To my brother Glenn Kennedy
Mr. and Mrs. Gordon liked it when people died. Not that they were bizarre or unfeeling, it's just that the Gordons' business depended on death. You see, they owned the Dearly Departed Antiques Store, a shop filled with the musty old furniture of the recently deceased.
Perhaps it was a bit gloomy and creepy, the way the Gordons made their living, but they didn't mind. Rather, they fancied themselves the best in the business. And the fastest. As soon as someone "bit the dust," the Gordons would purchase his or her stuff. Their motto? We buy the bucket as soon as you kick it.
In fact, to learn of a death in the historic little sea town of Ashcrumb, one only had to spy the Gordons' company truck traveling down the street. Faded green, with D.E.A.D. painted on its side, the former ice-cream truck-which still played its music-was quite the town spectacle. Curious kids on bikes would follow the truck, all the while guessing where it might stop. Who died? they would wonder. Was it Mr. Fulton, the cat-hater? Or was it Hazel Monger, the freaky hermit?
One Saturday morning in October, blaring its warped tunes, the truck attracted its largest group ever. Twenty kids trailed behind it, pedaling down shady streets, through sleepy neighborhoods, and past ancient cemeteries. Finally, the truck came to a sputtering stop in front of a weathered mansion.
The huge place had been the home of Fannie Belcher, the richest old lady in Ashcrumb. And lucky Mr. Gordon was the first in line to pick over her belongings. He could barely contain his excitement as he hopped out of his truck.
He nodded at the group of sweaty, panting kids, all of them waiting to see who would answer the late Fannie Belcher's door. Maybe, they hoped, it would be the ghost of Fannie Belcher herself.
"Hurry up and ring the doorbell!" yelled Hector Figg, a freckle-faced boy. He swayed impatiently atop his banana seat. "We don't have all day!"
"Shhh," said Mr. Gordon, smoothing his shirt over his round belly. "Hector, you kids go on home. This isn't a sideshow. Have a little respect."
Mr. Gordon grabbed the mammoth door knocker. After a few clanks, the door creaked open, revealing a long-faced man in a black uniform.
"Yes?" wheezed the butler, glaring at Mr. Gordon. "Who are you?"
"I'm your DEAD!" said Mr. Gordon brightly.
The butler danced backward, a look of horror on his face. "Dead?"
"That's right," said Mr. Gordon, sticking his foot inside the doorway. "It stands for Deceased's Estate and Antiques Dealer. I'm Frank Gordon. I'm here to purchase Ms. Belcher's things."
"Oh, of course," said the butler. "Come in."
Mr. Gordon bolted inside and slammed the door.
The kids rushed to the windows and peered through the broken shutters. They snickered, watching Mr. Gordon's bulky figure lurch about the dreary place, picking up chairs, examining sofas, and rummaging through drawers.
"He looks like a big rat," said Hector.
"Yeah," added another kid, smacking gum. "A rat that just found the biggest hunk of cheese in the world."
That evening, his truck crammed with Fannie Belcher's stuff, Mr. Gordon squeezed himself behind the steering wheel and began his drive home. He had really scored this time! He couldn't wait to see the look on his wife's face when she saw what he'd bought.
Humming along to the ice-cream truck's music, Mr. Gordon turned onto cobblestoned Anchor Street. He smiled broadly as he pulled in front of his little white house nestled among crimson maple trees.
"I'm back!" he announced, bounding into his house, where Mrs. Gordon sat, painting her toenails.
Mr. Gordon held up a lumpy sack. "Guess what I've got in here."
"What?" squealed Mrs. Gordon. "Is it something from rich old Fannie Belcher's house?"
"Right you are," bellowed Mr. Gordon, pulling out what looked like a dead animal. He tossed it to his wife.
"A mink coat!" she gasped, putting it on.
"Belcher never went anywhere without it!" said Mr. Gordon.
"And I can see why!" said Mrs. Gordon, elated. "Oh, what luxury!" she purred, modeling the coat. "Such marvelous cuffs and deep pockets!"
