The Secret Bedroom (3 page)

It was hot up there, at least ten degrees hotter than in the house. The attic, Lea saw, was all one open space, long and low. The ceiling followed the slant of the roof just above it. The walls were plasterboard, cracked and yellowing. A single round window at one end lit the entire area.

“Climb on up so we can see it too,” her father called impatiently.

Lea pulled herself up into the room. When she stood up, there were only a couple of inches to spare
above her head. Her father, who was six-three, would have to stoop.

“It's so beautiful up here!” she called down to them, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I want to spend all my time up here, with all of the wonderful treasures.”

“Lea, give us a break,” her father said, pulling his large frame through the narrow opening, then standing up as best as he could to check out the attic.

A few seconds later Lea's mom and Mrs. Thomas joined them in the low, stuffy space. “Not much air up here,” Mrs. Carson said, fanning herself with her hand, her first complaint of the day.

“This will make a wonderful storage area,” Mrs. Thomas said, scratching the back of her neck.

This place makes
me
itch too, Lea thought bitterly.

Lea walked to the small, round window. Through the dust-caked glass, she could see down to the driveway and a small corner of the front yard, overgrown with weeds and tall grass. The afternoon sun was lowering behind the trees.

Then she walked past the three adults to the wall on the opposite side of the room. “Hey—what's this door?” she called, her voice louder than she had intended in the closed-in space.

A wooden door in the wall had been boarded up with a crisscross of two-by-fours. Lea reached out and tried turning the doorknob. The door was locked. “What's in there? Why is this door boarded up?” Lea asked.

The others joined her. Mr. Carson turned the knob, coming to the same conclusion Lea had. It was locked.
He inspected the two-by-fours. “Looks like someone boarded up this room a long time ago,” he said, knocking hard on the door. It sounded thick and solid.

Mrs. Thomas gripped her clipboard and held it tightly against her chest. The smile faded from her face for the first time that afternoon. “Well, that door is a very interesting story,” she said, a little reluctantly. And then she quickly added, “I always think that mysterious stories add to the charm of a house—don't you?”

Lea felt a sudden stab of dread. She felt closed in. The walls seemed to be moving in on her, the ceiling lowering. She took a deep breath, her eyes examining the locked, boarded-up door.

Lea's parents exchanged glances. Mr. Carson leaned back against the wall, his head bent down because of the low ceiling.

“What
kind
of mysterious story?” Mrs. Carson asked, her dark eyes alive with interest.

Mrs. Thomas continued to press the clipboard tightly against the front of her jacket. “Of course, most of the houses on Fear Street have similar stories,” she started, speaking softly. “They're not true, I don't think. At least, they're not
all
true.”

She stared straight ahead at the brass doorknob.

“You mean it's some kind of horror story?” Mrs. Carson asked, even more intrigued.

Lea shifted her weight uncomfortably.

“I don't really know the details,” Mrs. Thomas said. “You know how these stories get lost or exaggerated
over time. All I know is that there is a room on the other side of that door. And something terrible happened in that room.”

“Something—terrible?” Lea asked.

“It was a hundred years ago. At least a hundred years,” Mrs. Thomas said, her face covered in shadow as the light through the attic window faded. “And someone was murdered in that room. At least, that's how the story goes.”

“You don't know who? Or why?” Lea asked, staring at the two-by-fours that blocked the doorway.

Mrs. Thomas shook her head. “A murder. That's all I know. And the room … it's been locked and boarded up ever since.”

A hush fell as all four occupants stared silently at the wooden door.

Mrs. Carson broke the silence with a cough. “We'll leave it just the way it is,” she said, looking at Lea's dad as if for reassurance.

“Aren't you curious about what's behind it?” Mr. Carson asked. He hunched forward and knocked on the door again. “Hello in there. Anybody home?” he called loudly.

They all listened as if expecting a reply. Then they laughed. Nervous laughter.

“No. I don't want to touch this door,” Mrs. Carson said firmly. “We've got more than enough to do downstairs.”

That's for sure, Lea thought glumly.

“People make up these stories,” Mrs. Thomas said, brightening. “I don't know why. As I said, there's a
horror story for every house on Fear Street. Yet the people I've met who live on this street are all as nice as can be.”

She edged herself back to the trapdoor and, with difficulty, holding the clipboard in one hand, began to lower herself down the ladder. “Come on, folks. There are some features in the kitchen I didn't get a chance to show you.”

Her parents disappeared down the ladder, but Lea lingered behind. She stared at the door, drawn to it and repelled by it at the same time.

Did a murder really take place in this house? In this attic? In the room behind the door?

And even if a murder had taken place there, why was the room locked and boarded up—for a hundred years?

Lea moved closer, closer, until she was standing right in front of the door. She pressed her open palms against the wood.

She felt a chill despite the heat of the attic.

On a sudden impulse she pressed her ear against the door.

“Oh!”

What was that sound she heard?

What
was
it?

Was it
breathing?

No.

No, no, no.

No, the sound was that of her own breathing. Was she really breathing so hard?

She stepped away from the door, feeling foolish.

It was my own breathing, she told herself.

There were no sounds from the other side of the door.

I wonder what the room on the other side looks like, she thought, drawn to the door once again, feeling its mysterious pull.

No.

I've got to get downstairs now.

She forced herself to turn around, to turn away from it. Still hearing her own rapid, fluttery breathing, she lowered herself down through the narrow, rectangular opening, carefully replacing the trapdoor in the ceiling.

