Charlotte and the Twelve: A Steele Secrets Story

Chapter 1

When my eyes flashed open from a blink, I was no longer staring at the snow falling outside our front door. Instead, I was standing inside a sagging building with huge windows. The snow was still falling, but now it didn't matter if we had school or not. Now, I had to figure out what adventure the universe, God, a ghost – I never could quite explain what had happened the last time, and so why would I be able to do it now.

Here's what I know:

If it's happened once, it can happen again.

People say that kind of stuff about bad boyfriends and shoplifters, but it's true of the good stuff, too. . . like say the way a girl might get transported, teleported, reassembled in a place that she hadn't been a second before.

Ah, but I'm being cryptic. I wonder where that expression came from – cryptic as intentionally vague . . . does it come from "crypt" like a grave? And if so, is my experience with graves going to haunt my language forever now?

Also, sorry for the haunting pun. My ghost experiences have also shaped me, I guess.

So here I was in a big room – I'm terrible with sizes, but let's say the size of a Tastee Freeze dining room – and there were two HUGE windows in front of me. Even in this early January morning, I could see well within the room because of these windows.

I stood still a while to get my bearings AND because I wasn't sure I wouldn't fall through the floor if I took a step. The prime days of this room were long-gone, and I could see over in the corner that water had made its way down the walls for a long while now.

Kitty-corner to the water stain, I saw a big jumble of wood and metal that looked kind of like those old desks I've seen in the big houses around here, the ones that are used now as decorations in a front hall. I eased my way over, testing every step as I went. It was winter, so I knew I didn't have to worry about snakes if I put my foot through the floor, but I didn't really want to have shards of wood piercing my teddy bear pj pants.

As I got closer, I could see these were indeed desks. Old desks. Dusty for sure but also filmed with the grime of years and use. I bent low and put my hand against the seat back in front of me to steady myself as I got a closer look. And that's when I saw her.

My last experience with a ghost had been wonderful and not at all scary. But still, having the figure of a young girl in a white dress appear right by your side – that'll take out anyone's breath.

I jumped back and stared. Yep, there she was – a tiny slip of a girl – probably about 6 with a halo of brown hair framing her thin face that ended in a softly-pointed chin.

She looked absolutely terrified. And I guess I would be too if some teenage girl suddenly appeared in the place where I spent my time.

I knelt down a couple of feet in front of her and said, "My name's Mary. What's your name?"

She stared at me with her wide, soft eyes for a minute longer. "Henrietta Lovely Jones." Her voice was almost a whisper. It sounded like a kitten's mew.

"It's nice to meet you, Henrietta Lovely Jones. Do you live around here?" Now, in the past couple of months, I had done some reading about ghosts, and Henrietta Lovely Jones was definitely a ghost. I knew that they almost always were attached to the place where they were seen. So I expected she had been in this building – a school maybe? – a long time. But I knew better than to assume anything – that quip about what assuming does to you and me was part of it. But assuming means I decide something before someone gets to tell me their story. . . . another good lesson from Mama.

The tiny girl began to cry, and so I moved closer and sat down. "Oh, sweetie, what is it? Sit down here with me and tell me about it."

January in the Virginia mountains is cold, and I was wearing a t-shirt I caught at a UVa basketball game about three years ago and those cotton teddy bear pjs I mentioned . . . so I was beginning to shiver. But Henrietta was in this white dress with fine lace around the collars and sleeves, and her arms and legs were bare . . . and while I had on sheepskin slippers – a gift from Mom this past Christmas – her feet were bare. Yet, I was shivering like the dickens, and she seemed to give off that perfect gentle heat that children do. I wanted to hold her – as comfort for her and warmth for me.

Henrietta plopped down on the wide wooden planks beside me, and leaned her shoulder against mine. She wasn't warm, but the gesture was sweet anyway. I glanced down at the space where my pinkish white skin met her golden brown elbow and leaned in.

"I live here, I guess," she said. "But I used to live just up the road a ways. I haven't been able to go home for a long, long time." Her face broke open with the sorrow only a child has not yet learned to hide yet. She wailed, long, shuddering sobs that wound around my heart and squeezed.

I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her into my lap. "Oh, Miss Henrietta, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Maybe I can help?"

This quieted her a bit, and she looked up into my face with eyes so wide I thought I'd be able to see the moon behind them.

"Are you here by yourself?"

She shook her head over and over again.

"Okay, who is here with you?"

"All us kids is still here. Miss Braxton here, too."

I looked around, but I didn't see anyone . . . not yet. I set Henrietta on the ground so I could stand, then scooped her against my hip – she weighed little more than a gallon of milk.

I walked over and placed my hands on every desk in that little pile. As I watched, a dozen children – girls in simple calico dresses and boys in cotton pants and shirts with buttons – appeared around me, each of their faces turned toward mine with wonder and fear.

Then, I saw her, a regal woman in a blue-flowered dress. She was at the back of the room, and she didn't look happy to see me.