Haunting at the Hotel Page 3

  “I am not hiding in a trash can,” Eliza gags.

  “I am not hiding in a freezer,” Mom says, wrapping her sweater tightly around her body.

  “Well, we have to hide somewhere!” I snap. The doorknob to the kitchen is turning. We only have seconds!

  * * *

  TO HIDE IN THE TRASH CANS, CLICK HERE.

  TO HIDE IN THE WALK-IN FREEZER, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “HAVE YOU SEEN a ghost, Cricket?”

  “No, I run and hide before it gets to that point! Ghosts completely freak me out.” She tucks a lock of blue hair behind her ear. “I’ve seen the effects of the ghost haunting—the fog, the broken windows, the creepy messages. And I’ve heard those horrible howls, so technically I’ve, like, heard the ghost. I just haven’t seen any dead people floating around glowing and stuff.”

  “And what about other people in the house?” I ask. “Do you notice if anyone’s missing during the hauntings?”

  “Not really—like I said, I usually hide when something starts up. You can call me a coward,” she says, “but this is, like, not a job worth dying for. I bet my coworkers feel the same way.”

  * * *

  TO ASK CRICKET WHAT IT’S LIKE TO WORK FOR THE WINTERS FAMILY, CLICK HERE.

  TO ASK WHAT SHE THINKS OF HER COWORKERS, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I CHANGE THE arrow so that it points north.

  Instantly the room begins to shake.

  “Uh . . . is it just me? Or is this room getting smaller?” Eliza says.

  I look to my right and then my left—and there’s no mistake. Two of the walls are closing in.

  “Push on it!” Mom shouts, taking one side with Frank, while Eliza and I take the other.

  No matter how hard we push and dig our heels in, the walls keep squeezing tighter and tighter until we are standing, all four of us, in a row. A wall presses in on my back, while the other wall presses in on my front. I don’t even have room to shimmy sideways.

  “A Frank sandwich!” Frank says, the only one of us amused by this turn of events.

  “We’re stuck!” Eliza says.

  “Like peanut butter!”

  “This isn’t a sandwich, Frank!”

  “Peanut butter sandwich,” he says, clearly not even listening to me, “but where’s the jam?”

  “Don’t you see?” Mom says. “The jam is exactly what we’re in.”

  CASE CLOSED.

  WE WAIT FOR Mom and Eliza to return . . . and we wait . . . and we wait . . .

  We wait until the sun rises. And then we wait when the sun sets again.

  “They’re clearly missing,” I say to Frank. “Maybe we should go look for them now?”

  “Sit. Stay. Good doggie,” Frank says, patting my head.

  We are still sitting and waiting when we hear screams outside our door. We sit and wait as the doorknob to our room turns. We sit and wait as the lights flicker and then die. We sit and wait as a ghost comes creeping in, clawed hands outstretched.

  “Wait!” I shout at the ghost.

  But attacking ghosts do not wait. Ready or not, here it comes. . . .

  CASE CLOSED.

  I APPROACH THE coffin first. Please don’t let January be in the coffin. Please.

  I slowly lift the coffin lid—and there is something moving inside it.

  No—a million things moving inside it!

  Cockroaches. Hundreds of cockroaches crawling on top of each other, crawling to get out.

  “SHUT IT!” Eliza shrieks. Bugs are her biggest fear.

  I close the lid, but it’s too late. Hundreds—no, thousands—have already escaped into the room. I am screaming, Eliza’s screaming, Frank’s screaming, Mom’s screaming as cockroaches scurry up our legs, across our torsos, up our necks, and on our faces. . . .

  These cockroaches are revolting, sure. But nothing bugs me more than not being able to finish my investigation.

  CASE CLOSED.

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing awake?” I ask January.

  “I woke up from this laughing noise,” she says. “And then I thought I saw Fernando walking across the landing. Did you find out what he’s hiding? I didn’t see you again after you dismissed me from your circle.”

  “No, we didn’t find out what he’s hiding,” I say.

