Dead Voices Page 4

  The black car, skidding, finally made it across the parking lot and quivered to a halt beside the white lump that was all that could be seen of Susie the Subaru. The driver got out. He was wearing a black ski jacket.

  They waited. The next second, there was the sound of the big front doors opening, and a shriek of wind from outside. Over the wind came the sound of Mrs. Wilson saying hello in her breathless voice.

  An unfamiliar voice answered; the door slammed shut.

  Mrs. Wilson said something else. The visitor laughed. Then Mrs. Wilson appeared in the dining room, the car’s driver trailing her.

  As he came in, he briskly peeled off layers, shedding melting snowflakes. He wasn’t that tall: shorter than Ollie’s dad. He had freckles across his nose and a bony, serious sort of face, with black-rimmed glasses. He looked a little like their history teacher at school, Coco thought. As he walked into the dining room, he smiled at them and said, “Hello, all. So glad I made it. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  The stranger didn’t wait for anyone to nod, but dropped at once into the seat next to Mr. Wilson. “Drove all night,” he said. “What a storm! I wasn’t sure I’d make it. I thought they’d be fishing me out of the river this spring, for sure. Is that coffee?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He seized a clean mug, poured himself a cup, and gulped.

  Mrs. Wilson, Coco saw, just seemed confused. Maybe they were all a little confused by the sudden appearance of this stranger. Mrs. Wilson said, “I’m sorry, what was your name again? If I could just find you on the original guest list . . .”

  “Oh!” said the man. “I’m not on it. Name’s Don Voland. I’m a reporter. On magazine assignment. Pleased to meet you.” He reached around the table, shook everyone’s hands, winked at the kids. His eyes were two different colors, Coco was startled to see. One green, the other dark. The two-colored eyes stood out strangely against his freckles.

  Mrs. Wilson and Coco’s mom both suddenly looked really happy. “Oh!” said Mrs. Wilson. “A journalist! Here to report on our ski mountain? How lovely. Sam and I would be happy to answer any questions.” She sat down, folded her hands, and gave Don Voland a huge smile.

  Coco’s mom said, “Which magazine? I’m a journalist myself.”

  Mr. Voland looked slightly apologetic. He scratched the back of his neck. Coco noticed that, oddly, his first two fingers were exactly the same length. “Well,” he said, “it’s a magazine called Light, and I don’t really write about skiing, sorry, ma’am.” He bobbed his head. “I write about ghosts.”

  He drank more coffee. Everyone at the table stared at him.

  Mrs. Wilson looked instantly frosty. “What do you mean, ghosts?”

  Mr. Voland had pulled a plate over without even asking and was helping himself to the pancakes. Mr. Wilson looked like he wanted to tell Mr. Voland that pancakes were for guests only, sorry. But even though he opened his mouth, he shut it without saying anything.

  Mr. Voland said, pouring maple syrup, “Yes, I write about ghosts. Hauntings, odd occurrences, and things that cannot be explained. Ghosts!” He took a bite, chewed his pancake. “These are great.”

  “My dad made them,” put in Ollie.

  “Compliments to the chef,” said Mr. Voland to Mr. Adler. He was looking around the dining room with interest, still chewing.

  Ollie watched Mr. Voland warily. Brian did too. Coco supposed she looked uneasy herself. The three of them had seen ghosts. And things they could not explain. In October. Behind the mist. Would Mr. Voland know about those things? Coco wondered.

  “And what makes you think that Hemlock Lodge—” started Mrs. Wilson.

  Mr. Voland said, still smiling, “Well, there were all those stories about this place. While it was shut up. Didn’t you know? I’m sure someone mentioned it when you bought the building. The orphanage didn’t have the best reputation.” He ate more pancake.

  Coco thought of a dark figure on the road, a shadow in an empty hall.

  Across the table, Ollie bit her lip. “Old orphanage?” she blurted out. “I thought this used to be a school.”

  “It was,” broke in Mr. Wilson. “A fine institution! I don’t know what you are implying . . . what was your name again?”

