ELIZA’S MOTHER HURRIED DOWN the steps, the beam of her flashlight bouncing on the scuffed planks. She tugged at the doorknob. “It won’t even budge.”
“Can you use the key?” Eliza asked.
Her mother aimed the flashlight at the knob. “There’s no keyhole on the inside.” She slammed her shoulder against the door’s solid surface. “I don’t believe I can break this down.”
“The Carrolls locked us in,” Eliza breathed.
Her mother climbed a few steps before replying. “That does seem like a safe conclusion. There’s no one else in the building, as far as we know. And there’s no way it was accidental. Anyone at the door would have seen the attic light burning. And they would have needed a key.”
“They know we’re onto them,” Eliza whispered as her mother reached the top of the flight. “They had to get rid of us before we could tell anyone else about the weird plant and the yellow eyes. The ghost who’s possessing them must have made them do it.”
Her mother folded her arms. “There’s one problem with that theory,” she said. “They haven’t gotten rid of us.” She flashed Eliza a quick, dry smile. “Let’s weigh our options. First, we could call the police.”
“Call them how?”
“With my phone.” Her mother held out a hand. “I left it with you earlier.”
Eliza felt something crumble in the base of her stomach. “I left it downstairs. I didn’t think of it when…Mom, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” said her mother briskly. “It’s my phone. My fault. All right. Other options.” She scanned the room, aiming her flashlight at one of the windows at the attic’s far ends. “Climbing out a window isn’t much use when we’re on the fourth floor. Yelling for help does nothing if only the Carrolls can hear us.” She frowned. “No phone. No help. No one else who knows where we are.”
Eliza sidled closer. “What do you think they’re going to do to us?”
Her mother was quiet for a moment, considering. “At this point, I could only make a wild guess, but I don’t care to collect enough evidence to make a decent one. We can’t just wait around on the chance that someone will let us out. We need something that can take down a door.”
“Like a screwdriver or a crowbar?”
“Something like that.” Her mother’s eyes took on the faraway look they usually only got in laboratories and libraries. “Eliza, may I borrow your candle?”
Eliza passed it over. Her mother hurried off toward a set of rickety shelves.
Without her candle, Eliza burrowed through the boxes again, no longer worried about keeping quiet. She found nothing that would help them to escape.
“No luck,” she sighed, turning around.
“Down here,” called a voice from the bottom of the stairs.
Her mother was crouched by the attic door, wedging a scrap of fabric around the doorframe. Several jars and bottles of old chemicals—fertilizer or pesticides or Eliza couldn’t guess what—were scattered around her feet. Halfway up the steps, a battered fire extinguisher sat beside the burning candle.
“What are you doing?” Eliza asked.
“Something extremely irresponsible.” Her mother flashed Eliza a sharp look. “These are not ideal conditions. I want you to know that,” she continued, pouring the contents of one bottle onto the fabric around the door. “But I’m not going to let anyone trap my daughter in an attic indefinitely. It’s like something out of one of your ghost stories.”
“Huh.” Eliza started to smile. “You’re right!”
Her mother tucked the fire extinguisher under one arm. She stuffed a wad of newspaper into the neck of an empty plastic bottle, its end sticking out like a tissue in a dispenser. Then she picked up the candle.
“Stand back,” she told Eliza. “Stand way back.”
Eliza rushed to the far wall.
Her mother lit the newspaper and blew out the candle in one quick motion. Then, running up the steps, she threw the burning bottle over her shoulder toward the attic door.
The explosion wasn’t like the ones Eliza had heard in movies: deep and rumbling, complete with slow-motion images of rolling fireballs. This was one quick, whooshing BANG that seemed to suck all the air out of the room. A wave of heat swept over her face.
She and her mother skidded back toward the top of the steps. Sour, chemical-scented smoke poured up the staircase. Fire crackled in the doorway and along the edges of the dingy attic stairs. The door gaped on one intact hinge.
“Let’s hope this is still functional.” Her mother passed Eliza the candle and aimed the fire extinguisher. A gout of white foam spattered through the stairwell. The flames hissed out. “That was fortunate.” Her mother dropped the extinguisher. It hit the attic floor with a clunk. “As I said, those were not ideal conditions. Far too many variables. Too many risks.” She grabbed Eliza’s hand. “Hold your breath. Come on.”
