Chapter One: Phoebe’s Discovery

               Phoebe scowled, and slammed the attic door behind her, cutting off the echoes of mocking laughter below.  As she frowned into the darkness, she looked around the dim and dusty room.  It was the first time she had been there in many years.  She knew she shouldn’t be afraid of it; she was twelve and too old for that kind of thing.
               At that moment she was still too angry to be frightened anyway.  The room was messy, dusty and draped in cobwebs.  It was hot and stuffy, the result of no windows, no air conditioning, and the humid Southern Missouri summer.  Phoebe glared around the dark room.  She pulled a chain nearby to turn on the light, but nothing happened.  The only light in the room came from a large vented panel at the other end.  It let in a few thin slits of light and plenty of humidity.
               Still, despite everything that was wrong with it, it was quiet.  That alone was almost enough to redeem it.  She toyed with the idea of asking her grandmother if she could move up there, but knew that she  would never agree.  She sometimes wondered if Grandmother wasn’t a little afraid of the attic herself.  
               Phoebe couldn’t see why; there was nothing spooky about it now that she was up there.  She ventured in a little farther and tried to read the labels on some of the boxes.  In the back of her mind she knew she should leave, go back downstairs, not stay too long; but curiosity was calling to her from every corner.
               The attic wasn’t forbidden, exactly; but she knew her grandmother would not want her up there.  It was one of those strange things she’d just had to get used to about her Grandmother Abigail, like the way she never talked about Phoebe’s parents.  Phoebe faltered for a moment, feeling a strange glimmer of hope.  Perhaps there was something in the attic that held answers to the mystery that surrounded her parents.  
               She pressed on, farther in among the stacks of dusty boxes.  It wasn’t just that she was enjoying the silence and solitude, though they had become so rare lately.  It was something else.  It was as though something was calling out to her, drawing her deeper in.  She stopped and listened.  Then with a half-chuckle she shook herself.  That was silly.  
               It was exactly the kind of thing she used to think could happen but was now beginning to realize never would.  Adventures and magic were just things in books, and fairy tales were just made up stories.  She still liked them, more than she cared to admit in front of her cousins, but she knew it was time to grow up.  
               She hesitated then, glancing back at the door through which she had come.  She knew that just down the stairs and through the other door, people were talking about her.  The Pack would be rejoicing in yet another victory, her aunt would be angrily asking why the table wasn’t cleared, and her grandmother would be most likely furious about her going up into the attic.
               Phoebe shook her head slightly and turned to go back down to head off a series of arguments and lectures.  But as she did so, she stubbed her toe on a box that stuck out in the shadows.  “Ow!”  She scowled down, hopping slightly on her left foot to alleviate the pain.  It hurt more than an ordinary cardboard box should have.  She bent over to investigate, flipping her twin braids behind her shoulders to keep them out of the way.  
               After she lifted off another box and brushed away some of the dust, she saw that it was not a box but a trunk she had tripped on.  It was rather old-fashioned, and Phoebe was inclined to like almost anything old-fashioned.  She ran her fingers along the front, and flipped open the clasp in the middle.  
               Brushing the dust off her hands, she eagerly began to explore the contents of the trunk.  Gingerly she lifted out an old and well-worn quilt, a couple of baby gowns and a very pretty, very simple long white dress that was beginning to look yellow with age.  She wondered who they belonged to, who had worn them long ago, and if she should ask Grandmother about it.
               At the bottom of the trunk, under a beautiful log cabin quilt, Phoebe made her most interesting discoveries so far: a leather-bound journal and a key on a ribbon.  To her deep disappointment, the diary was locked.  At first, Phoebe assumed the key belonged to it, but she was wrong.  It was far too big.  She turned the journal over in her hands, wondering who had written in it, and if it held any interesting stories.  The only distinguishing thing about it she could see were two small letters imprinted in gold script on the leather: “T K,” she murmured, her brow puckered in thought.  She had no idea who or what that might stand for.  She sighed and set it aside to ponder the next mystery.
               She held the heavy iron key in her hands and studied it thoughtfully.  If not the journal, to what, then, did it belong?  Its skeleton style reminded her of another key she had used recently to another room in the house—that was no longer in her possession—but it was a little smaller.  She noticed it had tiny, intricate carvings along its head.  She held it up out of the shadows to get a better look.  “Beautiful,” she breathed.  Yet so puzzling.  She had a diary with no key, and a key with nothing to open. “What are you for?” she murmured softly.