  “Don will do.” Mr. Voland leaned back, cradling his mug of coffee. “And to answer your question,” he added. “It was a school and an orphanage. Apparently it wasn’t all sunshine and roses. Rumors went around that children were being locked in closets and things. No one investigated at the time, though—people didn’t really care about orphans. And after the orphanage was closed, people started seeing strange lights in the windows. Once the police were called because someone heard screaming inside the building. But they never found anyone. Stories about this place started to go up and down the valley. The most common was the story of a little girl named Gretel and a woman called Mother Hemlock. Ever heard the story?”

  They shook their heads. Mr. Wilson was red with annoyance; Mrs. Wilson still looked frosty. Ollie looked like she was listening hard.

  “Well, Gretel was an orphan at the school, apparently,” said Mr. Voland. “She wasn’t a very good student; she liked to go poking around, instead of paying attention at her lessons. Sometimes she’d even get up at night and wander the halls. Some of the stories say she sleepwalked. Others that she was just curious.” He paused to eat some bacon, then went on. “Mother Hemlock was a teacher who lived at the orphanage. She was quite strict. She got more and more angry each time she found Gretel in the hall when she ought to have been asleep, or in class. Finally, one day, she’d had enough. She caught Gretel wandering about, hauled her upstairs, and locked the girl in a closet. ‘I’ll teach you to go disappearing!’ she said. ‘Sit there and see what happens to bad girls!’ She left. Gretel was afraid of the dark. She screamed and screamed, but no one came. That night, when Mother Hemlock came to let her out, she found that the little girl had died of fright.”

  Ollie’s eyes were huge. “A closet?” she asked unexpectedly.

  Mr. Voland said, “Well, yes, I believe that is the story.” He went on:

  “They say that Gretel has haunted the lodge ever since. People hear her rattling closet doors, skipping and whistling in the hallways. Mother Hemlock, the legend says, threw herself out the attic window in remorse. Now she haunts the building too. Some stories say she collects the souls of all the little girls who ever died in the orphanage. Others say she is eternally trying to keep Gretel’s ghost from running away again. And Gretel is eternally trying to escape.”

  No one said anything. There was an uneasy silence. Coco thought suddenly of her dream of a long corridor, and a little dead girl standing in the moonlight.

  Mr. Voland sat back, smiled, and shrugged. He took a sip of coffee. “At least,” he said, “that’s the story.”

  Mr. Wilson, Coco noticed, was still bright red with annoyance. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You can’t just come and tell these terrible—”

  At the same time, Ollie blurted out, “What do they look like?”

  Mr. Voland said, frowning, “What do who look like?”

  “The ghosts!” said Ollie. “Gretel and—and Mother Hemlock. What do they look like?”

  Mr. Voland peered at Ollie over the tops of his glasses. He seemed puzzled by her question. “I don’t know,” he said. “The stories talk more about hearing them than seeing them.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

  Why had Ollie asked? Coco wondered. Her mom and Ollie’s dad were wearing expressions of tolerant amusement. Neither of them, Coco knew, believed in ghosts.

  “No reason,” said Ollie, too quickly. Coco wondered if Ollie had seen anything strange in the lodge. Or if Brian had. The three of them needed to talk soon, she decided.

  Another little silence went around the table. The wind groaned outside.

  “Of course,” Mr. Voland went on, with an apologetic nod
at Mrs. Wilson, “I am sorry to disturb your breakfast with ghost stories. But when I heard that the old building was open again, free to all, this time as a ski lodge, I decided it was the perfect time to look into it. Coming to a lovely ski lodge sounded much better than breaking into an abandoned orphanage. Food’s much better.” He ate some more eggs, happily.

  At the words breaking into, Mr. Wilson started looking irritated all over again.

  “And I am so delighted to be here and so impressed with what you’ve done with the place, ma’am,” Mr. Voland finished. He swallowed more coffee.

  Mrs. Wilson said coldly, “Thank you. And I want to tell you at the outset that all this is quite ridiculous. The building was an orphanage and is now a ski lodge. I don’t know what you’re hoping to find.”

  “Me neither,” said Mr. Voland comfortably. “Never know until you look.”

  Coco had a sudden, clear memory of a girl’s dry, dead voice saying, I’m looking for my bones. Even though the fire was burning brightly, the dining room suddenly felt cold. Coco wished Mr. Voland hadn’t come. She glanced at the window. The snow was coming down harder and faster than ever. Susie the Subaru was totally buried.