“Y
es, I know. He'll be here any minute,” Lea said. Without realizing it, she had wrapped the phone cord round and round her wrist, and now she was having trouble untangling it.

“I seem to be tangled up,” she told Deena, holding the phone between her shoulder and her chin and using her free hand to remove the cord. “No, I'm not nervous or anything,” Lea said, laughing.

Just because it's eight o'clock on Saturday night and I have a date with one of the most popular seniors at school—why should I be nervous? Lea thought.

She pulled the phone as far as it would go so that she could take another look at her hair in the oval mirror above her dresser. Maybe I should get rid of these stupid bangs, she thought. I've had them since I was ten. Everyone is always telling me how
cute
they are.

Maybe I don't want to be
cute
anymore. Maybe I want to be sophisticated now.

Maybe I need a whole new look. Maybe I'll wear my hair spiky, get long, dangly earrings—Right! And maybe I'll grow six inches so everyone won't think I look like some sort of pixie.

So
cute …

“What, Deena? I'm sorry. I wasn't listening,” Lea admitted. Deena chattered excitedly in Lea's ear while Lea pulled at her sweater, rearranging the collar. “Yeah. Sure. I'll call you tomorrow morning. Promise.”

Lea realized she had the phone cord twisted around her wrist again. I've got to calm down, she told herself. I'll be a nervous wreck by the time Don gets here.

Licking her lips, she glanced at her desk clock for the thousandth time. Eight-ten. “What, Deena? What are you doing tonight?”

Deena's friend Jade Smith was coming over, and they were going to do each other's hair.

“Oh, wait. I think I hear the doorbell,” Lea said excitedly. She held the receiver away from her ear and listened.

Was she hearing things?

“No. No, it wasn't,” she told her friend. “This old house makes so many noises. Yeah. I know. Listen, Deena, I'd better get off the phone. Yeah. I'm hearing bells. Talk to you tomorrow, okay? Say hi to Jade for me. No—don't cut your hair. I think you should let it grow. Yeah. Okay. Bye.”

She replaced the receiver, which was wet from her sweaty hand. Picking up a bath towel she had tossed onto her bed, Lea dried her clammy hands, listening for the bell.

She paced back and forth for a while, catching glimpses of herself in the oval mirror as she passed. The desk clock read eight twenty-three.

Where is he?

She sat down on the edge of her bed, tossing the bath towel to the floor, and picked up Georgie, the stuffed tiger she'd had since she was a baby, her special stuffed animal. She squeezed the tiger tightly, hugging him to her chest.

“What am I doing?” she asked herself aloud.

She tossed the worn, old tiger gently onto her pillow and picked up a copy of
Sassy
magazine. An article called “Twenty Intriguing Things To Say on a First Date” caught her eye. She started to read it, but because of her nervousness, the words blurred until they were just black blotches on the page.

She tried flipping through the magazine, just scanning the pictures, but she didn't have the patience or concentration for that, either.

Lea tossed the magazine across the bed, sighed loudly, and climbed to her feet, uncertain what to do next.

“Lea?”

Her mother's voice startled her from the bottom of the stairs.

“Lea?”

“Yes, Mom?” Lea shouted from her doorway.

“Aren't you going out tonight?” her mother called.

Lea wanted to murder her! “Mom—I've told you a thousand times I'm going out tonight!” she shouted angrily. “What's the matter with you, anyway?”

Whoa, Lea warned herself.

Don't take it out on Mom just because you're nervous about Don.

“He's a little late, I guess,” Lea called down in a softer tone.

Her mother didn't reply. Lea could hear her walk away from the stairway, could hear her shoes scrape against the floor, hear the old floorboards creak and squeak.

She turned to check the clock once more. Eight thirty-two.

“I'll call his house,” she said aloud.

She took a deep breath. But I don't know his number, she thought.

She crept downstairs to get the phone book from the front hall closet. She didn't want her mom or dad to see her because then she'd have to explain that she was calling Don's house to see why he was late. And that would just be too embarrassing.

Phone book under her arm, she hurried back up the stairs, the wooden steps groaning annoyingly as she climbed.

A few seconds later she found the number. Her heart was racing as she punched it in and listened. One ring. Two.

“Hello?” A woman's voice. Most likely Don's mother.

“Hi. Is Don there?”

A brief pause. “No, he isn't. Who is this?”

“Oh. This is Lea.”

“Lea?”

There was loud crackling on the line. “Lea Carson,” Lea said loudly, trying to be heard over the static. “I'm sorry to bother you. Don was supposed to pick me up at eight and—”

“But Don's out with Marci,” the woman interrupted, sounding very confused.

“What?”

“He left about an hour ago, dear.”

“But that's
impossible!”
Lea cried. Then she immediately felt embarrassed.

“Are you sure you have the right number?” Don's mother asked.

“No. I—uh—guess not. Sorry,” Lea said. She hung up quickly.

The room seemed to close in on her. The antique mahogany dresser, the rolltop desk that had been her father's, the half-empty bookshelf, the cartons stacked against the wall that she hadn't had time to unpack. They were all sliding toward the bed, surrounding her in a tighter and tighter circle.

She closed her eyes.

When she opened them, everything was back in place.

Don's mother must be mistaken, Lea thought.

Maybe Don told her he was going out with Marci because he didn't want to go into any lengthy explanation about me.

Yes. That must be it.

But—where
is
he?

The clock dial seemed to throb, glowing brighter and brighter until she had to force herself to tear her eyes away from it. Eight forty-seven.

I'm not going to sit around here and drive myself crazy, Lea decided.