The Mystery of the Whispering Witch Read online

  There was a sudden silence, as if the whole house were holding its breath.

  Then someone whispered, "Beware!”

  Touring a Haunted House • 3

  TRIXIE GASPED. “What? What did you say?” She spun around to look behind her and saw Honey hurrying into the kitchen.

  “Everything’s all set,” Honey announced, sounding pleased, “and guess what, Trix? I was telling Fay about your ‘ghost,’ and she says it was probably only old Zeke Collins. He lives on the grounds, you know. Fay says he often snoops around. This time she thought he was off somewhere in town, but he must have been here all along. Aren’t you glad?”

  Trixie wasn’t listening. “Honey, did you—that is—before you said what you just said, did you say something else? Did you say anything at all?”

  Honey looked surprised. “Of course I said something else. I said lots of something elses. I told Fay we’d toss for which one of us is going to sleep in the armchair. Fay offered to sleep in it herself, Trix, but it doesn’t look too comfortable, so I think my way is more fair. Then I told her we were glad she’d come to Sleepyside. I still don’t understand how anyone could willingly live in a house like this. But I didn’t say that this time, Trixie....

  Trixie watched as her friend chattered on. At first she thought that Honey seemed more relaxed and less apprehensive than she’d been when they’d first arrived at the house. Then she realized that Honey was still nervous about spending the night there. Knowing that Fay needed company tonight, though, had made her bravely decide to cover up her fears.

  Trixie also realized that, whoever it was who had warned her to beware, it certainly hadn’t been Honey. Had it been anyone at all? Or had Trixie’s ears been playing tricks on her? Mart had told her often enough that she had an overactive imagination.

  Trixie decided not to tell Honey anything about the strange whisper—not just yet, anyway.

  Honey was still talking when Fay appeared in the doorway. “Our room’s all ready, Trixie,” Fay announced, “so we can turn in whenever we like. You know, it’s very kind of both of you, staying here like this....”

  Trixie and Honey both moved to her sides and took hold of her arms.

  “We’re only too glad to help out a neighbor,” Trixie said awkwardly. She always felt uncomfortable when she was thanked for being kind.

  “Are you hungry?” Fay asked shyly, looking from one to the other. “Would you like a snack before we turn in? I make a great cup of hot chocolate.”

  “Hot chocolate would be nice about now,” Honey admitted. “What do you think, Trix?”

  But Trixie’s thoughts were far from the delights of hot chocolate. She was remembering the strange voice she’d just heard. She thought about the mysterious figure she’d seen outside, who might or might not have been Zeke Collins.

  “Fay, is there anyone else in the house—besides us, I mean?” she asked suddenly.

  Trixie heard Fay catch her breath sharply. “Someone else? Why, no. There’s no one.”

  Fay had answered quickly—almost too quickly, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as her friends.

  “In that case,” Trixie said, still watching Fay closely, “could we—that is, would you mind, I mean—could we look over the house? I’ve always wanted to, and this seems such a terrific chance.” And if I’m going to sleep here, Trixie thought to herself, I'd like to make sure that all the doors and windows are locked up tight.

  For one brief moment, Fay seemed to hesitate. Then she said, “Why, of course, Trixie. I’d have offered to show you around before this, but there’s really not that much to see. Old Mr. Lisgard kept a lot of the rooms shut up. That way, he figured they didn’t have to be cleaned very often.”

  “Or even at all,” Trixie added, remembering the stories that had been told in Sleepyside. Mr. Caleb Lisgard had been a skinflint. It was said that he begrudged every penny he’d ever had to spend.

  Fay smiled and led the way toward the front of the house, flipping on light switches as she went.

  Honey pressed close to Trixie’s side. “I don’t like this,” she muttered. “What was wrong with drinking our hot chocolate and then just going to bed? Supposing we meet up with that ghost Mart was talking about?”

  Trixie had been wondering the same thing, but she thought it might be best not to mention it. “Remember,” she whispered, “the Lisgard family lived here for generations, and they didn’t seem to

  be bothered by any old ghost.”

