The Trail of the Ghost Bunny, page 6
“My granny. I better go bang my tambourine.” Lyric’s tone is pained as she shoves the blue note back into her pocket. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
“One o’clock,” I say, nodding. “By the hidden trail.”
“I’ll be there.” She waves and hurries off to join the band.
Chewing my last cherry, I turn around and head home. The rushing rhythm of the river drowns out Peanut Butter and Jamboree’s music, and I puzzle over what Lyric told me.
Follow the bunny.
I already did that, and Trixie led me to the wall panel where I found the key. Could the key be Lyric’s treasure? It’s not much of a gift—unless it opens something amazing like a treasure chest. If I show it to Lyric, will she know what it goes to?
Rocks in the river path lie scattered like an obstacle course. I slip on a round rock and it rolls. Stumbling, I throw my arms out for balance. I step more carefully on a rock along the riverbank. I’ll have to step carefully with Lyric too, I think as I continue along the path. While her story sounds logical, I have a feeling it’s not the whole truth. What isn’t she telling me? I sort through the sequence of events.
Mrs. Galano told Lyric to “follow the bunny” to find a treasure.
Sadly, the old lady died and the house went up for sale.
The bunny was cared for by our realtor.
Lyric tried to search the house and was caught by the sheriff.
If she hadn’t been caught, would she have found the prize? It doesn’t seem possible since the house had been emptied. Anything hidden there would also be gone—unless it was inside a wall. Could there be more secret panels?
I can’t wait to tell Becca and Leo…only I can’t. “Drats,” I mutter, remembering my promise not to tell anyone about Lyric.
Prickly vines grab at me as I crawl through the berry-shrouded trail. I’m sweating when I come out. Brushing off dirt from my jeans, I’m surprised to see only Dad’s SUV in the driveway and not Mom’s animal control truck. She must be working late.
When I enter the foyer, there’s a lingering smell of paint. I peek into the living room at the walls, which now shimmer a bright shade of Mellow Yellow Summer. Crystals glitter from the “great deal!” chandelier my mother found at a secondhand store. The room is arranged with antique-style wood chairs, a brocade couch, Dad’s favorite leather recliner, and a cushioned window seat beneath an arched window where sunshine streams inside. Our house is starting to feel like a home.
But where is everyone?
I listen for sounds. Nothing. I start up the stairs but stop when I hear a thud from the kitchen! Is it Honey? Or did Tricky Trixie escape again? I detour into the kitchen and find Dad perched on top of the refrigerator.
I peer up at yellow paint-stained jeans. “Dad, why aren’t you using a ladder?”
“A ladder would be an excellent idea.” He twists to glance down at me. “Except it would take too long to find in that jumbled mess in the garage. Climbing is quicker.” He reaches into a high maplewood cabinet. “It has to be here somewhere…”
“What are you looking for?” I ask with an amused smile, guessing Dad is preparing another scrumptious dinner. When it comes to cooking, Dad is such a perfectionist. I teasingly call him a “food diva.”
“Rigatoni pasta.” Dad bangs the cabinet shut and opens the next one. “I’m positive I bought a package. But it’s not here.”
“Maybe it’s still packed.” I gesture to stacked boxes by the fridge.
Dad groans. “You’re probably right.”
“I’ll help you look,” I offer.
“Thanks, but it would be quicker to go to the grocery store.” Dad shuts the cupboard. “I need a few other things anyway.”
“Wait, Dad,” I say, thinking back to the CCSC meeting earlier today. “There’s something I want to ask you.”
“Sure thing, Kels.” Dad jumps down with a thump and smooths back his dark hair. “What?”
“I want to visit our realtor’s Aunt Philomena,” I say. “To find out more about the ghost story she told us.”
Dad grins. “She’s quite a storyteller. But I hope you realize she was just entertaining you kids. Our house isn’t haunted.”
“Oh, I know that,” I say, hoping there aren’t any ghosts listening and laughing at me. “I’m curious about the history of our house. Philomena was here when she was young and probably knows a lot about the people who lived here. It would make, um, a good history report for school. Would you ask Mr. Dansbury if I can visit?”
