Beyond the Door Read online

  She was startled from her daydreams when a figure on the sidewalk captured her attention. A girl, just a few years older than Sarah, stood looking up into a fir tree. Her white-blond hair hung past her hips in a single braid. Her long blue dress skimmed a pair of bare feet. She was so out of place on the residential street that Sarah turned to watch her. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she should know her.

  Just then Mrs. Clapper walked out from one of the houses and began talking to the girl. Then Sarah knew: The girl standing on the sidewalk talking to their old babysitter was the girl Timothy had described. She was the girl who had come into their house with the pale man and Herne. She was the same girl Sarah and Timothy had seen watching their house.

  If Sarah could get off the bus, she could find out more. In her excitement, she knocked over her backpack, spilling the contents across the floor.

  “Clumsy,” the bald man in the seat behind her muttered. Behind him, two little girls giggled. Sarah felt her face flush as she scrambled to collect an escaped water bottle and a tube of lip gloss. Even worse, her roll of foot tape began to unravel beneath the seat. The bus rumbled on without stopping. Sarah ducked under the seat to gather and rewind the tape. Why was Mrs. Clapper with Star Girl? And who was the girl, really?

  By using the key provided here, you can decipher the Ogham script that appears in this chapter. Zoom in or increase font size to see code more clearly.

  THE HORNED MAN

  N THE BLUSTERY land of the north, dark clouds dragged their bellies across craggy hills and storms brewed at a moment’s notice, spring was always late, and sheep outnumbered people. Here, Herne, the horned man, lived with his dogs. In this remote land, the dogs could run fast and free, chasing one another along the mountain faces, their yaps and howls only part of an afternoon storm. But now their restless pacing and constant yapping stretched his nerves. They wrestled and rolled, nipping at one another’s legs, a white mass of fur and haunting red eyes.

  They annoyed him, but he understood them. He, too, longed for the hunt, to feel his horse move beneath him as the fields of spring spread out below. In the hunt was the only place he was content, stirring a storm and then riding the edge. Spring was coming, and they would ride. The Greenman had called him early and had promised that this would be an exceptional Beltane. A new Filidh would be tested.

  Herne stood at the open door and lifted his face to the wind. He could catch a faint whiff of it now, the scent of quarry. Breathing deeply, he inhaled the scent of wild animals: deer, fox, and badger, as well as the different scents of domesticated cat and hound. And mixed in the wind was the distinctive odor of humans.

  Sarah exploded from the bus and ran, shedding hairpins across the lawn. She flew through the front door. “Timothy, I’ve got news! I’ve seen her!”

  But unlike most afternoons, Timothy didn’t appear from the kitchen, happily munching a snack, or come bounding down the stairs from his bedroom, book in hand. She dropped her backpack on the floor and listened to the rise and fall of muffled voices coming from the kitchen. Curious, she pushed open the door and found her mother seated with Mrs. Clapper, enjoying a cup of tea and some cake. The late-afternoon sun gilded the scene, and Sarah felt her stomach rumble. But how could Mrs. Clapper be here when she had seen her not twenty minutes ago with the girl?

  “Sarah, look what Mrs. Clapper has brought by—some of her apple cake. Come have a piece.” Her mother beamed up at her, and Sarah noticed a streak of cerulean blue smeared across one side of her nose. She must have been in the middle of painting.

  Mrs. Clapper smiled welcomingly, and Sarah was sure she saw her eyes twinkling. Her senses prickled to full alert. It was time to be cautious like any good detective, sleuthing for all she could while not giving herself away.

  “Sit with us, Sarah, and have some cake. You can tell me about your dancing classes,” Mrs. Clapper said.

  Sarah didn’t need a second invitation. She poured herself a glass of milk and reached for a piece of cake. She felt her sore muscles begin to relax. As she ate, the conversation swirled around her. They were discussing neighbors who had moved away, and Mrs. Clapper’s friend’s operation. Nothing to take notes on, just normal grown-up conversation. Sarah licked the crumbs off her fork and pondered how to get Mrs. Clapper on a subject of more significance. She couldn’t ask if Mrs. Clapper happened to know a star girl who trailed silver dust wherever she walked. Sitting here in her family’s ordinary kitchen, listening to the two women talk, Sarah began to wonder if she had imagined what she had seen. The afternoon sun made her feel drowsy.