  “And there’s one thing you should remember, Trix,” Honey retorted. “There aren’t any Lisgards left to tell us anything different. They’re all dead, aren’t they?”

  Trixie chuckled and hurried to join Fay at what was obviously the old mansion’s front entrance hall.

  Trixie glanced quickly at the large front doors and noticed at once that they were bolted at both top and bottom. She sighed with relief.

  She turned her attention to the dingy, dark-paneled walls and made a face when she saw the stuffed animal heads that hung there.

  Fay looked apologetic, almost as though it was her fault that some long-ago Lisgard had been a big-game hunter. “Pretty awful, aren’t they?” she said softly. “We—my mother and I—wish that Mr. Gregory would take them down. It makes me want to cry when I think that these poor creatures had to die just to provide a trophy for someone’s walls.”

  Trixie agreed wholeheartedly. She was about to say so when she noticed that Honey’s attention had been caught by a striking picture, one of the few hanging in the hallway. Simply framed, it was an oil painting of a clown dressed in a blue costume.

  “Why, Fay!” Honey exclaimed. “Isn’t this a Picasso? If so, it looks like the real thing!”

  “It is the real thing,” Fay confirmed, smiling. “If you’ll look closer, you’ll see the signature. That picture is just about the only thing Mr. Gregory brought with him when he moved in here. He’s very proud of it because he says he bought it from someone who didn’t realize its true value. It’s worth a lot of money now.” She sighed. “A lot of things in this house are worth a lot of money. Most of the furniture has been here for such a long time that the pieces have become antiques. But I guess that picture is about the only thing in the house I really like. You’ll see what I mean in a minute.”

  It wasn’t long before Trixie and Honey did indeed see what Fay meant. Their new friend led them through downstairs rooms filled with heavy, old-fashioned furniture. Even though Fay flipped on light switches, nothing could dispel the everpresent gloom of the place.

  Some of the furniture was covered with dust sheets. Whatever wasn’t, Trixie thought, should have been. She couldn’t help comparing the contents of this house with the contents of the Beldens’ cozy farmhouse. She didn’t have to think twice about which she preferred!

  By the time most of the downstairs rooms had been thoroughly explored, Honey seemed, if not completely relaxed, then at least less nervous than she had been when they’d first arrived.

  They were standing in the middle of the large living room when she told Trixie in a low voice, “We’ve been in old houses before, and this one doesn’t seem so very different to me. I know you don’t like the furniture—” she glanced toward an ornately carved coffee table that stood in front of the big, empty fireplace—“but it is very valuable; take my word for it. I wonder if it’s insured.”

  When she was asked, Fay nodded her dark head. “Yes, it’s all insured,” she answered. “Once old Mr. Lisgard found out how much his furniture was worth, he made sure that if anything ever happened to it, someone would have to pay him to replace it.”

  “And that someone was the insurance company?” Trixie asked.

  “Yes.”

  Fay turned and began to lead the way toward the front hall again, but Trixie put out a hand to stop her.

  “Isn’t that another room over there?” she asked, nodding toward a door that was almost hidden by a tall bookcase.

  Fay hesitated for a moment. “I
t’s only old Mr. Lisgard’s study,” she replied at last. “It—it hasn’t been used since he died. You can see it, if you really want to.”

  Ignoring the odd note in Fay’s voice, Trixie moved toward the room at once and, in another second, was standing inside it.

  She could sense immediately that there was something about it that was different from the rest. It was small, and as dark and as gloomy as all the others. It held the usual conglomeration of period furniture, none of it matching. She noticed the antique desk that stood against the room’s only window and assumed that this was where Caleb Lisgard had done his work.

  But it was neither the gloom nor the furniture that made this room strangely forbidding. It was something in the very air of the place—something cold, unwelcoming, and oddly hostile.

  Trixie shivered. “I don’t know how any Lisgard, man or woman, could like this room,” she remarked. She turned her head and noticed that only Honey had followed her through the door. Fay still stood where they had left her, in the living room.