  “Don’t you worry, ma’am,” said Mr. Voland reassuringly to Mrs. Wilson. “A good ghost story is great for business, true or no.”

  Just then, all the lights in the dining room flickered. Coco looked up. A log crumbled in the fireplace with a shower of sparks, and somewhere out of sight, someone whistled.

  “What was that?” Ollie asked. “I thought we were the only people here.”

  “Oh!” said Mrs. Wilson firmly. “Just the generators acting up again. And that was my clock chiming—it does birdcalls at each hour, isn’t that nice?”

  Coco didn’t think it was that nice at all. The chiming clock had sounded just like a little girl might sound, whistling in the corridors. Ollie, Brian, and Coco all looked at one another, and Coco saw the same thought echoed on all their faces.

  “Now,” Mrs. Wilson was saying briskly, “enough ghost stories. Sam and I will just clear away the empty dishes, and you all can have more hot drinks.”

  But right at that moment, all the lights in the dining room flickered again and went out. Then, with a hiss like a basket of snakes, a huge mass of snow fell straight down the chimney and smothered the fire.

  3

  COCO STARED AT the dead fire. Mr. Voland stopped eating, his fork halfway to his mouth. Ollie had shot to her feet.

  “Now, now,” said Mrs. Wilson at once. “No need for alarm.”

  Ollie slowly sank back down.

  Mrs. Wilson got up. “Nothing to worry about,” she said. “Snow down the chimney! I’ll get it cleared out. We’ve had such a run of bad luck.”

  Mrs. Wilson hurried away. Coco thought she looked glad to get away from Mr. Voland.

  Sam Wilson said, standing, “I’d better help her. Thanks for helping out in the kitchen this morning, Roger.” He shook Mr. Adler’s hand. “Zelda,” he said, nodding at Coco’s mom. He didn’t say anything to Mr. Voland.

  “Don’t mention it, Sam,” said Ollie’s dad. He took his last drink of coffee.

  Mr. Voland lifted his head and frowned. “Hear that?” he said.

  “No,” said Ollie’s dad. “What?”

  “Well, it’s more a nothing than a something,” Mr. Voland replied. “Sounds like the generator’s out. Hope the heat is gas powered. Otherwise we’re going to be pretty chilly tonight.”

  Coco hoped so too. The lodge was chilly enough with the heat going.

  “The heat is gas powered,” said Ollie’s dad. “And I’m sure we’ll have the generators going soon. No worries there. I think I’ll go help Sam with the dishes. Nice to meet you, Don. Kids, finish your pancakes.” He snagged the last piece of bacon and headed in the direction of the kitchen, humming.

  Just like that, breakfast had mostly broken up.

  “I am sure you have some good stories from ghost hunting,” Coco’s mom said to Mr. Voland, pouring herself more coffee. She said it politely, but she seemed disappointed with him anyway. Coco’s mom might have been excited to talk to a real journalist, but some ghost hunter didn’t count.

  “I sure do,” said Mr. Voland with enthusiasm. “And maybe after today I’ll have another.” He gave the dining hall an eager look. Coco didn’t know what he was so happy about. The snow piling up outside the windows made the dining room seem gray and lonely.

  Coco’s mom looked skeptical. “Maybe.”

  Mr. Voland grinned at her. “Come on now,” he said. “What better thing to do in an old lodge while the power is out than go looking for ghosts?”

  “Bake cookies?” suggested Coco’s mom at once. But she was smiling too. Mr. Voland was strange, but his eagerness was contagious. “I’d rather finish the day with oatmeal cookies than any number of ghosts.”

  Coco agreed. She was really hoping that today didn’t become a good ghost-hunting story for Mr. Voland.

  “Well, there may be time for both,” said Mr. Voland, and smacked his lips. “The supernatural goes well with peanut butter cookies!”

  Coco’s mother snorted. “If you say so. Roger makes great cookies,” she said. “Maybe we can convince him later. In the meantime, I think I’ll help Sue with the fireplace. If you’re okay here, hon?” The last sentence was to Coco.

  “Fine,” said Coco, a little embarrassed to be treated like a kid in front of her friends.