               At that moment, two things happened.  The first was, a gust of wind from nowhere swirled around the room.  It ruffled Phoebe’s hair and clothes and rattled papers and boxes from all the corners of the dusty room.  But before Phoebe could figure out where it came from, or really pay any attention to it, something else happened.  The second thing, which was just as startling but far more alarming to Phoebe, was the sound of someone calling her name.
               “PHOEBE ELLEN SULLIVAN!  Are you up there?”  The voice was slightly muffled through the door at the top of the stairs, but Phoebe knew it instantly.   She grimaced and hurriedly put the things back in the trunk.  “I’m coming!” she called back, closing the lid and fastening the latch.  
               “Get down here this instant!” her grandmother ordered.  
               “Yes, Grandmother,” Phoebe replied, panting slightly as she lifted the other box on top, just as it had been before she’d come along and stubbed her toe. As she hurried to the door, however, her clumsy right toe bumped against something else—something smaller—and sent it skitting into the shadows ahead of her.  It rested there, glinting faintly in the dim light.  “Bother,” Phoebe hissed, realizing it was the mysterious key she’d found.  Somehow it had eluded being put away.  She scooped it up hastily and shoved it into her jeans pocket, intending to put it back later.  Then she scurried down the steps, all the while dreading the encounter that awaited her.  
               Abigail stood at the bottom of the steps with her hands on her hips and her eyes flashing.  Yet in her lined face there was an expression of anxiety that clashed with her sharp tone.  “What were you doing up there?” she demanded of her granddaughter as Phoebe clambered down to her.
               Phoebe sighed.  “Nothing, Grandmother.  I just—”
               “Nothing?  How many times have I told you not to go poking around up there without my permission?”
               “I know, I’m sorry.”  Phoebe hated fighting with her grandmother.  She was practically the only family she had.  
               Abigail softened a little.  “Well?” she asked, in a somewhat gentler tone.  
               Phoebe sighed again, the memory crashing back down on her.  “I just needed to get away for a moment,” she said.  “Since I can’t go into the library anymore, and I share my room with Lisa and Kelly—” she rolled her eyes slightly, “—I just needed a minute to myself.  Somewhere quiet.”
               Abigail frowned.  “I understand,” she said reluctantly.  “But next time, why don’t you try going into my room?  Or perhaps outside, where you used to play, by the big maple.”
               Phoebe shrugged.  “I guess.  I just don’t see what the big deal is.  It’s not the nicest room in house, but it’s not that bad.”
               “I don’t want you up there!” Abigail replied sharply before walking away, and her tone made it clear that it was the end of the discussion.    
               Phoebe pressed her lips together in frustration.  She knew that tone.  It was how Grandmother sounded every time Phoebe asked about her parents.  And every time the answer was the same.  I don’t want to talk about it.  The only thing she had ever learned was that a long time ago, Something Awful had happened to her mother and father.  For the past almost ten years she had been trying to find out what that Awful Something was, but with no success.  She had half-hoped to find the answer in the attic, but had forgotten after she stubbed her toe.  Now she might never know.
               But then she remembered the key in her pocket and realized she was going to have to sneak back up into the attic anyway.  Maybe at night, she thought.  Her grandmother went to bed rather early, a die-hard habit from growing up on a farm; but Phoebe herself had always been a bit of a night owl.  She felt a little bad about disobeying her grandmother, but she also resented that she had to sneak around just to get answers about her own parents.
               “PHEE-BEE!”  Phoebe jumped at the sound of someone else calling her name very loudly and belatedly remembered that it was her night to clean off the table.  She grimaced.  “Coming, Aunt Roberta,” she sighed.  Reluctantly she climbed down another set of stairs to the kitchen, knowing a scathing lecture awaited her.  She knew her aunt wouldn’t understand that she had just run up to use the bathroom and had only meant to be gone a minute.  And she certainly wouldn’t understand that her daughters were the very reason Phoebe had needed to take refuge in the attic.  Roberta was not a very understanding person at all.  Phoebe wondered, not for the first time, how on earth such a woman could get married once, let alone twice—the second time being to Phoebe’s Uncle Henry.  What on earth had Henry seen in her?  
               “Sorry, Ma’am,” Phoebe said meekly as she slid into the kitchen, hoping to forestall the criticism she knew her aunt was dying to give her.  She hurried over to the table and began to quickly clear it.  
               “Why don’t you just take a nice vacation next time, Phoebe?” Roberta replied sharply.  “Just send us a postcard to let us know you won’t be able to help.”
