Horror at the Haunted House

Ellen gasped.

Two transparent hands floated up from inside the large black urn that was the oldest piece of Wedgwood in the Clayton collection. They were a woman’s hands with tapered fingernails and they looked absolutely real, except that Ellen could see right through them.

Slowly the hands drifted toward Ellen. The fingers were outstretched, the way the hands of the woman in the mirror had been, as if the owner of the hands were begging.

Ellen took another step backward. The hands followed. They floated toward her, the fingers rippling slowly.

Ellen tried to speak, to tell the hands to go away, but her mouth felt glued shut. She felt like a statue, fastened in concrete to that spot in the floor, unable to move or speak.

“Entertaining and appealing, with lively and believable [characters].”

—
School Library Journal

BOOKS BY PEG KEHRET

Cages

Don’t Tell Anyone

Earthquake Terror

Horror at the Haunted House

I’m Not Who You Think I Am

Nightmare Mountain

Searching for Candlestick Park

Terror at the Zoo

Special thanks to
Myra Karp of Wedgwood World, Seattle,
and to Daisy Makeig-Jones

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About the Author

H
ey, Ellen! I’m going to have my head chopped off!”

Over the din on the school bus, Ellen Streater recognized her younger brother’s voice. She peered through the window. Corey waved and ran along the sidewalk.

Ellen’s best friend, Caitlin, nudged Ellen with her elbow and muttered, “I’m glad he’s your brother, not mine.”

As the yellow bus wheezed to a stop, Corey yelled again. “I’m going to have my head chopped off!”

Ellen was used to her brother’s fanciful stories but she wished he would wait until she got home. As she stepped off the bus, she heard her classmates snickering.

Corey danced with excitement. “It’s going to happen in a haunted house,” he said. “Mr. Teen is going to chop my head off with a big knife.”

The bus rumbled away. Ellen started down the sidewalk toward home with Corey bouncing beside her. “You sound awfully
happy for someone who’s about to be murdered,” she said.

Corey giggled. “I won’t
really
get my head chopped off,” he said, “but it will look like I do. There’s a big wooden contraption with a rope and a fat sharp knife and Mr. Teen wears a black hood with only his eyes showing. I get to put my head on a wooden block and then Mr. Teen lets go of the rope and all the people watching will think the knife cut off my head. There’s even going to be fake blood.”

“Exactly who is this Mr. Teen?” Ellen said.

“He’s Grandma’s friend. She told me all about it.”

Ellen raised her eyebrows. Grandma’s friend? Corey’s stories ordinarily did not include real people. Was he telling the truth, for a change? Or at least his garbled version of the truth?

“Are you making up a story?” she said.

“No! Grandma fixed it so we could get killed in the haunted house.”

Ellen stopped walking. “WE?” she said. “Am I supposed to get my head chopped off, too?”

“Oh, no,” Corey said. “You get tied up and burned at the stake.”

“I can hardly wait.”

Ellen saw her grandmother’s car parked in the Streaters’ driveway. She hurried inside, gave Grandma a quick hug, and said, “Would you please tell me what’s going on?”

“How would you like to participate in a Halloween haunted house?” Grandma said.

“That depends on whether I come out of it dead or alive.”

Grandma laughed. “I don’t think Mrs. Whittacker would ask you to do anything dangerous.”

Mrs. Whittacker was Grandma’s best friend. She had no grandchildren of her own so she frequently baked cookies for
Ellen and Corey and always gave them a small gift on their birthdays.

“Mrs. Whittacker is President of the Historical Society and her group is renovating Clayton House, the mansion that was donated to the city. It’s a gorgeous old house and Mr. Clayton also donated the furnishings. There are antique music boxes, hand-carved tables and chairs, an extensive collection of Wedgwood, stained-glass lampshades—I could go on and on. The Historical Society plans to turn the mansion into a museum, with the Clayton treasures on display, but they need funds in order to get the house ready for public viewing.”

“So they’re making it into a haunted house,” said Corey. “And we get to be in it. We’ll be famous! Maybe we’ll get our picture in the paper.”

“It’s being called the Historical Haunted House,” Grandma said. “Each room will be a horrible scene from history, and people will pay to take the tour. Many local celebrities are donating their time to act as characters in the scenes. They’ll reenact the duel between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr in 1804 and the stabbing of Julius Caesar and . . .”

“Who were they?” said Corey.

“You’ll need to find that out,” said Grandma, “if you want to enter the prize drawing. All of the scenes except one will be historically accurate. When people finish viewing the haunted house, they can write down which scene is not based on fact and all the correct answers will be entered in a drawing. The prize is one hundred dollars. There will be twenty scenes in all—even a medieval torture chamber.”

“Are you sure Mom and Dad will let us do this?” asked Ellen. A stabbing and a torture chamber did not sound like the sort of event her parents would normally approve of.

“I called your mother,” Grandma replied, “and she said it is OK with her if you want to help, since the scenes
are
authentic. You’ll get a history lesson and the money is for a good cause.”

“Tell her about my part,” Corey said. “Tell her about me getting my head chopped off.”

“Corey will be Prince Rufus, who was beheaded at the age of ten,” Grandma said.

“I get to scream,” Corey said. “Loud.” His eyes sparkled. “Tell her about Mr. Teen,” he said.

“Who?” said Grandma.

“Mr. Teen. The one who’s going to wear a black hood and chop off my head.”

Grandma looked confused for a moment and then started to laugh. “Not Mr. Teen,” she said. “Guillotine. That’s the name of the instrument with the knife. The man in the black hood will be Mike McGarven.”

“Mighty Mike?” said Corey. “The D.J.?”

Grandma nodded.

“Wow,” said Corey. “I’m going to meet Mighty Mike. Wait till Nicholas hears this.” He picked up the telephone and began punching his friend’s number.

Ellen didn’t blame Corey for being excited. Mighty Mike was a popular disc jockey, known for his wicked sense of humor. Lots of kids listened to his program every Saturday, when he played the Top Ten songs and made jokes about them. Corey should have a wonderful time acting in the haunted house with Mighty Mike, and Corey’s buddy, Nicholas, would surely be impressed.

“Corey says I’m going to get burned at the stake,” she said.

“That’s right,” said Grandma. “You’ll be Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans.”

“I’ve heard of her,” Ellen said, “but I don’t remember exactly what she did. Was she the one who heard voices and led the army into battle?”

Grandma nodded. “It should be one of our best scenes. You’ll wear a long gown and be tied to the stake and the flames will leap around your bare feet.”

“Oh, goodie,” said Ellen.

“You won’t really get burned, of course. They do everything with mirrors and tricks and optical illusions.”

Corey hung up the phone. “The line’s busy,” he said.

“Who else is in my scene?” Ellen asked.

“I don’t know. Mrs. Whittacker didn’t say.”

“That’s all I do? Just stand there?”