Around the couch she twirled in the coat, dropping nasty tufts of fur on the floor.
Shielding his face from the flying fur was James, the Gordons' eight-year-old son.
"Gross," James gagged. "That thing is shedding."
"Expensive furs are like that," coughed Mr. Gordon. "They have to get used to their new owners."
"That's right," agreed Mrs. Gordon, burying her plump face in the musky mink.
"James," said Mr. Gordon, digging around in the bag, "I've got something for you, too!"
He handed James a real stuffed squirrel.
"Cool!" said James, staring in amazement at the rodent. Its face was frozen in a strange smile, its two yellow teeth sticking out from crinkled whiskers.
While James stroked his petrified friend and Mrs. Gordon tripped about in her molting coat, Mr. Gordon began feeling around in his bag again.
Observing all of this in total shock and embarrassment was Misty Gordon. She sat dumbfounded on the couch, sinking lower and lower into its cushions. She couldn't help thinking how much her dad looked like a scatterbrained Santa Claus, handing out gifts from a sack he'd lost one hundred years ago and just found again.
Misty had watched this same drama unfold over and over throughout her entire life, but still, even after eleven years, she'd never grown accustomed to it. Wondering what her dad might pull out of that bag always filled her with dread.
"Last but not least," said Mr. Gordon, pausing dramatically with his hand in the bag. "I've got something for Misty!"
Misty cringed.
"You know how you've been begging for your own phone?" he said. "Well, feast your eyes on this!"
With that, he pulled out a heavy, black phone from the 1940s and handed it to Misty.
"Your very first phone," said Mr. Gordon, beaming. "And with a little luck, maybe I can get the thing to work."
"Great," moaned Misty, looking at the phone's frayed cord. "So I got a dead lady's broken phone."
"What a dud!" chuckled James. "But they can't all be winners. Isn't that right, Dad?"
Misty grabbed the phone, shoved James out of the way, and went upstairs to her room, shutting her door. She looked around and sighed. Everything she had was antique. Her rickety four-poster bed leaned in the corner with a faded patchwork quilt atop it and Misty's book satchel-an old leather mailbag-hanging from one of its posts. Yellowed lace curtains fluttered in the open window, under which her desk stood, looking like something George Washington might have used. As a boy.
"Another item for the Misty Museum," she said sarcastically, setting the phone on her desk. Too bad the phone didn't work. She would have called her best friend, Yoshiko, and told her all about the latest craziness in the Gordon household. After all, if there was anybody who understood craziness, it was Yoshi, as everyone called her. Her dad was Dr. Yamamoto, the famous psychiatrist who ran Ashcrumb's insane asylum.
A chill wind passed through the room, and Misty shivered. She pushed the window shut and then opened her closet and grabbed a fuzzy wool sweater, one of the many that her dad had given her. It was ugly, but at least it was warm. She tried to wrestle it on, but the thing had become so speckled with holes that she couldn't figure out which one was for her head.
"Forget it!" she said, exasperated. With a crackle of static, Misty yanked off the sweater, sending her brown hair flying out in all directions. She straightened her glasses, disgusted. A few vintage clothes were cool, but an entire wardrobe of the stuff? What she wouldn't give for something new. But that required money. I'm just gonna have to do more babysitting, she decided, putting the sweater back.
Just then, a loud clang sounded behind Misty, causing her to jump. She whirled around-expecting to see James with one of his obnoxious, noisy toys-only to find no one there.
Misty glanced about. "Ha-ha… very funny, James," she said, crossing her arms. "I know you're hiding in here."
An even louder clang sounded, followed by a strange rustle.
Misty squinted suspiciously at the dark space beneath her bed. In a flash, she tossed the bed skirt aside and looked beneath the saggy mattress. A couple of old dolls peered back from the gloom, but not James.
A string of dull thumps erupted, sending Misty's head shooting back out from under the bed.
"What is that?" she said, irritated. Then Misty's eyes fell upon Fannie Belcher's telephone, and her mouth dropped open.
"No way," she whispered in astonishment as she realized that the noises were coming from the broken phone-noises that sounded more like beatings than rings. Noises that sounded as if something inside the phone were trying to get out.
