House of Secrets

Chapter 10

“What are you doing here?” Jonathan demanded, brandishing his lacrosse stick like a two-handed ax. “Leave my family alone!”

“Charles Jonathan Daniel Walters!” his mother snapped. “Have you lost your mind? Put that down!”

The old crone turned to face him. She wasn’t dressed in dirty rags anymore. She wore a loose polka-dot dress and a floral bandanna that hid her baldness; her teeth were freshly cleaned and polished, almost white. She carried an apple pie in her left hand; her right was tucked into her dress pocket. “What’s wrong, son? You seem troubled.”

Jonathan gritted his teeth. “You bet I’m troubled. Now drop the pie, put your hands over your head, and get out of our house—”

“Jonathan! Give me that lacrosse stick! Immediately!” his father ordered.

“Dad, this old bag’s evil. I’ll bet she spiked that pie with arsenic—”

“You’re playing too many video games. Hand over the stick!”

Silence gripped the room. Jonathan gulped and gave his dad the lacrosse stick.

“Now apologize,” ordered his mother.

Jonathan took a deep breath, refusing to make eye contact with the old woman, and said under his breath, “Sorry.”

“You’re more than sorry. You’re grounded for a month. You can’t just threaten people,” said his father.

“I’m not sure she’s a person,” Brendan mumbled.

“Jon,” Alyssa said, “she was introducing herself. She’s our next-door neighbor.”

“Great.”

“I apologize for my son’s unconscionable behavior,” said Dr. Walters, putting the lacrosse stick against a wall. “Jonathan, go to your room; we’ll discuss this shortly. Ma’am, we never had a chance to get your name.”

“Dahlia. Dahlia Scott,” the old crone said. “And please don’t worry about your son. I understand about young boys. Especially these days. So many stimuli.”

“Are you related to David Scott, the writer?” Alyssa asked breathlessly.

“He’s my father.”

Was your father, Casper thought as he mounted the back stairs, unless he’s like two hundred.

“I’m a fan,” Alyssa said. She held up her copy of The Fighting Ace.

“It’s so nice to meet a fellow bibliophile. Did you get that from my father’s library?”

Alyssa nodded, a little embarrassed—but then again, it was her library now.

“I remember when he finished it. I was born here. See that old joker behind you?” Dahlia nodded to the philosopher bust in the great hall. “Used to call him Arsdottle. Never could pronounce his name correctly.”

“How long did you live here?” asked Casper

“Oh, not too long,” replied Dahlia. “I’ve moved around a bit. Europe, the Far East . . . I’ve lived in places you wouldn’t believe. But I could never get Scott House out of my soul.”

“Where do you live now?” Nellie asked. “Four Twenty-one or four twenty-three?” Casper gave her hand a squeeze. She was getting better with numbers.

“Aren’t you a precious one!” said Dahlia. “Four twenty-three, the fine painted lady next door.”

“The purple house with the white trim?” asked Mrs. Walters. “It’s beautiful.”