  Fay moved closer to her friends, but Trixie noticed that she still did not step across the threshold. “I know you’ll think I’m being silly,” Fay said, “but I don’t like going into that room.”

  Suddenly Trixie understood. “Wasn’t this the one where the witch—her name was Sarah Sligo, by the way—was burned to death?”

  Fay moved restlessly. “Yes—at least, that’s what I’ve heard. The original room, of course, was burned down, along with the rest of the house. But someone else, a wealthy merchant, I think, rebuilt the mansion exactly the way it had been. And he rebuilt that room along with it.”

  “I’m sure I don’t blame you for not liking it,” Honey remarked loyally. “The study is enough to give anyone the creeps. This old desk is nice, though. It’s a Governor Winthrop, I think.” She touched it lightly with a reverent fingertip.

  A half an hour later, the three girls were back in Fay’s bedroom, the tour complete. There had been no new surprises—no more rooms to frighten anyone. Trixie had seen enough old furniture to last her a lifetime, while Honey repeated, though not in Fay’s hearing, that she couldn’t understand how anyone could live in such a mausoleum. More important, Trixie had made sure that all doors and windows to the outside were securely locked. She also still had no clue to the source of the mysterious voice she had heard.

  It wasn’t long before Fay had made them the promised hot chocolate, and soon afterward, Trixie climbed into a pair of borrowed pajamas, tossed a coin, lost the call, and found herself scrambling between the thick, fluffy blankets waiting for her on the bedroom’s only armchair.

  Trixie watched as Honey made herself comfortable in what was, she assumed, normally Mrs. Franklin’s bed.

  Behind it was a photograph of a man and a woman holding a chubby, dark-haired baby.

  Fay followed Trixie’s glance and smiled shyly. “That’s my parents—and me. My father died when I was very young—not much older than I was there. Mother and I are very close, and she’s always worked very hard to give me the things I need. Right now, we’re saving for the time when I go to college.”

  Trixie and Honey exchanged glances. They knew now why Mrs. Franklin and her daughter stayed at Lisgard House, in spite of its reputation. They needed the money.

  For the first time, Trixie had a chance to take note of this small room. Someone, probably Mrs. Franklin, had done the best she could to make it as cozy as the circumstances would allow.

  Next door to the kitchen, the room had no window of its own. Its only door opened onto that same dark passage that led from the back entrance. Its walls, though, had been hung with bright travel posters and photographs of long-ago movie stars.

  Trixie thought of the back door and wondered if it, too, was locked and bolted. I must remember to check on that when the others are asleep, she thought.

  Fay was about to scramble into her own bed when she said suddenly, “Trixie, what is the real story about the witch—what was her name, Sarah Sligo? I’ve heard so many tales since we moved in here. It’s hard to try and figure out which one to believe.”

  “Yes, Trix,” Honey said, leaning up on one elbow, “tell us what really happened. I’d like to hear the story again, too.”

  Fay frowned. “I thought you were learning about the witch for the first time tonight, Honey. At least, that’s what Bobby said.”

  Trixie laughed. “Honey’s just got a kind heart,” she declared. “Both Mart and Bobby were having such a good time that she didn’t want to tell them she’d heard the legend many times before. Remember, Fay, we pass this house every day on our way to school, so of course I told her about it.”

  Fay climbed between the covers and propped her pillow behind her back. “I’m ready,” she said breathlessly.

  “Me, too,” Honey declared, smiling across the room at Trixie.

  Trixie hesitated, frowning. Around her the house was silent. All at once, she had the same weird feeling that she’d had before. It was almost as if someone—or something—were holding its breath and waiting to hear what she was going to say.

  Then, as she still hesitated, she had a sudden hunch that she didn’t like at all. She felt that she was about to make a terrible mistake.

  The Witch’s Curse ● 4

  TRIXIE BIT HER UP and looked down at her hands. “Why—why don’t we leave it for tonight?” she said at last. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. In any case, there isn’t much left to tell.” She began to slide under the covers.