Misty ventured shakily toward the phone and picked it up to have a look. Suddenly, the phone jerked in her hands, and its underside panel popped loose. Out from it dropped something small and dark.
Misty yelped as the object landed on her desk and skittered toward the window. In a blur, it flew at the windowpane, hitting the glass with a terrible SMACK! It flapped wildly for a moment and then fluttered miserably to the floor.
For a brief moment, Misty thought the motionless clump was a bird that had somehow gotten trapped in the phone. But when Misty crouched over it, she gasped to discover that it wasn't a bird at all. It was a book.
"What the-" said Misty, gazing dumbstruck at the slender, black journal. Chills running down her spine, Misty read the embossed letters on its cover: DIARY OF FANNIE BELCHER.
There was a knock on her door.
"Just a minute!" said Misty, snatching up the diary. She tossed the slim book into one of her desk drawers and slammed it shut. Like a caged animal, the diary immediately started banging against the compartment.
"Misty?" her father called outside her door.
Just like that, the diary went quiet. Misty blinked, puzzled.
"Yes," Misty called back, plopping on her bed and trying to look composed. "Come in."
The door opened, and her father stuck his head in. "Is everything all right?" he asked. "I heard a lot of noise coming from your room."
"Noise?" said Misty, thinking quickly. "Oh-er-I accidentally dropped the phone, that's all."
"Oh, I see," said Mr. Gordon, glancing at the phone, which lay dismantled atop Misty's desk. He walked over and picked it up. "Panel came loose," he mumbled, tinkering with it. "Lemme see if this'll work… just give me a second… this thing is made out of steel, ya know… they don't make stuff like this anymore."
While he messed with the phone, Misty kept a nervous- and curious-eye on the desk drawer. Why had the diary gone silent when her father entered the room?
"There you go," Mr. Gordon said, finally getting the panel back in place and setting the phone down. "Anyway, dinner is ready."
"Oh, okay," said Misty, still staring at the drawer as her father turned to leave. "I'll be down in a minute."
The very moment Mr. Gordon shut the door- WHUMP! went the diary.
What is going on here? thought Misty. Not only did she have a crazy diary on her hands, she had one that was obviously avoiding her father. As bewildered-and frightened-as Misty felt, she couldn't help but grin. It looked like her days of getting "duds" were over!
Misty didn't get much sleep that night. Around midnight, the diary started knocking against the drawer with a relentless clunk-clunk-clunk. Then, around two o'clock, an awful shuffling noise came from the hallway. Misty sat up in bed and listened. Was it an animal? Had a window been left open? Misty didn't want to find out. Finally, at four in the morning, the diary quit banging around, and Misty managed to doze off. But not for long.
She woke to the sounds of her mother making breakfast. Between the clatter of dishes and the crash of a skillet, Misty rolled over in bed and tried to go back to sleep, but it was too late. James had obviously awakened, judging by the racket coming from his room-quick footsteps to the bathroom and the flush of a toilet. Misty braced herself as the house's tired pipes clanked and vibrated, sending a light snow of ceiling plaster onto her bed.
You could hear everything in their house, which made Misty wonder if she had been the only one who'd heard the strange, shuffling noise coming from the hallway last night. And there were no sounds from the desk. Maybe she had dreamed it all.
"Breakfast is ready!" her mother called.
Misty and James plodded sleepily down the stairs. They met their father at the bottom, just as he was emerging from his study.
"Good morning," Mr. Gordon said, locking the study door behind him.
Misty and James grunted a groggy reply.
The kitchen was filled with smoke, Mrs. Gordon having burned the toast again. Not that her husband noticed. He crunched happily on the blackened bread as he read the newspaper. By the cheery look on his face, Misty could tell that he'd just read the obituaries.
"Kids, you won't believe who died," he said. "It's simply marvelous!"
"It's otherworldly," giggled their mother.
"What do you mean, otherworldly?" asked James.
