SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 Page 6

  I rolled over onto my other side as the sights and the sounds of the day poured over me without stopping. At last, I got up and sat on the edge of my bed, longing for peace.

  “Dear Jesus, I need your help. I can’t sleep because of what’s happened,” I prayed.

  In the darkness, I slipped to my knees. “Please, Lord, take care of the Davis family. I can’t help them the way you can.”

  I stopped pleading long enough to thank my heavenly Father. In turn, I was reminded of Psalm ninety-one—the one about the angels. He will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways…

  I don’t know how or when it happened, but I must’ve crawled back into bed and fallen asleep. Either that or my guardian angels tucked me in. Anyway, I woke up the next morning in bed, having slept soundly, eager to see Chelsea again.

  Maybe today we’d find her mother!

  Chapter

  12

  During Saturday brunch with my family, a phone call came from Ashley Horton. “Merry, guess what I found out?” she said almost before I could say hi. “The guy who won the photography contest last year—you know, that Randall Eastman? Well, he’s in Nikki Klein’s homeroom.”

  I was flabbergasted. “You called her about this?”

  “Last night,” she admitted, “after I talked to Jon.”

  Why’d she have to talk to him? I wondered.

  She continued. “But the thing is, this guy Randall, he doesn’t go by his real name. He has a nickname, and it’s really different. Kind of odd.”

  I wished she’d get to the point. “Yeah, so what’s his nickname?”

  “Stiggy. His name’s Stiggy. Isn’t it corny?”

  Nobody says corny anymore, I thought, trying to smother my sarcastic thoughts.

  “From what Nikki said, I guess Randall’s younger brother couldn’t pronounce his name when they were growing up.” She laughed. “It doesn’t figure—I mean, how do you get Stiggy out of Randall?”

  “Maybe Randall was stingy growing up,” I offered. “Or stinky.”

  She actually giggled at my remark. It made me wonder why she was acting like this. So jubilant. Unless…

  “Oh, so you must’ve called Randall…er, Stiggy. Right?”

  “How’d you guess?” Ashley asked. “Yes, I talked to him, and he says he’ll show me his trophy-winning photo sometime next week.” She was going way overboard with her enthusiasm.

  “That’s nice,” I said, remembering that it originally had been my idea to meet him. But, not willing to get into a fuss with our pastor’s daughter, I let it drop. Who knows, maybe I’d run into Stiggy in the library on the same day he brought his work. And I would certainly know which day that would be. Ashley wasn’t very good at keeping things to herself.

  “Well, Merry,” she was saying, “have you decided what you’re going to do for the contest? Or is it a big secret?”

  From you it is, I thought, wishing she’d quit asking.

  “I have no idea what I’ll be photographing. What about you?” I felt I had to show some interest.

  “Well, I’m torn between several subjects,” she explained.

  Torn? When was Ashley ever going to come down to earth?

  “You don’t have to take this so seriously,” I advised. “It’s only a contest.”

  “Only?”

  “Well, you know.” I was antsy to get going. I had a mystery to solve, a life to save…and who knows what else might pop up today.

  “Only?” she repeated. “How can you possibly say that?”

  “Okay, the contest is a big deal,” I said. “It only happens once a year.” Now maybe she’ll get off my back.

  Mom motioned for me to return to the table.

  “I’ve gotta go, Ashley,” I said politely. “See you tomorrow at church.”

  “Save me a place in Sunday school,” she added before saying good-bye. It wasn’t actually a command—still, her request bothered me. Was Ashley taking advantage of our one common interest? Make that interests—Jonathan Klein was mighty interesting, too.

  I went back to my family, who was enjoying a very late breakfast. Mom liked to refer to a meal at this hour as brunch. It had nothing to do with whether or not we were eating breakfast and lunch-type food combined, just the lateness of the hour.

  “Well, what are your plans today?” Dad asked Skip.

  “I think I might ride around and see some of my old high school buddies.” He leaned back in his chair.

  “While you’re at it, don’t forget Nikki,” I teased.

  A smile spread across his face. Evidently, there were still strong emotions connected to Jon’s sister.

  “It’s okay if you ask her out while you’re here.” I grinned. “I’ll let you.”

  “Thanks for your permission, little girl.”

  Mom’s eyes darted between Skip and me. But I didn’t retaliate and turn our playful banter into something Mom needed to referee.

  “What about you, Merry?” Dad asked. “What are you doing today?” He delighted in asking questions like this, especially on weekends. For his kids to have definite plans seemed terribly important to Dad.

  “I’m going over to Chelsea’s, if that’s okay.”

  “How are the Davises doing these days?” Mom asked, picking up several dishes and carrying them to the sink.

  “Oh, busy.” Vague words.

  I thought of the risky prospect of my family hearing about Mrs. Davis on the news or in the papers—especially if Chelsea really had gotten the nerve to call the cops.

  Yee-ikes, I thought. Maybe I should change my tune.

  But the more I contemplated the matter, the more confused I became. I could easily bring up the possibility of Chelsea’s mom having been engaged in occult practices—meditating in an old, run-down shed strewn with empty wine bottles. But what if Dad kept me from spending time with Chelsea today because of it? What if I didn’t get another chance to investigate the hut?

