The Summer of Moonlight Secrets (10 page)

26

Allie Jo

Tara is a runaway!

If only Dad hadn't come onto the veranda looking for me. I couldn't sleep at all last night thinking about Tara. Why was she running away? I concocted all sorts of stories about her, but only one made sense: she had a cruel stepmother.

This would explain why she had no bathing suit and no extra clothes. The stepmother wouldn't buy her any, of course; she bought stuff only for her own daughters. I simmered in my bed, thinking about poor Tara, doing all the work and being treated like a servant. No wonder she ran away.

I gobbled down my pancakes this morning and made lots of noise during my inspections, but Tara didn't show up. I daydreamed through all my chores, through my babysitting job, and all the way through supper.

I ate everything on my plate, including the onions, and cleared the table. “I'm going to sit on the veranda,” I call out.

Dad flicked me with a dish towel. “Don't stay out so late tonight, okay?”

But it's not Tara I find outside; it's Chase. He's sitting on the concrete pad, his feet stirring in the water. I did the brass by myself today, since he was with his dad.

“Hi,” I say.

He startles, or at least it seems like he does. “Hey,” he says.

A lizard scurries away from me. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at the moon. It was full yesterday.”

I gaze up and see that the moon is a fingernail short of being full.

“Did you ever see
Teen Wolf
?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I don't like scary movies.”

“It's not scary! It's about this guy who plays basketball and becomes a werewolf.”

I pinch up my face. “Knock, knock,” I say, dropping beside him.

He plays along. “Who's there?”

“Werewolf.”

“Werewolf who?”

“Shut up and comb your face.”

He groans. “Har, har.”

I plunk my feet into the water. It sends a chill right up my spine.

Chase notices my shiver and laughs. “My dad says that people in Florida have thin blood. That's why you get cold so easily.”

I've heard that too. “I wonder if that's true.”

He shrugs his shoulders and lies back on the dock. Crickets and frogs bleat in harmony. Chase raises his left arm. “Big Dipper.”

I point. “Little Dipper.” I lie down.

“Moon.”

“That's not a star!”

“I know,” he says. We stare at the night sky for a minute. Then he goes, “I asked your mom about that secret panel.”

I'm not worried. Mom doesn't like guests going in there, something about insurance. It'll be different after Chase has passed his probation. “What'd she say?”

“She said it went up to the nanny quarters?”

I take a deep breath and make my eyes huge when I look at him. “Didn't she tell you?”

“Tell me what?” He bolts upright.

I sit up too. “I don't know if I should be telling you this.”

“Oh, man! You have to!” He gawks at me.

I look around and hunch down. All I need is a flashlight to hold up under my chin. “The staircase goes up to the nanny quarters—that's where the nannies stayed with all the rich people's kids. There was one nanny, sixteen; she was an indentured servant from Ireland and her master liked her better than his wife.” That part's true, according to legend. Now for the part I like best, the part I made up. I lean in close and say in a hoarse voice, “The wife bricked her in while she slept.”

“No!” Chase says. His whole face lights up.

“Yes!” I say. “And sometimes, late at night, you can hear her clawing to get out.”

“No way!” But he wants to believe; he halfway believes—I can tell.

He lies back down with a smile on his face. The arm with the cast on it lies across his stomach. It reminds me that his mom won't be able to sign it; it reminds me of something else too.

“Um,” I say, “I sort of accidentally told Sophie about your mom.”

He turns his head on the ground to look at me. “What'd you say?”

“That she was gone.” I don't want to admit that I said
disappeared
too. Anyway, she has to come back; she's his
mother
.

Chase pushes himself up and slumps, his feet still in the water. “If I tell you something, you can't tell anyone.”

I swallow and raise my eyebrows. “I won't tell anyone.”

“My mom ran away.” He stares at me, waiting for a response.

“What?”

“When I was really little, my mom took off.” His voice cracks. “She left us.”

My heart drops to my stomach when he says that. It's not so much his words as it is hearing his voice crack. I wish I could put a cast on his heart.

27

Chase

In two weeks, I'll get my short cast. I still won't be able to go swimming, but it sure will be easier to zip up my pants. A real plus, I think, as I struggle into my shorts before heading out. I'm looking for Allie Jo on day three of my probation, but I can't find her anywhere.

“Try the sunporch,” Mr. Jackson says when I stop by the front desk.

Ever since I told Allie Jo about my mom, I feel better, like I'm not carrying this big, dark secret around. I used to lie to people, tell them my mom was dead or that my parents were divorced, but then they'd ask too many questions and I'd forget which story I told to which person, and keeping up with it all got really complicated. Sometimes it's easier to stick with the truth. Or say nothing.

Heading down to the sunporch, I realize no one else is in the hallway. I lean out. Nope, no one can see me from the front desk or the dining room. I start pressing the wall like crazy. Where's that secret panel? I push and I pound and then I hear a hollow sound.

