Lily

26

I couldn’t sleep at all that night. I just lay awake staring into the dark of the owl room with eyes that felt like they were filled with sand. My heart kept racing and my mind kept churning, always coming back to the same awful thing: Aunt Clara was a murderer!

On the other side of the hallway from me, Violet was locked in her room. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t practical. What about food—or when she had to go to the bathroom? Was she lonely in there? Did she cry? I hoped she was asleep. I wondered if there was another key to the raven room, besides the one Aunt Clara had. Maybe Dina could help me in the morning. Everything had become so dark and scary. Did Aunt Clara really want to kill us, too? She had definitely been purple when she threatened us—her whole body had been one blazing flame of danger—so I couldn’t help but think so.

Back in the living room, while arguing with Aunt Clara, I had been so angry that it had been easy to be brave, but now that I was alone in my room, the courage had dried up. Fear had come creeping in with the silence and the darkness, and the sounds of Mr. Woods’s knocking didn’t help. Violet and I were trapped in this house with a murderer, and that thought was bigger than anything else. We were absolutely not safe, and I had to get us out.

As soon as dawn broke, I slipped out of my room, and—ignoring Mr. Woods’s bleeding face—went for the stairs. Mr. Woods wasn’t knocking just then. He just stood there in the hallway, staring, so the house was all quiet aside from the faint sounds of morning birds chirping outside. It was silent in Violet’s room, too, and I hoped that meant she was dreaming.

Down in the kitchen, the door to the basement was still open. Aunt Clara hadn’t even bothered to lock it back up. Probably she didn’t think it was necessary anymore, seeing how we all knew the secret of the bloodstained mattress. I pushed it shut, using my hip to make sure it was properly closed, since I didn’t want to think of what had happened down there the night before and everything that had happened after. It was just too horrible.

For a moment, I thought of waiting for Dina before setting my plan in motion, but she wouldn’t arrive until nine, and I just didn’t think I could wait that long. I also worried that Aunt Clara, too, would have trouble sleeping, and that she would come sauntering downstairs much earlier than usual. So instead of waiting, I went to the kitchen counter, where the heavy black phone balanced on top of a thick phone book.

I hoisted myself up to the countertop and sat there with a hand on the receiver while watching the wall-mounted clock slowly tick to seven. Hopefully, this was late enough in the morning that someone would be at the sheriff’s office. I didn’t even have to look up the number since Dina had listed it among other useful numbers, like the one for a pharmacy and another for a Dr. Smith, on a piece of lined paper taped to the wall. The paper was yellowed and ripped, so I thought it must have been hanging there since Miss Lawrence’s days.

When it was a minute past seven, I lifted the receiver and dialed the numbers on the wall. To my relief, a groggy-sounding voice answered on the second ring.

“Yes?” the man grunted into the phone.

“Yes, hi…Is this the sheriff?” I asked.

“Sure,” his gruff voice sounded. “Who is this?”

“Uh…My name is Lily Webb,” I replied. “I am staying with my aunt, Clarabelle Woods, at Crescent Hill?”

“I know the place. Did something happen?”

“No—I…Not now, at least.” I took a deep breath for courage before launching into the next part. “I’m calling because I think my aunt maybe killed her husband, and other people, too.”

The sheriff was quiet for a very long time—so long, in fact, that I thought he maybe had hung up, but then he spoke again. “What makes you say that?”

This was, obviously, the tricky part. “There’s a mattress with blood on it in the basement,” I explained, “and I think he may be buried in a flower bed.”

“Uh-huh.” He sounded doubtful and my heart sank. “Why do you think he is buried in the flower bed?”

“I…” Suddenly, I didn’t know what to say. Did the sheriff even believe in ghosts? “Can’t you just look?” I begged him. “I know you think he left with Ellie Anderson, but maybe that just isn’t true—and the mattress is very bloody.”

“Did you ask Mrs. Woods about it?”

“Yes—and she did say that she killed him, or at least she implied it. And that she killed Ellie Anderson, too, and Miss Lawrence…”

“Miss Lawrence?” He sounded surprised.

“Yes, so she could get the house—and her money,” I quickly explained.