  Honey’s voice stopped her. “Jeepers, Trix!” she exclaimed. “Since when did you pass up a chance to tell a story to an eager audience—in this case, us?” She grinned and waved a hand at the other bed.

  “Yes, Trixie. Please tell us.” Fay’s voice was oddly urgent. “Besides, I—I don’t think I feel very sleepy just yet. I can’t help wondering what’s going on at the hospital with my mother.”

  “Forget it, Fay,” Honey told her firmly. “You know what Dr. Ferris said. Your mother will be fine. Really. Come on, Trix! Story, please! We need something to get Fay’s mind off her troubles.”

  “Well, it’s hard to know where to start,” Trixie answered uncertainly.

  “There was once a young woman named Sarah Sligo,” Honey prompted her. “She lived in this house many, many years ago. Some people thought she was weird, because she wore a tall, black hat and one of those billowy black cloaks that reach almost to the ground.”

  Fay looked puzzled. “You mean people thought she was a witch just because of her clothes?”

  Trixie shook her head. “It wasn’t only her clothes. It was lots of other things, too. You see, she used to spend a great deal of time wandering around Martin’s Marsh. It seemed that she picked flowers and herbs and stuff like that. My dad thinks that maybe she used them to mix up healing medicines. He thinks she was a sort of unofficial doctor to the town and tried to help both sick people and sick animals get well again.”

  “Then why wasn’t she liked?” Fay asked.

  Trixie thought of her sensible banker father. If Peter Belden had been living in that long-ago time, she was sure that somehow he would have found a way to put a stop to the rumors and gossip that had ended in tragedy at Lisgard House.

  “One year,” Trixie said slowly, “everything was going wrong for the townspeople of Sleepy-side. Crops that had been planted wouldn’t grow. Cattle got sick and died. And then some children in town started getting sick, too—and several of them died, as well.”

  Fay drew in her breath sharply. “What sickness was it?”

  “Nobody knows for sure,” Trixie replied. “Dad thinks it could have been an outbreak of scarlet fever. Or maybe it was diphtheria or whooping cough. Brian told me that diseases like those were very serious in those days. People didn’t have the drugs we have today, of course.”

  “And so, when the children died, they blamed Sarah Sligo?” Fay asked.

  Trixie nodded. “Yes, they blamed Sarah. You know, she must have been an obstinate sort of p
erson. She wouldn’t listen to the more level-headed townspeople, who tried to warn her that feelings were running high against her.”

  “She kept on wearing her funny-looking clothes,” Honey said. “And she kept on wandering around the marsh, collecting whatever it was she collected.”

  “So on Thanksgiving night,” Trixie continued, her voice low, “a group of angry people got together and made their way here, to her house.” Trixie stopped, listening. In her imagination, she could almost see the long, flickering torches illuminating the hands and angry faces of the people who carried them. She could almost hear the roar of the mob as they reached the front door of the Lisgard mansion.

  “They broke through the entrance,” Trixie said, “and they found Sarah waiting for them in one of the rooms—the room you showed us, I guess, Fay—” She hesitated.

  “Go on, Trix,” Honey whispered, “though I don’t like this next bit.”

  “Sarah Sligo tried to reason with them,” Trixie said, trying to make her voice sound matter-of-fact, “but the people were past reason. They accused her of everything they could think of, and when they had finished, they locked her up in that little room. They boarded up the window so she couldn’t get out. And then they set fire to the house.”

  There was silence.

  “And so Sarah Sligo died,” Fay said at last.

  “Yes.”

  “And the ghost?” Fay’s voice was low. “What about the ghost?”

  Trixie moved restlessly. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Fay,” she said hurriedly. “I expect it’s just one of those silly stories that get passed around when people have nothing better to do.”

  Honey clasped her hands around her bent knees and glanced across at their new friend. “You’ve never seen a ghost here, have you, Fay?” she asked.