  “Maybe you should have accepted my help after all,” January gloats.

  Then she moves to the door of the fire den and opens it a crack. While her back is turned, I catch Eliza’s eye. She smiles weakly; she’s shaking off her run-in with that dog.

  January turns around, tucking a lock of her black hair behind her ear. “Okay, I don’t see the dog anywhere. Should we make a run for it?”

  “And go where?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” January says, annoyed. “To find the owner of the dog, maybe? Or to figure out who’s out of bed? You’re the detectives—not me! Where do we go next?”

  We? What we?

  * * *

  TO GO LOOKING FOR THE DOG, CLICK HERE.

  TO HIDE FROM THE DOG, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I NEED TO know Fernando’s alibi for last night, right around when the footprints appeared. If he can’t account for those hours, then maybe he’s guilty.

  “What were you doing last night at three in the morning?”

  “Sleeping?” Fernando says.

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “No,” he says.

  “Then how do we know you’re telling the truth?”

  Fernando shrugs. “I’m not concerned whether you think I’m telling the truth. I was asleep. That’s the truth.” He looks at his watch nervously. “Is that everything? If I don’t get dinner started, Mrs . . . ah . . . she’ll have my head.” He’s still afraid to say Mrs. Winters.

  He’s getting too jumpy as a witness. I feel like, unfortunately, this is all we’re going to get out of him. But Eliza jerks her head—a little gesture that I know means she wants me to dig into Fernando’s alibi more. I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Sometimes it’s best to call it quits and try again later. But Eliza makes the movement again. “Go on!” she mouths.

  * * *

  TO PRESS FERNANDO ABOUT HIS ALIBI, CLICK HERE.

  TO LEAVE THE KITCHEN, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “WE’LL HAVE A snowball fight,” I say. “But first we have to talk to Reese.”

  I drag him to Reese’s office, and he is looking severely unhappy as I knock on the door.

  “Come in.” Reese is sitting behind her desk, looking rather tired with dark circles under her eyes. She sighs and slouches in her chair. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “No,” Frank pouts.

  “I have to know . . . why didn’t you want to hire detectives?”

  “But I did hire detectives,” Reese says.

  I’m flubbing this. “Yeah, but Harris said you didn’t want to hire detectives, not even after your hotel was being haunted and your business was crashing and burning. So what was that about?”

  She frowns. “Harris has a big mouth.”

  “I just think he has nothing to hide,” I say. Unlike you, I add inside my head. I don’t say it, but I think I’ve already pretty much implied it.

  “I . . . I have done something so shameful,” Reese says. “A few years ago, I—”

  “Snowball fight!” Frank interrupts.

  “What?”

  “Snowball fight! I’ve waited long enough—I want a snowball fight.”

  “No, what to Reese, not to you. You be quiet, Frank!”

  Uh-oh. That was the wrong thing to say. He puffs his cheeks out and stands up on his chair. “SNOWBALL FIGHT SNOWBALL FIGHT SNOWBALL FIGHT!” He picks up different snowglobes and paperweights and mugs off Reese’s shelf and starts throwing them across the room. “SNOWBALL FIGHT!”

  “Frank, no! Frank, stop!”

  “My parents’ heirlooms!” Reese cries.

  “I’ll have a snowball fight
with you! Just stop this!”

  “TOO LATE!” Frank says, and I lunge at him and put him in a headlock. “REGULAR FIGHT, REGULAR FIGHT!” he cries with glee.

  We roll around in Reese’s office.

  Frank, breaking everything he can get his hands on.

  Me, accidentally breaking things in an attempt to stop him.

  And Reese, shrieking at the top of her lungs.

  Maybe I should just have given him that snowball fight after all.

  CASE CLOSED.

  OKAY, I’M DONE deciphering the doorknob twist message.