  She turned toward Mrs. Clapper. “I thought I saw you this afternoon from the bus. You were talking to a woman in a beautiful blue dress.” Sarah realized that she had interrupted the flow of conversation and caught a slight frown from her mother. Did she see a flicker of something in Mrs. Clapper’s eyes?

  “Well, you might have done. My niece has been visiting from out of town.” She turned toward Sarah’s mother. “She’s always been one for interesting dresses. For a while, she was wearing only vintage clothes, but now I think it’s long dresses. She never got over playing dress-up.”

  Sarah sighed. If only everything didn’t sound so perfectly normal. She would need to try another tactic. But before she could form a question, the back door swung open and Timothy came in, red-faced, as if he had been running. Whatever he had been about to say died on his lips as he saw the group gathered around the table.

  “Timothy, you’re just in time for cake,” his mother said, reaching for the cake knife. “I hope you enjoyed yourself at your friend’s. What was her name?”

  Timothy stared right at Mrs. Clapper. “Jessica. Jessica Church.”

  “Oh, my goodness—Jessica. I’ve known the Church family since before Jessica was born. She’s always called me her great-aunt, and I’m as fond of her as if I was.”

  Sarah noticed that Mrs. Clapper’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. She was watching Timothy intently in the same way that Prank, their pumpkin-colored tabby cat, eyed squirrels just out of her reach. In fact, she could almost imagine a twitching tail. And perhaps strangest of all, Timothy smiled back smugly—not to mention, he had just spent the afternoon with a girl!

  By using the key provided here, you can decipher the Ogham script that appears in this chapter. Zoom in or increase font size to see code more clearly.

  ADDITIONAL EVIDENCE

  IMOTHY CRUNCHED a large mouthful of cereal and looked at the clock. It was almost midnight, and he was starving. He seemed to be hungry all the time these days. Cereal was fast and always on hand. The upstairs hall was dark, and he didn’t bother turning on the light. The sounds of his parents’ voices had faded into sleep, but a bead of light shone out from under Sarah’s bedroom door. He liked the house at night, when everything was hushed. When he was younger, he’d imagined objects taking on a life of their own after everyone was asleep, chairs and tables moving around the house, his toy soldiers and Legos staging battles on the dark field of his bedroom floor.

  As Timothy padded across the hall in bare feet, he stumbled over something soft. It wiggled. He lost his balance. The cereal bowl flew up in the air, spattering the walls with milk. “Meeoow!” It was only Prank, waiting to get into Sarah’s room. Timothy scooped up the bowl with its few remaining bits of soggy cereal, knocked on the door, and then burst into Sarah’s room. Prank scooted in behind him.

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed? It’s a school night.” Sarah sat cross-legged in a pool of light on her bed. Around her were spread dozens of pictures and random scraps of colored paper. She was frowning over two shades of sheer green tissue paper.

  “What about you? I was hungry.”

  “Well, don’t wake Mom and Dad.”

  Timothy surveyed the mess in her room. Sarah was in the middle of another collage. One wall of her bedroom was a kaleidoscope of papers: yellows, reds, brilliant blues, and soft violets. Dressed in a white nightgown with her yellow hair loose on her shoulders, S
arah looked like a wingless angel. For a brief instant, Jessica’s dark hair and mocking face passed before his eyes.

  “Have you come to consult the master detective?” she said without looking up.

  Timothy sailed sheets of red and yellow tissue paper to the floor as he cleared off a corner of the bed and climbed on. “You know Clapper has to be involved in everything that’s been happening.”

  “That’s obvious, Watson. She was with the suspect this afternoon. It’s too bad I didn’t get off the bus in time.”

  Timothy remembered that Sarah had been reading The Hound of the Baskervilles in school.

  From under the bed Sarah pulled out a yellow notebook and flipped it open to the first page. “Tell me everything Jessica said.”