  Skip and I cleared the table for Mom, which came as a surprise to both her and me. He seemed more like his old self. Maybe he simply needed to come home and get a good night’s sleep for a change. Maybe his sickness was cured, and he could go back to college—out of my hair!

  The sun was already high when I parked my bike in Chelsea’s front yard. She was coming around the side of the house. “Hi,” she said, obviously glad to see me. “Did you remember to bring my mom’s diary?”

  “It’s right here.” I pulled it out of my back pants pocket. “Did you call the cops?”

  She nodded. “This morning—after Daddy left the house. One of the cops I talked to asked if my mom kept a diary.” The dark circles under her eyes suggested that she’d slept fitfully or not at all. “They want to look at it.” She took the diary from me, fanning through its pages again.

  I followed her around to the back porch. “How can the diary help?”

  “The police’ll compare some of Mom’s repetitious writing with that of other known cult members.”

  “You must’ve told them about her diary, then.”

  “Sure did.”

  “So…they probably think she’s involved in a cult, right?”

  “Maybe.” Chelsea pulled on her long, thick ponytail.

  “What about the phone tap?”

  “An adult has to request it,” she said glumly.

  “Did you tell the police that your mom has already called and that she could very well call back?”

  “It’s no use. Daddy has to be involved, or the phone company won’t do it.”

  “Definitely a problem,” I muttered.

  Chelsea squinted toward the woods behind their house. “The cops want to get a statement from my dad about Mom’s disappearance, but I doubt he’ll even talk to them.”

  “I hope he will,” I replied. “When are they coming?”

  “In an hour or two.” She frowned, leaning back in the patio chair. “Daddy’s not gonna like it one bit.”

  I snapped open my camera cas
e. “Well, it’s the only thing you could do. I mean, we’re only teenagers—we can’t stay on the trail of a missing person forever.”

  Chelsea pushed her bangs off her forehead. “Remember how you wanted to go back and have another look at the hut?” Her eyes widened. “Let’s go now.”

  “Okay!” I was eager for this second chance to snoop.

  Chelsea put her mom’s diary in the house before we headed for the arbor gate, down the white stepping-stone path to the mysterious shanty. Cautiously, we approached the old place, surrounded by towering trees.

  Chelsea waited behind the trunk of a tree several yards back. Glancing around, she called in a whispery voice, “It’s awfully dark in here. Let’s hurry!”

  I took two steps forward, staring into the darkness around me. Then I stopped, captured by the shanty’s haunting image just ahead. I groped for my camera bag and took out the 35 millimeter.

  “This is genius,” I muttered to myself. Instantly, I targeted my subject matter for the photography contest. Now, if I could just get the correct lighting—what there was of it. In the dim and shadowy underbrush, I fussed with my camera, setting the lens and the aperture. “Hold on, Chels.” I stepped back, steadying myself with my left foot. “I’ve found a shot too incredible to pass up.”

  The shack was covered on one side with a tangled maze of ivy dappled by a single shaft of sunlight. I’d seen paintings similar to this—depicting lavish light and contrasting shadow—but never anything like this in real life!

  My heart pounded as I steadied my camera. It was truly marvelous the way the sun cast its brilliant luster over the place. House of secrets, Chelsea’s mom had called it in her strange poem. The occult-ridden structure, now bathed in light, stood for something else in my mind—something other than witchcraft and hocus-pocus. The white light above the roof of the hut represented overcoming evil with good. I laughed out loud, dispelling my fears.

  “I think I’ve found a winning photograph!” I called to Chelsea, considering various angles. Then, stepping closer, I turned the camera on its side for several vertical shots, taking one picture after another.

  She shouted back, “C’mon, Mer. What are you doing?” Her voice sounded frantic.

  “I’m finished now. Honest.” I slipped my camera back inside its case and turned to see her crouched near the base of the giant tree. “You okay?”

  “I hate it here.” She gazed nervously into the shadows. “I’m…I’m really scared.”

  “Come with me,” I insisted.

  “No, you go. I’m staying right here.”

  “I’ll hurry, I promise. You stand guard, okay?” I called over my shoulder. “If you see something…or someone, just whistle. I’ll come running.”

  That settled, I moved forward, fighting off yesterday’s tormenting visions. As I came within inches of the narrow door, I noticed a frightening thing.

  The latch. It was hanging open!

  Firmly, I placed my hand flat against the door and pushed. It was hard to see inside. There were no lights, not even a lantern.

  Within seconds, my eyes began to adjust to the dim surroundings, and the first thing I noticed was the vacant spot where the candles and incense holders had been yesterday. I searched the area around me. My eyes scanned the old potting shelf high on the wall.

  Empty.

  The black box?

  Gone!

  My hands turned clammy. “Someone’s been here. Maybe someone saw us yesterday.” I spun around, heart in my throat, leaving the shanty door gaping open. “Chelsea, let’s get out of here!” I called. “Hurry!”

  We scrambled out of the forest and into the sunlight. My knees shook as we ran toward the safety of Chelsea’s house.