“Elderly ladies love company,” Dad says with an approving smile. “His house is on the way to the grocery store. If he’s not busy, we can stop by. I’ll call him right now.”
I jump up to give Dad a hug. “Thanks!”
A short while later Dad pulls up in front of a spacious two-story home with a stained-glass front door and fancy wrought-iron railings on the balconies. Red and white rocks border planters blooming with yellow roses. Parked in the circular driveway is a sleek black sedan with the Dansbury Realty logo on the side.
A wheelchair ramp parallels the staircase leading into the house, and a middle-aged woman wearing a plaid scarf opens the door. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Case.”
“Nice to see you too, Sally. I’m only here to drop off my daughter.”
I give Dad a startled look. “You’re not staying?”
“You’re the one with questions, Kelsey.” He musses my hair. “I’ll only be at the grocery store for a half an hour.”
The woman holds out her hand to me. “Hi, Kelsey. I’m Philomena’s nurse,” she adds. “I hear you appreciate a good ghost story.”
I glance back as Dad waves. He climbs into his car and drives away.
“Come inside, but keep your voice down.” Sally touches her finger to her lips. “Mr. Dansbury is busy in his office on a conference call.”
I nod and follow Sally down the hall.
“Ah, here we are,” Sally says. “Luckily, Philomena is having one of her good days. Still, if she falls asleep, wait a few minutes. She usually wakes right up.”
Sally leads me into a spacious room, cozy with comfortable couches, chairs, and sunny windows. Philomena sits on a couch, with her wheelchair parked nearby, as she peers through her thick glasses at a paper on a low table. I look closer. She’s muttering to herself as she does a crossword puzzle.
She doesn’t seem to notice I’m in the room, and I stand there awkwardly. I wish I’d waited to come here with Becca and Leo. What if I don’t know what to say? I’m used to talking with my grandmother, but Gran Nola is really active and into yoga and bicycling marathons. Philomena seems so frail, like if I sneeze she might fall over.
I’m still waiting for her to notice me when she blurts out, “What’s a twelve-letter word for a German bell-playing instrument?”
“I don’t know.” The only German words I know are dog commands like steh and platz.
She waves my words away like pesky gnats. “I was speaking out loud, not asking for help. I will get this. I always do, it just takes longer for my memory to shift and to…glockenspiel!” She gives a triumphant whoop then waves the paper in the air. “Success.”
She looks over and focuses on me. “Are you here for another ghost story?”
“No…um…not exactly.” I shake my head. “I thought you could tell me…if you want…about Caroline’s father.”
“Not much to tell. I only met him once, and don’t know much more than rumors.” She sets down her pencil. Her shoulders are hunched, but her eyes are sharp. “But I do know why you’re here.”
I shift awkwardly on the carpet. “You do?”
“You can’t fool me, young miss. You’re after the treasure.”
“Um…well…I am curious.”
“Knew it.” Her grin is smug, as if she can read my mind.
I sit beside her on the couch. “Was there really a treasure?”
“Naturally, people gossiped about Mr. Whitney, especially when he received packages labeled ‘fragile’ from faraway countries. The postmaster asked him about the packages, but his answer was always the same: ‘Treasures.’ A strange reply for an even stranger man.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “Rumors went wild, especially after he died and nothing valuable was found.”
“How do you know?” I ask, mesmerized by her words.
“Because my nephew was one of the treasure hunters.” She gestures toward her nephew’s office. The door is open a crack, and I hear the low murmur of the real estate agent’s voice. “When Dennis was young, his buddies dared him to spend a night there. That was before the house became a B and B, and it had a reputation for being haunted.” She leans close, her eyes widening. “It was a long time ago, and a shivery, stormy night.”
I try not to smile—her last story began with a shivery, stormy night too.