  “‘Key is hidden behind the deer head. But antlers have a pattern. Go outside for the answer.’” I’m not sure this answer is any clearer than the numbers. “Antlers have a pattern? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Eliza squints at the message. “Do you think . . . that maybe we have to press the antlers in a particular order? And something out in the grounds will give us the answer?” She frowns. “Only . . . it will be really hard to go outside, since we’re totally snowed in.”

  “How would Mom even know this about the key?”

  “It’s a trap!” Frank sings.

  The doorknob turns twice for no.

  “Let’s go,” I say. Whether it’s a trap or not, I can’t just leave this alone. Not when there’s a chance that it really is Mom behind the Dead Room door.

  We lace up our boots and grab our coats, and run to the front door.

  “What are you doing?” Cricket says as we pull on the doorknob. We’re met with a wall of snow, six feet high. “We’re snowed in!”

  “Doesn’t hurt to try,” I say.

  “Hey, how did your conversation with Reese go?” Eliza asks.

  Cricket grins. “Surprisingly awesome! She was, like, super understanding and really forgiving. But obvi I can never do anything like that again, or I’m fired.”

  “Well, I’m glad you worked it out,” I say, trying to move the conversation along. Mom is waiting for me. “We’ve gotta run.” Then I pull Frank and Eliza toward the kitchen, where I know there must be a delivery door for groceries.

  We try the door in the kitchen. We try the door in the library. Both doors have a giant snowbank, keeping us locked in.

  We catch our breath in the fire den, with Byron Bookbinder typing away on his laptop. He doesn’t look up at us . . . so I guess he hasn’t noticed that we stole the EMF reader.

  That’s when I remember the letter we never looked at—the one we took from his briefcase. I dig through Eliza’s bag, but it isn’t there.

  “What are you looking for?” Eliza asks.

  But I can’t tell her in front of Byron. My heart sinks—I can’t believe we lost it.

  “Look!” Frank says, yanking on a window. For a second, I think it’s going to be useless—totally frozen over. But then it wobbles. Maybe we can get out through the window. The fire den is up on a slope, so the snowbank is level with the bottom of the window. Yes, this could totally work.

  “What are you doing?” Byron says, looking up from his computer. “You’ll let the heat escape.”

  “I’m going to pass out. It’s so hot—I think I’m going to faint,” Eliza lies. Her cheeks turn pink, like they always do when she’s lying. But it actually makes her story more believable.

  “Let me help,” Byron says, coming over to the window. With the four of us, we yank the window open. Frank pushes the snow aside, and there’s a perfect crack, just big enough for a kid to fit through. At least we know our suspects won’t follow us out here.

  “I need air,” Eliza says, crawling out the window and onto a bed of snow.

  “I should go with her,” I say, “to make sure she’s okay.”

  Behind me, Frank pauses. “Made-up excuse,” he says to Byron, and I try not to groan. Then Frank follows me out the window.

  The storm last night was no joke. The snowfall has died down, but the wind is still harsh and cold, smacking snow into my face and down the front of my coat. There are pieces of tree branches everywhere—probably scattered from the wind. I had expected the snow to be powdery since it’s so fresh, but the frigid temperature has frozen much of it into ice chunks.

  Outside the lodge, there’s a hot tub and an outdoor firepit. There’s a shed with a sign that says OUTDOOR EQUIPMENT SHED. And there’s a gated area, a little bit down the slope, that looks like a creepy garden. With a fountain and some iron statues. I bet it’s nice in the summer, but now that it’s December, the whole place is totally blown over with snow.

  “‘Key is hidden behind the deer head. But antlers have a pattern. Go outside for the answer,’” Eliza recites.

  “Well, we’re outside,” I say. “I don’t see an answer.”

  “We have to keep looking. Maybe it’s in the equipment shed. It would be a good place to hide a deer head. Or a clue to a key.”

  “Isn’t that technically inside?” I say. “Mom told us to look outside for the answer.” I keep my eyes focused on the gated garden area. From far away, those statues look almost like deer or moose or elk. That has to be important, right?

  * * *

  TO CHECK OUT THE EQUIPMENT SHED, CLICK HERE.