"Well," said Mr. Gordon, attacking some bacon. "Madame Zaster has died, or as one of her kind might say, 'Madame Zaster has passed into another dimension.'" He mused, a fleck of grease shining on his chin.
"You mean Madame Zaster the town psychic?" asked Misty.
"Yes," said Mr. Gordon. "She was quite a fortune-teller and hypnotist. She'd been reading palms and holding séances for years. You know," he added, his fork in the air, "she was also a clairvoyant."
"What's that?" asked James.
"A clairvoyant is somebody who can see into another realm, the realm of spirits and ghosts and the past and future," Mr. Gordon rattled on, polishing off the rest of his breakfast.
"Creepy," said James. "Are you gonna get her stuff? I bet she had some freaky things."
"As a matter of fact, I'm on my way to her place right now," Mr. Gordon announced, standing up and collecting his papers. "I'm sure I'll find some strange things, but nothing fancy. Madame Zaster wasn't the type to own mink coats."
"Speaking of coats," said Mrs. Gordon, a curious look on her face. "It's the oddest thing! I hung Fannie Belcher's mink coat in the closet upstairs last night, and this morning it's gone. It's as if it just walked out of here on its own!"
Misty gulped.
"Are you sure you didn't put it in the box for the store by mistake?" asked Mr. Gordon. "I'll check when I get back. But now I'd better be on my way. Mrs. Neck, the realtor, is going to meet me at Madame Zaster's house, and I don't want to be late. You kids want to come along?"
James shook his head. "Hector is coming over. We're gonna be doing kung fu."
"How about you, Misty?" said Mr. Gordon. "Want to ride to Madame Zaster's with me?"
"No thanks," Misty said. "Not after what happened the last time I rode in the company truck."
"Dear, you're going to have to forget about all that," said Mrs. Gordon, patting Misty's hand.
"That's easy for you to say," said Misty, flipping her hair behind her shoulders. "How would you like it if you were riding in that truck and people on the street started pointing and laughing and calling you a vulture?"
"Sweetheart, we've gone over this a thousand times," said Mrs. Gordon. "We're not vultures. We're estate brokers."
Misty rolled her eyes.
"So you're not going?" said Mrs. Gordon. "Good! Then you can watch James and Hector in the yard while I get some things done indoors."
The thought of watching her brother and his smelly best friend do sloppy kung fu moves on the front lawn was more than Misty could bear.
"I've changed my mind," Misty said quickly to her dad. "I'm going with you to Madame Zaster's."
"Well then, let's hit the road," said Mr. Gordon.
"Take your satchel with you," Mrs. Gordon told Misty. "You might see something at Madame Zaster's house that you'd like to keep."
With her old mailbag slung over her shoulder, Misty climbed into the company truck with her dad. After a few false starts, the vehicle chugged alive, sending its ice-cream music into the air.
"Dad," said Misty, "why don't you disconnect that music?"
"This truck is an antique," he explained, turning onto the street. "By playing its music, I am respecting its history."
Misty sighed. She knew the real reason the truck still played the music was because her dad couldn't figure out how to disconnect its speaker wires.
They'd only been driving a moment, and already the truck was attracting its usual crowd of bicyclers.
"The morbid-curiosity posse is up early this morning," noted Mr. Gordon, looking in his side-view mirror.
Misty looked out the window as they passed foggy Ashcrumb Bay, where nearly four hundred years ago the Royal Ashcrumb-the English ship for which the town was named- had sunk. Through the breaks in the fog, Misty could see some people walking their dogs along the beach.
"Looks like the new lighthouse is coming along nicely," said Mr. Gordon, pointing to a construction site on a piece of rock jutting into the sea. But Misty wasn't paying attention. She was busy checking out the pumpkin patch on the other side of the street, where the tops of the orange globes peeked out from the mist.
On they drove to the edge of town, where white picket fences were scarce and crumbling houses were plenty. This was the creepiest part of Ashcrumb.
They turned onto Shadow Street. One of the oldest streets in town, the narrow road was lined on both sides with ancient elm trees. Misty sank into her seat as the knobby limbs scraped the roof of the truck like fingernails across a chalkboard.