“Dennis told his parents he was staying the night with his friends. But he went to the deserted house. Alone. He climbed in a broken window. His buddies warned him about a ghost, but he wasn’t scared. He was after the treasure. He’d only searched a few rooms when—” Her voice cracks, and she pauses to sip from a water glass.
“What?” I lean forward.
“As darkness settled on the house like a concealing cloak, Dennis heard strange sounds. Unearthly thumps, chimes, and footsteps.”
“His friends could have been messing with him,” I guess.
“That’s what he thought too until…” Her words dangle like a hook on a fishing line.
I dig my fingers into the edge of the couch. “Until what?”
“He saw the ghost.”
“A real ghost?” A ball of fear tightens in my stomach. It’s just a story, I remind myself. Even if it happened, it was a long time ago, before I moved into the house.
“A strange ghostly shape floated over the staircase.” She shivers. “Dennis described it as half animal and half human with glowing eyes and long ears. When it came after Dennis, he tried to run away but tripped and blacked out.”
My hands fly to my mouth. “What happened next?”
She glances slyly at her nephew’s office and lowers her voice. “He doesn’t like me talking about the past.”
“I won’t say anything to him,” I assure her.
“He woke up the next morning outside, lying by the riverbank. His shirt was ripped and his arms were scratched like he’d been clawed by a wild beast. When he got home, he was so terrified that he swore he’d never stay another night in that house.”
“But he came back to sell the house to us,” I point out.
“He always leaves before dark,” she says. “Nighttime is fright time.”
My heart quickens, but I hide my fears. “Do you really think my house is haunted?”
“I believe my nephew,” she says without a doubt. “Both Caroline and her father died there. Tragedy sinks into the wood of a house and changes it forever.”
I know she’s trying to scare me. But I didn’t come here for ghost stories; I came for the truth.
“My friends and I researched the house,” I say purposefully. “We found an article about Caroline’s death and her father’s obituary, but nothing about treasure.”
“He was very secretive about those packages he received with postmarks from foreign countries. I know the postmaster, and she told me the packages were marked fragile and insured as if very valuable. But even though my nephew hired a cleaning crew and searched from basement to attic before it was sold, nothing valuable was ever found.” She sips her water then stares deeply into my eyes. “There’s one way to find the treasure—if you’re brave enough.”
I gulp. “How?”
“Wait for a rainy night and ask the ghost.” She cackles just like a witch in a fairy tale. “Of course, no one has found a treasure, so either it’s long gone or it was all just rumors.”
“Unless it’s hidden in the walls,” I can’t resist saying.
She leans forward eagerly. “Why do you say that? Did you find something?”
“Nothing really…just a small hole in the wall.” I don’t mention the key zipped in a pocket of my spy pack.
“The hole should be repaired. My nephew can recommend a repair service,” she says.
“It’s not a damaged wall,” I assure her quickly. “Just a rabbit-sized cupboard inside a wall. I think Trixie played there a lot since there was still some rabbit kibble inside.”
“Oh, sweet, curious Trixie,” she says with a fond smile. “Whenever I let her out of her hutch, she’d hop up and down the stairs. I loved watching her. And she looks exactly like the first Trixie.”
“Really?” I perk with interest.
“Same brown and white markings on her floppy ears. See for yourself. Caroline is holding her in the party photograph.” She gestures to a display cabinet.
I cross the room to the wooden cabinet, which has four shelves. The top three display black-and-white photographs in antique frames, shades of gray from long ago. A silver-framed photo shows a group of girls in ruffles and bows surrounding a small pale-haired girl seated behind a two-tiered birthday cake. The birthday girl is blowing out candles, and a whiskery rabbit face peeks out from her lap. The first Trixie!
“It’s the only photo I have of the party,” the old lady says sadly.
My gaze drops to the bottom shelf, and I stare in surprise at a floppy-eared toy bunny made of a worn fabric. Around its neck is a collar of glassy red beads. “Is this the toy bunny from Caroline’s party?”
“Yes. I carried it everywhere as a child. It’s ragged now, but I can’t bear to throw it out, so I keep it in that cabinet.”