  TO CHECK OUT THE GATED GARDEN, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I PROMISED MOM I wouldn’t look. So I won’t.

  “Mom!” I shout, reaching my arm behind me. “Grab my hand!”

  “Get away!”

  “Mom! Grab ahold!”

  She shrieks.

  “Mom?”

  I reach my hand back as far as it can go, and something wet touches my palm . . . like someone has licked it. I shudder and pull my hand back.

  “Mom? Mom!” I cry.

  I don’t hear her anymore.

  I promised her I wouldn’t turn back. But it means I had to turn my back on her.

  CASE CLOSED.

  “I THINK WE’VE got it!” I say. “Now let’s go find . . . whatever it is we have to find!”

  Outside, the storm is raging, and the windchill must be negative a thousand degrees—I’ve never been so cold in my life. But I tuck myself farther into my coat and walk to the back of the lodge.

  That’s when I see them: fresh tracks in the snow. Human ones. Starting from the firepit and disappearing over the crest of the mountain.

  “Do you think someone’s going where we’re going?”

  “I think someone went,” I say.

  “Follow the leader!” Frank says, running after the footprints. Mom takes the map and the flashlight. “Okay, let’s count our paces. According to our map, we have to start by going north two hundred feet. . . .”

  We follow the map, twisting and turning across the mountain, heading vaguely in the direction of the Super Hotel Express. And I don’t know if it’s promising or concerning that the tracks in the snow have already taken the same path we’re on. That means that we’re probably going to have to confront someone when we reach our final destination.

  We head away from the lodge, down the slope . . . into the woods. Every rustle in the trees sounds like a bear to me. I flinch every time I see a shadow in the corner of my vision.

  “You are so jumpy!” Eliza says.

  “Of course I am! We’re following a ghost trail.”

  “A human trail.”

  “Does it really matter right now?” I snap. My voice echoes in the cold, dark night. “I’m sorry,” I say to Eliza. “I’m just really . . .” Afraid.

  But I don’t want to say it out loud. I can’t say it. Because I don’t want Mom to know how scared I really am. I don’t want her to think I’m a bad detective—or that it was a mistake to bring me here.

  Mom puts her arm on my back. “I feel a little jumpy too, hijo. I don’t love being out in the wilderness at night. In a snowstorm. Where there’s no cell service. With a cornered criminal on the loose.”

  “How do you not let it affect you, Mom?”

  “I guess I try to focus on one task at a time and push through my fear. On this case specifically,
I’ve reminded myself that we’re here together.”

  I nod.

  At last we reach the final direction: north one hundred feet.

  It puts us right in front of a cave. It’s wholly dark inside—like a little black hole in the middle of a mountain.

  “D-do we go in?” Eliza shivers.

  “Aye!” Frank says.

  “We have to warm up somewhere,” Mom says. “If we stay out in the wind too long, we’ll freeze.”

  One task at a time. Push through fear. Remember we’re here together. “Yes,” I whisper.

  “That’s three yes votes,” Eliza says. “And for the record: one no.”

  And even though Eliza is the only no vote, she steps into the cave first. Smart and brave. You do not want to mess with my bestie.

  I click on my flashlight and follow.

  The cave walls are craggy, lined with shelves of paint (both spray paint and brush paint), masks, bodysuits, and all sorts of horror costume pieces. Eliza shudders as we pass a shelf of creepy broken dolls. I shudder as we pass a shelf of ventriloquist dummies.

  “This is awesome!” Frank says. And as we get farther into the cave, there is a desk with sound-mixing equipment, which I recognize from our last case at a TV studio.

  “The cave is getting smaller,” Eliza whispers, and I realize she’s right. The ceiling is sloping down.

  At last we reach a wall . . . the end of the cave. And I’m confused. We followed footprints in the snow to this very spot—I really thought we would be confronting our ghost.

  “Carlos?” Eliza says nervously. She points her flashlight to the mouth of the cave, where a figure stands in shadow.

  I feel Mom tense beside me.