  When Timothy finished, she printed Suspect #1: Clapper in the notebook. Below, she made a bulleted list of evidence. “It’s time to analyze the facts.”

  And she began to read out loud: “‘Number one: She was babysitting the first time they appeared. Number two: She was seen with the star girl at her house. Number three: She claimed the girl is her niece. Number four: The mysterious letter came to Jessica when Clapper visited.’”

  Sarah looked up. “Those are the facts, Watson.”

  “So, what do we do now, Holmes?” Timothy asked around a mouthful of the dregs of cereal left in the bowl.

  Sarah bit her nails. “Question the suspect? But I think she’s sly. Maybe we should spy on her first. In The Hound of the Baskervilles, Sherlock Holmes hid in a hut, watched the suspects, and took notes. Even Watson didn’t know he was there.”

  “Maybe everything to do with the Clapper is coincidence.” Timothy used the edge of the sheet to wipe his mouth.

  “‘The world is full of obvious things which nobody ever observes,’” Sarah quoted. “That’s from Hound of the Baskervilles, too. I say we need to look for the little things that will give her away.” She carefully lifted the drying sheets of paper and placed them on the floor and then folded the rest of the colored paper into a large envelope. “Tell me what day it is, Watson.”

  “Friday, now,” Timothy replied, looking at the clock.

  She added the day to a new column in the notebook and then wrote: Spy on Clapper.

  “But what exactly are we looking for?” Timothy tilted his head back to drain any milk left in his bowl.

  “Anything that seems peculiar, anything out of the ordinary. Also, evidence about the girl. Who is she?”

  Next Sarah added a column for deductions. Prank leapt nimbly onto the bed, circled once, and then lay purring against Sarah’s back. “Tell Mom you’re meeting me tomorrow at five o’clock outside ballet. We’ll stake out Clapper’s house on the way home.”

  Thursday night, Jessica couldn’t sleep. The waning moon shone like a streetlamp seeping in between her bedroom curtains, striping the room with a pale silver light. Under her pillow, the note burned into her thoughts.

  The genius boy, Timothy, seemed to take the note seriously, even when she suggested that it might be a joke. Could it be a hoax he was playing on her? She turned restlessly under the sheets. Did it really have anything to do with Great-Aunt Rosemary? They had been close when she was little; many nights, Jessica had begged for a story before she went to sleep. But then Jessica had gotten older, and her great-aunt seemed frumpy, obsolete—a tiresome older woman. Jessica sat up, throwing her sheets on the floor; she drew the smooth note out from under her pillow. A cool gust stirred the curtains and made the paper flutter in her hand like a living thing.

  Timothy wasn’t that bad, she thought, once you got to know him. He was the only one who could outscore her in most subjects—not that she wanted the rest of her friends to know how well she did. This weekend, she and Tina had big plans. Once her parents were asleep, she would slip out her bedroom window, climb down the ash tree, and be off to a high school party. The type of party someone like Timothy would never be invited to.

  She got out of bed and pulled the curtains wider. The moon was tangled in the branches of the rowan tree. The tree had been a house-warming present from her great-aunt when her parents first moved in many years ago. Her mother said it was one of the strangest gifts they had ever received, but one of the loveliest. Great-Aunt Rosemary always referred to it as a rowan tree, but her mother said it was nothing more than a mountain ash. Perhaps tomorrow she should make a long overdue visit to her great-aunt.

  By using the key provided here, you can decipher the Ogham script that appears in this chapter. Zoom in or increase font size to see code more clearly.