  Coco’s mom stood up and cracked her neck. The fireplace was a mess of ash and water, and Mrs. Wilson was shoveling it out, swearing under her breath. “Good luck with your ghost hunting, Don,” said Coco’s mom. “Got an extra shovel, Sue?” She headed over to the fireplace.

  Then it was just the four of them at the table. Ollie, Brian, and Coco were getting full; they picked at their pancakes. Mr. Voland ate some more eggs, looking thoughtful. Coco was just about to suggest that she, Ollie, and Brian sneak off for a conference, when Mr. Voland turned abruptly to Ollie. “Why did you ask me what the ghosts looked like?” he asked. “It was an odd question.”

  Ollie hesitated. Then she asked a question in return. “Mr. Voland,” she said, “have you ever seen a ghost?”

  “I have,” said Mr. Voland. “Have you?”

  Ollie, frowning, gave a small nod. Mr. Voland’s expression sharpened. “What’s your name?”

  “Ollie,” said Ollie. “This is Brian, and that’s Coco.”

  “Pleased to meet you all,” he said. His two-colored eyes seemed to stare straight through them.

  Coco asked, “Were you scared? When you saw a ghost?”

  “I was,” said Mr. Voland immediately. His lips went thin, as though he was remembering something unpleasant. But then he shrugged, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and said, “It was a long time ago.” His eyes brightened. “Well, it seems you three are old hands at this ghost business. Do you want to explore the lodge with me this morning?”

  Why hadn’t he asked them where they’d seen ghosts? Coco wondered. She did not want to explore the lodge. She was already worried about strange dreams, and strange figures in the shadows. She didn’t want to add anything else to the mix. She opened her mouth to say so.

  But Ollie spoke first. “I’d like that,” she said.

  “How lovely!” said Mr. Voland. He leaped to his feet.

  Ollie hopped up too. “Let’s start now,” she said determinedly.

  Brian frowned at Ollie, then shrugged and nodded agreement.

  Coco shut her mouth again, wilting. Her friends already knew Coco had been scared about skiing. Now was she going to be scared about this too? What would they both think? So, Coco just nodded too.

  But she almost wanted to cry, thinking of the warm fireplace, her sketchbook, and her chessboard. Why did her friends want to go looking for scary stuff?

  “Mr. Voland,” Ollie sai
d, her expression still strangely eager, “have you ever talked to a ghost?”

  Mr. Voland had produced a thermos from his jacket pocket; he was pouring the rest of the coffee into it. “Yes,” said Mr. Voland, not looking up. “There are tools for that. Talking to ghosts is much more common than seeing them, actually.”

  “How do you talk to ghosts?” Ollie asked. She sounded like she was just asking a casual question. But as she talked, Ollie glanced down, just once, at the watch on her wrist.

  Coco saw her do it. Instantly she understood why her friend was suddenly so eager to go ghost hunting.

  Ollie’s watch wasn’t an ordinary watch. It looked ordinary: just a big digital watch with a compass. But Ollie’s mother had been wearing that watch when she died in a plane crash the year before. Its face was cracked; its compass didn’t point north.

  However, that October, when Ollie, Brian, and Coco had been in terrible danger, Ollie’s mother had talked to her through words on the watch face. Had helped them. Guided them. Saved them. Of course Ollie would grab the chance to learn more about ghosts, Coco realized. She wanted to know more about how her watch worked.

  Mr. Adler popped back in from the kitchen. A few yards away, Mrs. Wilson and Coco’s mom were attacking the fireplace with mops and shovels and buckets. “Zelda,” he called, “looks like the dishes are under control. I was thinking maybe we could go out and see what went wrong with the generators? If you know anything about generators, because I sure don’t.”

  Coco’s mom sat back on her heels, a smudge of ash on one cheek. “As a matter of fact, I do,” she said. “Surprised? Coco’s grandpa was an electrician. Where’s the generator shed? Let me get my jacket.”

  She turned to Ollie, Brian, and Coco and gave them a stern look. “You three need to stay inside today. Don’t make us go looking for you. It’s snowing a whiteout out there. Right, sweetie?” she added to Coco.

  Coco nodded. Her mom pulled her in for an unexpected hug. “Be good,” she said. “I love you.”

  Coco straightened up just in time to see Ollie turn away, her teeth sunk into her lower lip.