Mr. Gordon checked the side-view mirror. The children on bikes had disappeared. Obviously, they hadn't liked the look of things.
"I haven't been down this street since I was a boy," Mr. Gordon recalled with a shiver. "We used to call it the tree tunnel."
"And what's at the end of this… tree tunnel?" asked Misty.
"Madame Zaster's house," he replied.
Just when Misty thought the trees couldn't get any thicker and lower, she and her dad arrived at the end of the street, where a little house stood. It reminded Misty of the witch's cottage in the H?nsel and Gretel story. Except there were definitely no lollipops around this place.
"It hasn't changed a bit," said Mr. Gordon, stopping the truck. "And if I remember correctly, there were lots of cats around here."
At that moment, a large tabby sprang onto the windshield. Mr. Gordon jumped, accidentally hitting the horn. It was a clown horn, and the obnoxious WHAH-WHAH sent the cat three feet into the air and onto the ground. It hissed and skittered into some wild rose bushes.
"Sorry," said Mr. Gordon sheepishly.
They got out of the truck and had a look around. The yard was completely overgrown with grass and vines, except for a narrow path made of shells and small stepping-stones leading to the front door. Mr. Gordon and Misty had just started to follow the path when they heard something rustle behind them.
They each gave a yelp and stood stock-still until a voice called out, "Yoo-hoo! Frank Gordon, is that you?"
It was Mrs. Neck, the realtor. She looked as relieved to see them as they were to see her. She plowed through the tall weeds and shook Mr. Gordon's hand.
"Are you going to be selling Madame Zaster's house?" Misty asked Mrs. Neck as they all ambled to the house.
"Well, I'm going to try to sell it," said Mrs. Neck. "But frankly, I don't know who in their right mind would buy this place. It's in terrible shape." She dug around in her purse and pulled out a key. "Anyway, Madame Zaster's children didn't want any of the furnishings, so you can pick what you like."
This is exactly what Mr. Gordon wanted to hear. He gingerly took the key from Mrs. Neck's hand and unlocked the door.
If the outside of the house looked untamed, it was nothing compared to the way the inside looked. Vines had crept through the windows, the dark green tendrils snaking along the cracked ceiling. Furniture stood covered in dust and cobwebs, and here and there a cat slept, the felines having wandered in through one of the many holes in the walls.
"Good grief," said Misty. "This place is a mess. How could Madame Zaster have lived here?"
"Oh, she hadn't lived here for years," said Mrs. Neck, fanning away a spider. "She became ill and so had been living with her children when she died." Another spider came drifting toward Mrs. Neck. "Well, if you need me, I'll be outside waiting for my associate to arrive." Then she stumbled back out the front door.
No sooner had Mrs. Neck left than Mr. Gordon called from the next room, "Look what I found!"
Misty stepped inside the dim parlor, where her father was hopping up and down next to a round table, around which sat five chairs. In the middle of the table was a crystal ball.
"It's Madame Zaster's séance table!" Mr. Gordon sang. He nodded his head and hummed, a sign that he'd found something rare-and valuable.
"Do you know what this means?" he beamed, waving his arms over the table and chairs like a game show host. "This is a complete set. Talk about fetching a pretty penny!"
He picked up the dust-laden crystal ball, studied it for a second, then put it back down. "This hunk of glass is probably worthless, though. It might make a good paperweight," he snorted, giving Misty a nudge with his elbow.
At that moment, a chandelier above the table started to sway. As it creaked back and forth, a hollow sound passed through the house. The lights in the chandelier blazed on, flickered, and then went dead.
"What was that?" said Misty, grabbing hold of her dad.
"Probably nothing," Mr. Gordon said, shrugging his shoulders. "It's an old house. They're filled with strange noises and electrical problems and-Whoa! I don't believe my eyes!" Mr. Gordon shouted in glee, bounding toward a stained-glass floor lamp. "This looks like a Tiffany lamp! Boy, oh boy, oh boy!"