  THE STAKEOUT

  TAR SAT IN A TREE in Mrs. Clapper’s yard and watched the night deepen. As the sky darkened from blue to black, a screech owl called softly above her, his feathered horns dark silhouettes against the sky. From her perch, she could identify her sisters, the six stars of the Pleiades, glowing just above the horizon. Tonight the astronomers would wonder about the missing seventh star, the lost Pleiad. Few would know which star was missing, and even fewer would be able to give the name of the missing sister: Electra. Only a chosen few astronomers would ever connect the missing star in the Pleiades to her, in the form of a girl, sitting in a tree. The Pleiad sisters had been called many things over the millennia: doves, maidens, flames. Each description captured a part of the truth, but none could describe them entirely. Now scientists peering through ever-evolving telescopes defined them as an open star cluster and determined that they were four hundred light-years from earth. But many astronomers still used the old names from Greek mythology when referring to them individually: Alcyone, guardian of the winds; Merope, the eloquent sister; swarthy Celaeno; Maia, the eldest; twinkling, young Sterope; Taygeta of the long neck; and Star Girl’s own name: Electra, bright and shining. There had been names before these; those were given when the world was new. On any particular night of winter in the northern hemisphere, six or all seven of the sisters were visible from earth. And that variability had led to the myth of a missing sister.

  Soon the moon would be nothing but a silver sliver in the sky. Star Girl missed the sky and the ability to look down at earth from a great height. In the distance, she saw the roofs with humans dreaming beneath. She looked up once more into the sky and began to sing. The melody wound its way into the darkness of night until she could no longer see even its faintest glimmer. Her job was to watch and wait, and that is what she would do.

  Friday afternoon, Sarah and Timothy approached the Clapper’s house cautiously, having decided that a large lilac bush would serve as the perfect screen. From behind the bush they could glimpse the backyard through the slats of the fence and peer through a kitchen window. Sarah had a notebook and pencil ready.

  “But what do you do on a stakeout?” Timothy asked.

  “Watch,” said Sarah. “You just watch for a very long time and write down everything that happens, like if anyone comes or goes or if you hear anything.”

  They both determined that they would look for any evidence of the girl’s silvery strands of hair or the glowing dust of her footprints. But there was no evidence in sight. Timothy felt his nose and throat begin to itch. Lilacs irritated his allergies. He pinched the end of his nose just as Sarah jabbed him in the ribs. “Listen, someone’s talking in the backyard.”

  Timothy pushed farther into the bush to get a better view, but whoever was talking was standing too close to the fence to be seen. The voice sounded familiar. “It’s Jessica,” he whispered. “She’s talking to Mrs. Clapper.”

  Sarah raised her eyebrows and began to write furiously in her notebook. “Get closer and tell me everything they say.”

  Timothy was on his hands and knees now, between the bush and the fence. He burrowed farther in and could feel his eyes itching and his nose start to run. If he strained, he could just make out a few words.

  “Do you remember the story you used to tell me about the girl who got mysterious messages from a talking crow?”

  “Yes. Crow Girl. Of course I remember, Jessica. You a
sked me for it every time I babysat you.”

  “You don’t suppose people might get mysterious messages in real life, do you?”

  “I don’t see why not. Most stories, at least the best ones, the ones that last, have something of truth in them.”

  “But not talking crows!”

  “Maybe and maybe not, but what’s on your mind? Surely you haven’t come here to ask me about old stories?”

  Timothy could feel a sneeze building like a tidal wave. Not now!

  “Well, what if you got a message that didn’t make too much sense, and you didn’t know where it came from, and it had the name of someone you knew in it? What would you do?”

  The sneeze exploded out of Timothy with all the force he had used to hold it in.

  He lost the beginning of Clapper’s reply, and now there was complete silence on the other side of the fence. He heard Sarah’s terse whisper. “Don’t move.”

  “What was that?” asked Jessica.

  Timothy thought he heard Jessica climbing up onto the fence. He pulled himself into a tight ball and shut his eyes.

  “I don’t see anyone,” she said.

  The voices faded, and Timothy heard the back door slam.

  “Come on!” Sarah tugged his arm.

  Just then Timothy heard something above him. It was almost music, but not quite—at least, not any music he had ever heard before. He uncurled and opened one eye, peering up through gray-green leaves into the limbs of an apple tree just on the other side of the fence.

  There she was.

  The girl sat in the crook of one of the highest branches, dangling a long white leg. She was staring down at him with her silvery eyes and no expression at all on her pale face. But Timothy had no doubt that she saw him—in fact, she was looking right at him. He inched out from under the shrub. Bits of leaf and twig scratched his face and stuck in his hair. Sarah tucked the notebook and pencil into her pocket.