  Chapter

  13

  A few solemn moments passed before either Chelsea or I could speak.

  “Oh, Chelsea,” I cried as we dashed toward her backyard. “Do you think your mom saw us snooping yesterday? Do you think we scared her away?”

  Chelsea’s mouth twitched. “I…I hope not.”

  “What can we do now?” I groaned. “We were getting so close, and now this!” I remembered that the police were supposed to be showing up soon. “Do you want me to wait here with you for the cops?”

  We collapsed into a matching pair of cedar patio chairs. Chelsea pulled out a tissue from her pants pocket and blew her nose. “Mom might’ve been nearby. Maybe she even saw us go into the hut. She could have called my dad from a cell phone yesterday. Oh, Merry!” She began to sob.

  I got up and went over to her, touching her shoulders. “I’m so sorry. I’m truly sorry.”

  Suddenly, she looked up through her tears. “You know what I wish? I wish your prayers were actually going somewhere. I guess I…” She stopped for a second. “I wish there really was a God.”

  I studied my friend as I sat on the arm of the other patio chair. The physical similarities were strong between Chelsea and her father. She had his straight nose and rounded chin. Other striking resemblances were evident—the way her left eyebrow arched slightly upward and the rich color of her auburn hair.

  “Have you ever heard of people being made in God’s image?” I asked.

  Her eyebrows arched even more. “Not really. Why?”

  “The Bible says we are. I guess if you believe God’s written words, it’s easier to believe His unwritten ones.”

  She frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “Look around you, Chels. See the autumn hues on every tree, the flecks of white in the blue sky, the way those grapevines wrap themselves around that old arbor gate?” I hoped I was making sense. “The way I see it, these are God’s unwritten words to us. It’s like a photographer with a good camera telling a picture essay. You know the old saying, ‘a picture is worth a thousand words’?” I played with the camera strap on my case.

  Chelsea leaned forward. “So you’re saying that nature points us to something or someone who created all this?”

  “I’m sure it does. Nothing else makes sense.”

  She turned to me and smiled thoughtfully. “I don’t understand half of what you just said, but it sounds nice. I wish it were true.”

  I didn’t have a chance to respond. A squad car was pulling into the driveway. We could see the front end of the hood.

  “Come on,” Chelsea said. “We have some fast talking to do.”

  “Yeah. I sure hope the police help us find your mom.”

  We hurried around the side of the house just as Lissa Vyner’s dad was getting out of the car.

  “Officer Vyner!” I called to him. “Boy, are we glad to see you.”

  Chelsea looked confused but somewhat relieved. “I thought…uh, I mean, how’d you find out about this?”

  Officer Vyner explained. “When I heard about your call and what was going on over here, well, I decided I wanted to be the one to handle the report.”

  “Thanks,” I said softly. “It means a lot.”

  Chelsea nodded soberly. “Thanks for taking this whole thing seriously.” And she began to pour out every last detail.

  Soon, it was my turn to talk. I told about what Chelsea and I had seen in the old shack yesterday and offered him prints of the shots I’d gotten before everything was taken away.

  Officer Vyner sat on the back porch step, filling out an official report, writing down exactly what we said. I’d never felt so shook-up in my life, but by the time we finished, I was relieved to have shared the secret burden with someone who could truly help.

  “Anything else?” he asked, his pen poised in midair. “Is there anything we’ve overlooked?”

  “Well, there was something scratched into the bottom of that black box we found,” I said. “I didn’t get a picture of it, but I saw the exact same thing on the front page of Mrs. Davis’s diary.”

  “Can you describe the markings for me?” Officer Vyner asked as he prepared to take additional notes.

  “Would you like to see the diary?” Chelsea asked, looking a bit
hesitant.

  I nodded, offering moral support. “Good idea.”

  She went inside and came out quickly.

  When the marks were found and scrutinized, I heard Officer Vyner mention the words “satanic cult.” The implications made me shiver, and while he continued to talk to Chelsea, I went indoors to call my parents. Dad answered on the first ring.

  “Could you please come get me?” I asked, now on the verge of tears. “I’m at Chelsea’s, and there’s something I should’ve told you…uh, before today.”

  “Honey, are you all right? You sound—”

  “Please, just come,” I pleaded.

  Again he asked. “Merry, honey, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, but hurry.”

  He said he’d be on his way, and it was comforting to know that there’d be another adult in the house. And soon.

  “Thanks, Dad.” I shuddered to think how he would feel when he got here and saw the police car and heard the horrifying story of Chelsea’s missing mother.

  Chapter

  14

  Dad arrived a few minutes later looking relaxed and fit in his black sweats—nothing even remotely close to the way he dressed to work at the hospital. Today was one of the few days he’d had off all month. Being the head of the ER trauma team at Lancaster General and on call most of the time made it difficult for Dad to have leisure time.

  “What’s going on?” he asked as he came up the front steps. He’d arrived before Chelsea’s dad, and it was truly a good thing because it gave me a chance—with some help from Chelsea and Officer Vyner—to fill Dad in on exactly what had been going on.

  After Dad heard the story, he offered his medical assistance. “I’d be more than happy to help the department in any way,” he said.