While Mr. Gordon drooled over the lamp, Misty hesitantly ventured around the house. She made her way down the narrow hall and into a little room. It was empty, except for a vanity. It was a dainty piece of wooden furniture, with an oval mirror and drawers. Misty glided her hand atop its cool surface, then opened one of the drawers.
"What's this?" she said, surprised to find that the compartment contained a few things. Among the odds and ends were a slender box and pair of cat-eye glasses. Misty took out the box and read its top: THE HYPNO-CLOCK.
Misty removed the box's lid. Inside it was a strange-looking old pocket watch on a golden chain. As she touched it, the timepiece began ticking. She flipped it over and read the curious engraving upon its back:
Madame Zaster must have used this for hypnotizing people, thought Misty, putting the watch back into its box. Then she took the cat-eye glasses from the drawer. Just for fun, she took off her own glasses and slipped on Madame Zaster's.
Usually, when she traded glasses with kids at school, she could never see clearly through their lenses. But to Misty's amazement, she could see perfectly through these glasses.
"How weird!" she laughed aloud. Then she jumped, startled to see a tall woman standing in the doorway. The lady was wearing a dark purple dress and old-fashioned shoes. Her black hair hung in thick curls about her face, and she didn't look happy.
"I'm sorry," said Misty, guessing the woman was Mrs. Neck's associate. "I probably shouldn't be going through these things. I just wanted to see-"
"You will see much," said the woman, with a piercing stare.
The stranger's voice sounded like it had static, as if it were coming from a radio.
"Excuse me?" said Misty.
The woman pointed a finger at Misty and chanted, "All will be revealed once you have learned the nature of the Golden Three… but first you must prove your nature to me."
"I'm sorry," said Misty. "I don't understand."
Quickly, Misty took off the cat-eye glasses and put her own glasses back on. When she looked up, the woman was gone.
"What was that all about?" Misty whispered. "Mrs. Neck has one creepy associate! Oh well, whatever." She dropped the cat-eye glasses and Hypno-Clock into her satchel and then headed off to see what her dad was up to.
She found him outside, loading furniture into the truck while Mrs. Neck stood at the end of the driveway, checking her watch and tapping her foot.
"Whew!" Mr. Gordon gasped, dabbing his reddened face with a handkerchief. He turned to Misty. "I'm all done here. Did you find anything you liked?"
"Actually, I did find something," said Misty. "It's Madame Zaster's old vanity. Do you think there's enough room left in the truck for it?"
"I don't see why not," he replied.
Miraculously, Mr. Gordon managed to fit the vanity into the overstuffed truck. Finding a place for Misty to sit was another matter. She ended up sitting in the very back of the vehicle, perched atop the séance table.
The truck cranked on with its usual ice-cream music. A few cats tore out of the bushes as the truck started its way back down the weedy driveway.
Mr. Gordon stopped next to Mrs. Neck. "Thanks for everything," he called out the window.
"You're welcome," she said. "I'm sorry my associate never showed up. I know you could have used his help loading the furniture."
"No big deal," said Mr. Gordon. "Well, have a good afternoon." And away the truck chugged.
Misty blinked, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
"Did Mrs. Neck just say that her associate never showed up?" she called, trying to make her voice heard over the music.
"Yep," said Mr. Gordon.
"Then who was that woman in Madame Zaster's house?"
"What woman?" said Mr. Gordon.
"The woman with the curly black hair," said Misty. "She was wearing a purple dress."
Misty saw her father's eyes narrow in the rearview mirror.
"Surely you saw her!" said Misty, exasperated.
"No," he said, shifting gears. "I didn't."
Misty was completely baffled. Who had the mysterious woman been? She shuddered as she remembered the woman's chilling voice and her strange message.
Misty looked around her. The vanity was just in reach. She began to explore the other drawers. Opening one, she pulled out an old black-and-white photograph.
Her hand began to shake as she looked at the picture, for its image was none other than that of the woman she had met in the house. Misty flipped the picture over. Scribbled in ink was the signature:
"I think it's going to be quite an autumn," said Mr. Gordon cheerily as they passed the pumpkin patch.
"You can say that again," said Misty, dropping the photo into her bag.