“Is that so?” I could hear the sheriff scratch his head.

“Yes,” I said, “it is. And she said that my sister and I would be next if Violet didn’t—” I was just about to say “put the ghosts back” but stopped myself just in time. “Can you just come, please? I’m sure you’ll find Mr. Woods in the flower bed.” Because why else would he be glued there in the first place?

There was another lull before the sheriff spoke again. “How old are you, Lily?”

“Fourteen, but—”

“Are you sure you didn’t get this wrong?”

“Yes!” I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. “Can’t you please just come and look?” If he did and found Mr. Woods, I wouldn’t even have to mention the ghosts.

“All right, we’ll swing by,” said the sheriff, and I did start crying for real then, but only from relief.

“Thank you!” I pressed the receiver tightly to my cheek. “Thank you so much,” I croaked through the tears.

I felt a thousand times lighter when I hung up the phone.

I managed to eat some dry toast and drink a little tea while waiting for Dina—and the sheriff—to arrive. The morning seemed strange without Violet there, chattering away, and I wondered if she was awake in her room. I was so tired by then that my hands shook when I lifted the teacup, and I even spilled sugar on the tabletop. All the while, I was listening for sounds, hoping that the sheriff would arrive with flashing lights.

Dina came first, though. At a quarter to nine, she was there, arriving on the red bike she sometimes used. I had been meaning to pretend that everything was fine when she came in—not because I didn’t trust her, but because it felt like somehow breaking the spell if I told her about the sheriff. I worried that if I said something about the call, everything would fall apart. I started crying again when I saw her, though, and she immediately dropped her purse and the plastic bag she was carrying and came to wrap me up in her arms, flaming gold all over. She hadn’t even taken her coat off yet; it smelled of woodland and cooking grease.

“What is it, Lily? What is wrong? Is it the ghosts?” She pulled a little away to give me a concerned look. “Where is Violet?” she asked before I had had time to reply.

“Up in her room,” I sobbed. “Aunt Clara has grounded her.”

“Why?” She looked alarmed. “Has she even had breakfast yet?”

I shook my head. “Aunt Clara has the key.” I sniffled.

“But why has she been grounded?” Dina asked again.

“Because she brought back Ellie Anderson,” I sobbed. “She was down there, in the basement, on the mattress. Aunt Clara hit her in the head with an ax.”

“She hit Violet in the head with an ax?” Dina sounded shocked, and several pink flames sprang up on her skin, quelling the golden love.

“No, Ellie Anderson,” I explained. “Before—and she killed Mr. Woods, too.”

“She did?” Dina’s blue-gray eyes went wide. “How do you know that?”

“Ellie Anderson said so, and Aunt Clara, too, afterward.”

“What about Miss La—”

“Yes, her, too,” I sobbed. “You were absolutely right about that.” Finally, I understood what Dina had been thinking all along.

“I knew it!” Dina’s face looked hard and angry; her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed, and all the frightened pink flames bled to red. “That gold-digging wretch!”

“You can’t tell her that you know,” I begged, suddenly terrified. “Maybe she’ll turn on you, too.”

“But what does Violet have to do with it?” The flames shifted back to worried pale pink.

“Violet was the one who sort of brought the ghosts back,” I whispered. “I don’t know how she knew how to do it, but she did. That’s why she stole the food from the refrigerator. There wasn’t any fox, Dina. She gave the meat to the ghosts, and this time Aunt Clara caught her.”

Dina went very quiet. She retracted her arms and went to stand by the kitchen counter, just staring out into the air. “I suppose we should thank Violet, then, for helping the dead reveal the truth,” she said at last. “I just don’t know what to do about it. Ghosts can’t give evidence in court—”

“But if they found the bodies,” I said in a half whisper. “If only they found Mr. Woods—”

We both went quiet when we heard the sound of Aunt Clara coming down the stairs. Her heels clattered against the boards as she entered the hall, though her steps were a little uneven, as if she was limping. Her face looked hard when she peered into the kitchen, and she was orange from exhaustion, like a burning pumpkin.

