down at the stony passage leading us to the dark woods, then ahead to the deserted shanty. God had promised to send His angels. They were here.

  I wish I weren’t, I thought.

  Closer, closer we came to the edge of the forest. Dense and foreboding, it loomed ahead like a giant monster waiting to devour us. The sinister-looking hovel came into view as we entered the black woodland, leaving the light of day behind us.

  Chelsea’s face muscles twitched nervously. “Let’s stay together, okay?”

  “I’m here” was all I could say. My throat was so dry I could hardly swallow.

  Suddenly, she stopped. “Listen!” Her hand trembled—the one holding her mom’s diary.

  “What is it?” I whispered. “What do you hear?”

  Chelsea inched forward. “That sound.…What’s that weird sound?”

  I strained to hear, my knees quaking. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Chelsea turned to me. “Didn’t you hear that?”

  I listened. Then in the distance, I heard the snap-a-crack of a dry twig. I wanted to drop to my knees. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to pray.”

  “Right here?” Her eyes bugged out.

  I nodded.

  “But—”

  “I’m not going to ask if you mind,” I interrupted. “You say you don’t believe in God, but I know He’s here with us. I also know He wants to help your mom.”

  She didn’t argue this time. I bowed my head and folded my hands with Chelsea’s hand stuck between mine. “Lord, we don’t know what we’re going to find inside this spooky place, but you do. Please keep us safe. And thanks for your angels, who protect us. Amen.”

  Chelsea didn’t say a word about the prayer—or the angels. In fact, she was trying to act real cool. But I knew the prayer had touched her. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

  Quickly, she turned away. “Okay, let’s go,” she said.

  Help us to do the right thing, Lord, I prayed silently as we moved forward, taking one white stepping-stone at a time.

  Chapter

  9

  Hesitantly, I reached through the vines to unlatch the narrow door. Chelsea held back the thick branches, hands trembling.

  “Anyone home?” I called.

  We listened.

  Nothing except the whispery sound of wind high in the trees.

  “We’re coming in!” I shouted, feeling more confident at the sound of my voice. With a shove, I opened the door.

  There, piled up on the wood floor, were candles—some half burned—two black-and-gold incense containers, and several empty wine bottles.

  “What on earth?” I muttered.

  Chelsea sniffed the air. “Hey! That’s my mom’s favorite incense.” She picked up one of the round incense holders and held it to her nose. “Weird,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I wonder if she’s been coming here to meditate.”

  “Your mom meditates?”

  Chelsea was quick to set me straight. “It’s not what you think, Merry,” she said. “My mom’s been interested in getting in touch with her inner consciousness for a long time. She likes to spend time concentrating and stuff like that, usually in a quiet place.”

  “We won’t know more unless we keep searching.” I spied a long black box high atop a potting shelf in the corner. “Look up there,” I said, pointing. “What’s in that box?”

  “Let’s check it out.”

  I dragged a chair under the shelf. Reaching up, I encountered a thick spider web. “Yee-ikes! There are cobwebs all over this place.”

  Chelsea steadied the rickety chair as she stared up at me. I jumped down, holding the black box, and opened the lid. Inside, we discovered a strange array of items. More candles—mostly black ones—and matches, incense, and several large, black square cloths. And a book with a frightening title: Taking the Oath.

  A sickening wave of terror welled up in me. “Oh, Chelsea, I think your mom’s hooked up with something truly dangerous!”

  “Why?” She picked up the book and flipped through the pages. “Because of this?”

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I wanted to run. Anything to escape the oppressive sensation that seemed to hover around us.

  I noticed some strange markings on the inside of the box but said nothing. By the looks of things, Chelsea’s mom had been using the abandoned shack as a hideaway—a place to practice her occult exercises in privacy.

  Quickly, I replaced the lid on the box and returned it to its original place, deliberately avoiding annoying spider webs.

  Leaping down off the chair, I glanced around at the inside of the hut—about the size of a large bedroom. Fighting off nightmarish feelings, I aimed my digital camera, taking several shots of the bizarre surroundings before closing the door and latching it.

  “Is this building on your property?” I asked as we hurried away.

  “It’s been here as long as we have,” Chelsea replied, “so it must be.”

  “You’re sure it’s not on your neighbor’s land?”

  “Positive.”

  I wanted to make sure we weren’t trespassing. There was a strong possibility I’d want to return.

  “Let me see that poem your mom wrote again,” I said.

  Chelsea handed the diary to me, and I thumbed through the pages till I found the peculiar poem.

  Approach a labyrinth of snarls and tendrils,

  Follow the white-stone way.

  Spirit-dew, rain on they who here reflect.

  House of secrets bids you stay.

  I stared at the diary entry. “That’s it! The hut has to be the house of secrets,” I blurted. “Look, Chels, it’s right here.” I pointed to the page.

  She stopped cold, and I reread the words to her.

  “Do you think…? Could it be?” Her voice became hysterical. “Do you think my mom’s lost her mind or
something?”

  “I hope not.” What else could I say? The signs pointed to…what? I didn’t know. But whatever was in that place and in that black box surely wasn’t meant for the praise and worship of God.

  We quickened our pace, not looking back. I stuffed the diary into my back pocket.

  Chelsea’s wheezy breathing worried me as our feet flew over the white stones, through the opening in the arbor gate, and back to the safety of her yard.

  “Whew.” She collapsed on one of the patio chairs on the back porch. “I can see why we avoided that wretched place as kids.” She was totally freaked.

  “I’ll get you something to drink,” I offered, heading for the kitchen door.

  Chelsea looked too pale to get up. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Just take it easy,” I called over my shoulder.

  Inside, I let the water run so it would be cool without ice. Sometimes Chelsea had asthma flare-ups, and I knew better than to give her ice water. I wandered over to the cupboard, searching for a clean glass, when I heard startling words coming from the living room.

  “What do you mean, you’re not coming home?” Mr. Davis was saying.

  I held my breath, listening as I hugged the doorframe.

  “Where are you now? Where is our money?”

  A long pause.

  “But that money belonged to me, too,” he insisted. “We had plans for that account, you and I—we…”

  My heart ached for Chelsea’s dad. Evidently, Mrs. Davis was on the line. Would she tell him where she was? Why she’d left?

  “Please come home, Berta Jean. This is craziness, every last bit of it. Those people, they’re nuts and you know it. Why, those crazy mixed-up notions about making the world a better place—and that hocus-pocus nonsense, c’mon!”

  Silence again.

  Then—“But how can you up and leave Chelsea and me for a bunch of crackpots?” Mr. Davis was weeping now.

  Another long pause.

  His voice came softly. “I love you, Berta, don’t you see? I want you here, to live with our daughter and me….”