“The collar is so pretty. Are the beads real rubies?”
She shakes her silver-haired head. “Just painted glass. Of course, Caroline’s toy bunny had a genuine ruby collar just like her pet Trixie. My toy bunny isn’t worth much—except to me.”
I look back up at the photograph. I scan the faces, trying to guess which one is Philomena. But I can’t.
“I’m the girl on the end with the short bobbed hair,” Philomena says, once more seeming to read my mind. In the photo, she stands off to the side with a shy smile, like she doesn’t quite fit in with the other girls. I know how that feels.
“I never could grow my hair long like Caroline and her closest chum, Marjorie Ann,” she adds wistfully. “Marjorie Ann is the tall girl in the middle with her arm around Caroline.”
Something about Marjorie Ann draws me in. I can’t stop staring. Her chin is lifted with determination and her confident smile gives me a familiar feeling, like we’ve met before.
But how can that be possible?
The photo was taken over eighty years ago.
I’m still puzzling over the strange familiarity of Marjorie Ann when I return home.
Doing the math, if Marjorie Ann is still alive, she’s the same age as Philomena. She will be in her nineties. Wrinkles and time will have changed her drastically. So why does the tall, long-haired girl look so familiar?
Dad retreats into the kitchen where Mom sits at the table, writing in a notebook. There’s giggling from the living room, and I peek inside. My sisters are watching a video on the phone they share. Whatever they’re watching must be really funny. I start to join them until I remember that I need to check on my cat and bunny.
Hurrying up the stairs, I step into my room…and gasp.
The bunny cage is empty!
I start to panic until I see Trixie curled in my cat’s plush kitty bed. How did she get out of her cage? She’s a very naughty bunny, but I’m just relieved she’s safe.
She looks so sweet in Honey’s bed that I can’t help but smile—until I see Honey crouched on a shelf over the sleeping bunny.
And Honey pounces.
- Chapter 9 -
Leo’s Surprise
“Honey, no! Don’t eat the bunny!”
I race across the room, but I trip over a box. When I pick myself up, my cat is on top of the bunny. Her sharp-toothed mouth opens and…
Honey licks Trixie’s furry face. Instead of munching on a bunny snack, my cat and bunny nuzzle together like best friends. And Honey purrs.
“Becca was wrong,” I tell Honey, kneeling beside the kitty bed. I tickle her under her chin where she likes it best. “Some cats might attack a bunny, but not you.”
Purring louder, my sweet kitty snuggles around the bunny. Trixie blinks at Honey, then closes her chocolate eyes and goes to sleep.
I smile at my two pets, and my heartbeat slows back to normal.
But how did Trixie get out of her cage? The cage door hangs open, but I know I shut it after I fed Trixie this morning. I check the latch, and it’s not broken. Did someone unlatch it after I left for school? One of my sisters? Or is there a more ghostly explanation?
I glance across beds and boxes, searching for any evidence that I’m not alone. But there’s no spooky chill or unearthly moans. And if there really was a ghost, my animals wouldn’t sleep so peacefully. The only thing I sense is a stinky litter box. Sighing, I clean the kitty litter, replace the soiled straw in the rabbit’s cage, and refill their water and food dishes.
Afterward, I follow the scent of savory meat sauce and tomato downstairs. Silverware clatters as Mom sets the table, and I spy Dad by the stove, stirring a large pot. In the living room, my brother is laughing along with my sisters. It’s nice to have my family together. The only one missing is our dog, Handsome—the most gorgeous golden retriever and whippet mix. He’s still at Gran Nola’s house, but he’ll join us when Dad repairs the backyard fence.
After moving from a large house to a small apartment to a cottage to then being homeless, we finally have a forever home. My parents still have some money problems, and the house needs a lot of repairs, but it’s our home now. And I’ll do whatever I can to keep it that way—even if it means confronting a ghost.
As I’m pouring milk over my cereal the next morning, the phone rings. Leo asks me to stop by his house on the way to school for a CCSC meeting.