Together, they charged down the steps, leaped over the soot and foam, and flew out through the open doorway.
“Hey, Mom?” said Eliza, as they ran back toward their room. “You would make a really great ghost hunter.”
Her mother threw her a half-smile. “And I’ve always thought you’d make an excellent scientist.”
They raced through the door.
“Grab your most important things,” her mother instructed. “We’ll worry about the rest later. Ten seconds and we’re out of here.”
Eleven seconds later, with Eliza’s tablet and Poe collection in her backpack and her mother’s laptop bag swinging over her shoulder, they barreled back into the hall.
They raced down the stairs, past the entrance to the Carrolls’ apartment. Eliza heard voices and movement from inside. She and her mother ran faster, plunging down the steps into the darkness of the shop. Behind them, the voices grew louder. A door banged. Footsteps pounded away up the third-floor stairs.
The Stahls rushed through the leafy shadows.
“I’m going to grab my notes from the workroom,” hissed her mother. “If that missing plant is at the root of this—excuse the pun—we can’t lose all proof that it ever existed.”
The workroom was darker still. Her mother flicked on the flashlight and made a beeline for the table. “I was afraid of this,” she muttered.
“What?”
“They’re gone. My notes. My sketches. Everything involving that plant.” She whirled back to Eliza. “Someone is trying to hide every bit of evidence that you and I have collected. We’re clearly not safe here, either. Let’s go.”
Grabbing Eliza by the arm, her mother charged out of the workroom.
They were still several steps from the front door when the shop lights flashed on.
Eliza and her mother spun around, blinking, blinded.
“Rachel!” screamed a voice.
Mrs. Carroll came flying toward them, her pink silk robe fluttering. Mr. Carroll jogged behind her. After them rushed Tommy and Moggie.
Her mother shoved Eliza behind her back. She grabbed the largest, spikiest cactus within reach, holding it in front of her like a spear. “Stay back!” she commanded.
But the Carrolls didn’t pause. They rushed closer, leaves waving wildly in their wake, until Eliza could see their faces clearly. All of them had bright yellow eyes. And all of them, except for Moggie, wore nearly identical looks of fear.
“Rachel! Eliza!” Mrs. Carroll gasped. “Please say you two are all right!”
Her mother tightened her grip on the cactus. “All right?” she repeated. Her hedge-trimmer voice was sharper than ever. “You trap us in your attic and then you ask if we’re all right?”
“Trap you?” Mrs. Carroll’s yellow eyes widened. “Is that what happened?”
“Somebody else must have gotten in here,” panted Mr. Carroll. He pressed a hand to his chest. “When that bang from above woke us, I think my heart stopped.”
Her mother’s eyes slashed between the Carrolls. “You’re saying that none of you locked us in?”
“Absolutely not!” Mrs. Carroll clasped her hands. “When we heard that explosion, and we woke up and realized our apartment had been broken into, and we rushed upstairs to find your room empty and the attic door destroyed, we could only imagine—” She broke off with a sob.
Her mother lowered the cactus very slightly. “How do you know someone broke into your apartment?”
Mrs. Carroll twisted her hands tighter. “Because the plant—the one with the red berries—it’s been stolen!”
For a second, Eliza and her mother stared at the Carrolls.
Mr. Carroll, who apparently slept in a Carrolls’ Gardens T-shirt and shiny basketball shorts, wrapped an arm around Mrs. Carroll’s heaving shoulders. Tommy wavered behind them both, gazing at Eliza through a messy hank of hair.
“But that plant was already stolen,” said Eliza at last, feeling like she might as well have said Water is wet or Moggie’s breath smells since she was just stating the obvious.
“Oh, Eliza. Oh, Rachel.” Mrs. Carroll’s voice dripped with tears. “We are so sorry. When that plant disappeared before…we were the ones who stole it.” She spread her shaking hands. “Now it’s been stolen by someone else.”
“It’s the truth,” Tommy spoke up. He looked straight into, Eliza’s eyes. “And—um—with what that plant can do, now we’re all in real trouble.”