After fumbling around for a minute, I press on this wooden trim piece and, easy as that, the panel opens. I jump in and it closes behind me, clicking shut. Suddenly, it's dark, and I realize why—the only window I can see has been painted black. The wind howls outside and rain beats against the wall. High above, the staircase groans. My heart beats a little faster. As my eyes adjust, I make out a string hanging over a landing before the stairs turn. I can make it that far before anything grabs me.

The stairs are bare wood and open, like bleachers. I hate walking on bleachers; I always feel like I'll fall right through the gaps. Gripping the wooden handrail, I plant my foot on the first step. It cracks. I suck air in and freeze. Nothing. No one's heard me. I don't know if that's good or bad.

I reach the landing and pull the string. The bulb casts a weak, yellowish light over the rest of the stairs, which turn up from the landing alongside a rough, crumbling wall—a dungeon wall. When I lean my hand against it, I feel moisture. The rotting smell of mildew hangs in the air.

The steps twist into the darkness before the next landing. I wave my hand around, trying to feel for the string, but I stumble back against the wall and hit a post. A long skeleton finger uncurls and hooks my shirt on its bony tip. It tries to pull me back to the corner. I scream, jerk away, and scramble up a couple of flights as something clatters to the ground.

Huffing and puffing, I crouch, clutching the banister. Spiderwebs stick to my fingers, but I don't care. Then I hear something above the wind, something above the rain, something like … something like
clawing
. The bricked-in nanny! Then a door softly shuts—I can't tell where; my heart's beating too loudly. The wind is roaring, and she's up there, scratching the bricks with her fingers.

I fly down the stairs, barely registering the old-fashioned window hook as I pass the landing. As I swing around the banister, a dark shape emerges. I shriek and stiffen as if hit by an electrical shock.

Grasping the rail for balance, my eyes light on the figure in front of me. I sag against the banister, gasping for air. My heart's banging like crazy in my chest, but it's beginning to settle.

Lifting my gaze to the specter again, I break into laughter. It's not a zombie nanny or a raggedy old ghost.

“It's you!”

28

Fear spiraled in the boy's wake. As the current pushed down toward her, Tara waited for him to appear.

“It's you!” he shouted upon seeing her.

Waves from his flight down the stairs crashed over her. She knew there was nothing to fear, not here, not in this hotel. She'd explored its halls, trailing her fingertips along the walls. Whispers came to her, but she could not hear them clearly. Voices from too long ago. Stronger were the trails left by Allie Jo. The girl's presence was everywhere.

“Yes,” she said. “It's me.”

Rushes of air curled around him, settling at his feet like dust.

“Come,” she said. Without glancing back, she ascended the stairs. She knew he would follow.

Pushing open a scuffed door with a hand-painted
3
on it, she led him onto the third floor.

“Cool!” the boy said after the panel shut behind them. “Look! You can't even see the door when it's closed.”

She smiled to herself. He lacked much in vision.

“This is where I saw you before,” the boy said. “You know, where I broke my arm.” He gestured wildly as he spoke; energy rolled off him in sparks. “Thanks for helping me, by the way.”

Looking up, he asked, “What's your name?”

“What's
your
name?” she quickly asked.

“Chase.” He fell silent for a moment. “Where are we going?”

They'd gone far down the hall, almost to the end. A light path ran the length of the hall where carpet once lay. Circular scrapes marred the heart-of-pine flooring. Shadows of beauty crossed in the air but were lost in the true vision: dead roaches lying on their backs; paint peeling, hanging from the walls like ribbons. Some walls had been hacked, exposing the heartwood that supported the hotel.

She bent down and ran her fingers over a deep gouge.

His eyes widened with recognition. “That's what tripped me up! I fell there”—he glanced at her—“right?”

Tara nodded.

She stood, and he rose, looking up at her like a pup.

“So what are you doing?” He jumped around her. “You want to explore this place? It's got all kinds of secret rooms.”

Stiffening, she remembered the secret room the man had locked her in. There had been no windows, but she could see well in the dark. No, it wasn't the darkness that had bothered her; it was his plans that scared her—plans he spoke of with great excitement and agitation. When two days had passed, she heard him leave, and she splintered the door open with one powerful kick.

The boy before her now was speaking of secret rooms. She tipped her head and observed him. “What is it you seek?”

“
‘Seek?'
” The boy laughed. “You kind of have an accent. Where are you from?”

Words—she must be more careful with them. It was best not to use too many, she realized, at least until she learned to speak as they did. But she liked him; she felt a kindred spirit in him.

“Irish,” she said. “Scottish.” She remembered the waves of the deep, surging and cresting, the joy she felt in their power.

The boy smiled. “I'm part Irish too!”

Black Irish,
she thought. Dark hair and blue eyes. She had chosen right in this boy. His aura was good.

A breeze fluttered through her hair, lifting the ends. The other one was coming. She waited expectantly.