“Good, you’re here,” she said when she saw Dina. “I suppose Lily has filled you in about Violet? She left her bed in the dead of night and somehow managed to enter the basement—something she knew was off-limits.” Her gaze darted between us. “She’ll stay in her room until further notice, but you can bring her some breakfast.” She gave Dina a nod. “As for you”—her green gaze landed on me—“I expect you to be on your best behavior, unless you want to share in your sister’s fate.”

With that, she kept striding farther into the house. I just didn’t get how she could be her same old self after what had happened. How could she just pretend that everything was fine when nothing was?

“Breakfast, Dina,” she snapped over her shoulder. “I expect it on the table in twenty minutes—and my mail, too, if you don’t mind…I suppose you must be at hand as well, to help me eat, with the girl being locked up.”

Dina and I looked at each other with wide eyes, then Dina went to the refrigerator to find Aunt Clara’s eggs and melon. She made some oatmeal, too, for Violet, and sent me upstairs with a key from her own set. “No dawdling,” she warned me with a frightened look in the dining room’s direction.

I paused outside the raven room to compose myself, hoping I didn’t look too horrible after all the crying and no sleep. I didn’t want Violet to know how upset I was. I knocked on the door before fumblingly inserting the key into the lock. The bowl of oatmeal in my other hand was so hot that it hurt.

Before I had had time to turn the key, however, the door just opened in front of me, and Violet stood there on the threshold, still wearing her nightgown and with the knitted blue socks on her feet. I looked from her to the door with surprise—had Aunt Clara forgotten to lock it?

Violet giggled when she saw my expression. “I wanted to tell you last night in the basement,” she whispered. “Irpa taught me how to open locks.” She held up a black feather.

“Violet…?” I looked over her shoulder to the taxidermy raven on the dresser, but then a movement to my right made me move my gaze to the windowsill, where another raven perched—this one very much alive! It shook out its feathers when it saw me, and its eyes glinted oily brown. “Is that…Irpa?” I asked, no longer even noticing how the oatmeal burned my fingers.

Violet nodded. “She is my friend.” She opened the door wider to let me come inside. As soon as I had stepped across the threshold, she pushed the door closed behind me. I couldn’t take my eyes off the raven—the sharp beak and the glossy feathers, the knowing in its eyes. It didn’t have any flames around it, but I didn’t always see them either, so that didn’t bother me that much.

“How did you—when did you meet her?” I asked.

“Oh, she just arrived on her own.” Violet took the oatmeal from my hand and slumped down on the bed. “She knocked on the window with her beak. She is my familiar friend.”

“She can talk?”

“Yes—but only in my head.” She grinned.

“What does ‘familiar friend’ mean?” I still stared at the raven, who stared right back at me, cocking her head a little.

“I don’t know”—Violet shrugged—“but it’s a good thing that she came, though, and gave me a feather to open all the locks, because I really had to go this morning.”

“But I didn’t hear you.” I finally tore my gaze away to look at Violet instead. She was already eating her breakfast, blowing on each spoonful.

“You were on the phone, I think.” She sounded unconcerned. The raven on the windowsill suddenly took flight and disappeared out the window in a flurry of feathers. Both Violet and I watched her leave. “She isn’t really a raven.” Violet gave me a mischievous look.

“No? What is she, then?” I didn’t like the sound of that. “Another ghost?”

Violet shook her head. “I don’t know what she is, but she told me that she looks like a raven so I won’t be afraid—isn’t that strange?”

“Yes.” I shuddered. “But do you think you should have friends that won’t show you who they are?” It seemed to me that the longer we stayed at Crescent Hill, the weirder and more scary things became. “Do you speak to her a lot?”

Violet nodded. “Uh-huh. I wanted to tell you about her, but I didn’t think you would like her very much, since you don’t like the ghosts.”

“I like the ghosts better now,” I said. “Now that I know why they’re here.”

Violet nodded, all happy with herself. “It was a good thing that they asked.”

“Aunt Clara is very purple.” I couldn’t help that fear had snuck into my voice. “And purple means very dangerous,” I added. “I have done something, though—something that maybe can save us from—”

Just then, the sound of a car approaching made us both look up. Violet gave me a puzzled look while my heart started racing again. Relief flooded every part of my body.

The sheriff had arrived.