Horror at the Haunted House Read Online Free Page B

someone had just opened a door or window directly beside her. A prickle of fear ran across her scalp.
    Ellen straightened and backed away from the Wedgwood. There were no windows in this room and the only door was the one to the hallway. The cold air continued to brush against her. She shivered and turned to leave. The cold air swirled around her, surrounding her. Ellen stopped.
    Was it a magic trick, something rigged up especially for the haunted house?
    She took a deep breath, trying to control her pounding heart. Be logical, she told herself. She looked carefully around the dining room for any wires which might lead to concealed fans or air-conditioning vents. Maybe the electrician had fixed itso the air-conditioning system would produce sporadic blasts of frigid air. Maybe it was a publicity stunt. Mrs. Whittacker said the electrician was in charge of publicity.
    But this room wasn’t going to have a haunted house scene; this room was only a display of furniture and the Clayton family’s Wedgwood collection. There would be no reason to scare people who came to admire the museum pieces.
    The walls in the dining room were plainer than the rest of the mansion so that full attention could be focused on the rows of recessed china cupboards which held the Wedgwood collection. She saw no wires. No vents. No way to make a blast of cold air turn on and off.
    It’s the ghost, Ellen thought. It’s the ghost of Lydia Clayton. The cold wind seemed to blow from all directions at once. Ellen wanted to run away from it but she felt as if roots had grown down through the bottoms of her feet and anchored her to the floor.
    Maybe the electrician had not tried to start a rumor. Maybe when the electrician got close to the Wedgwood he was warned away by Lydia’s ghost. Afterward, he was probably embarrassed when other members of the society laughed at his report of a ghost and so he pretended that he had made it all up as a way to get publicity.
    “There you are!” Corey’s voice at the dining-room door jarred Ellen into motion. The cold wind vanished. “Come and meet Mighty Mike,” Corey called.
    Ellen ran out of the dining room. Although the cold air did not follow her, she felt chilled to the bone, anyway.
    “That’s what I like,” Mighty Mike said, as Ellen dashed toward him, “a fan who’s eager to shake my hand.”
    When Ellen and Corey got home, they sat around the tablewith their parents, eating tuna sandwiches, while Corey told all about the mansion and the pig and Mighty Mike. All, that is, except the part about a ghost. To Ellen’s relief, Corey was too excited about Mighty Mike and about pretending to get his head chopped off to talk of anything else.
    “You’re awfully quiet,” Mrs. Streater said to Ellen.
    “She hasn’t had a chance,” Mr. Streater said, looking at Corey.
    “Ellen felt the ghost!” Corey said.
    Ellen kicked him under the table. She might have known he couldn’t keep anything secret.
    “I mean, there was a statue there and we pretended it was a ghost and Ellen . . .”
    “Let Ellen tell her part herself,” Mrs. Streater suggested.
    “I’m alone in my scene,” Ellen said, “but there are lots of special effects. You can even smell the fire.”
    “And there’s weird music,” said Corey. “It gets loud right when the big knife comes toward my head.”
    Ellen didn’t mind letting Corey do the talking. She was anxious to be alone, to ponder what had happened. She needed to think about the cold wind that she thought was the ghost of Lydia Clayton.
    After lunch, Ellen took a hot shower. The water poured over her, warming her at last.
    The ghost was watching me, Ellen decided. I sensed it during the meeting and again in the dining room. She watched me and then she tried to—to what? To scare me away?
    Why me? Ellen wondered. Out of all the dozens of celebrities and volunteers and Historical Society members who were at Clayton House today, why was I the only one who felt the