               Phoebe tightened her jaw to keep from replying.  Her imagination simply failed her when it came to Aunt Roberta.  There was no way of softening her sharpness; she seemed to have been made that way, inside and out.  Her dark hair was always pulled back in a tight bun, and her face and figure were full of sharp angles.  She seemed stony to Phoebe, like the rigid rock formation of a cliff.   
               “And since you were late,” her aunt continued, “you can go ahead and wash the dishes, too.  Just try not to make a mess of water on the floor.  Oh, and don’t leave a greasy film on the pans, either.”  
               Phoebe, at the sink already, had her back to Roberta and could barely keep from rolling her eyes in exasperation.  It seemed like no matter how hard she tried, Phoebe could never please her new aunt.  But, that was Aunt Roberta.  Obsessively tidy, and a living personification of the term “control freak,” she drove Phoebe insane with her tedious demands.  She was the Queen of Order and Punctuality, and usually made Phoebe feel like a mere peasant under her reign.  
               As Phoebe was finishing up, she heard footsteps clomping down the steps and groaned inwardly at what was coming.  Two petite girls that were obviously sisters materialized in the kitchen and stopped short at the sight of Phoebe.  She kept right on scrubbing, ignoring them and hoping to avoid any conversation.
               But the older and slightly taller girl stepped nearer.  “Kelly, did we get a new maid that I don’t know about?” she said loudly.   
               The other girl came closer, too.  “I don’t know,” she said, in the same forced voice.  She crept to Phoebe’s elbow as though trying to get a good look at her.  “Land sakes!” she yelled suddenly, in an exaggerated southern accent.  “Why, it’s none other than our cousin Phoebe!”
               “You don’t say!” the older girl exclaimed.  Still Phoebe ignored them.  
               “Aw, Lisa, I think she’s pretending we’re not here,” Kelly said, this time in a rather loud stage whisper.
               “Oh, she’s always pretending something,” Lisa replied scornfully.  “Let’s just get our stuff and leave Fib-a-rella to the dishes.”
               They crossed the room to the refrigerator and rummaged around in the freezer.  Taking out a carton of ice cream, they spooned large helpings of it into two bowls.  “Oh,” Kelly said suddenly, as though just realizing it, “did we just dirty more dishes that you’ll have to wash?”  There was a malicious grin on her face that belied her sympathetic words.
               Then it was Lisa’s turn, and Phoebe knew whatever she said, it was bound to be worse.  “Mmm, this is so good,” she said over a mouthful.  Catching Phoebe’s wary eye, she asked, “Oh, do you want some?”  She walked back over to the carton and picked it up as though inspecting it.  “Hmmm, I don’t know, Fib.  This has like, a hundred grams of fat per serving.  I guess you shouldn’t have any.”  Her smile was cutting; another victory for Lisa.  
               Phoebe swallowed hard and scrubbed even harder.  The corners of her eyes were stinging but she would not let them see her cry.  It’s not fair, she thought furiously.  It’s not fair that someone so mean should be so pretty.  
               She’d never thought much about her looks until recently, and though she longed to be a beauty like the heroines she read about, she couldn’t feel attractive around her cousins—whether they teased her or not.  Lisa was petite and slim and would have looked good in a paper sack—not to mention she could eat whatever she wanted.  Kelly looked very similar to her sister, except her hair was brown instead of black, slightly straighter, and her eyes were brown instead of blue.
               Phoebe, however, was unimpressed by what she saw when she looked in the mirror.  Straightish, straw colored hair, muddy gray-green eyes rimmed by thick glasses, a smattering of freckles across her nose, and a roundish face did not, in Phoebe’s book, equal any kind of beauty.  
               Catching sight of a dull reflection of herself in the pan she was rinsing, she sighed.  Heroines in novels were always extraordinarily beautiful: long, flowing hair; clear, sparkling eyes; soft, flawless skin; full, pouty lips; and of course, a slender, graceful figure.  Novels never failed to mention that.  It was perhaps Phoebe’s most bitter beauty disappointment that she was undoubtedly on the chubby side.  She especially felt large next to Lisa and Kelly, who seemed about as big around as twigs.      
               She rubbed a strand of escaped hair off of her forehead and finished washing the last pan.  She wanted to get back upstairs before Lisa and Kelly came back with their empty dishes.  She also wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet in her room while her new roommates were watching TV.  But before she could escape the sink, a bowl and spoon were thrust in front of her.  “Here.”   
               Phoebe turned to her youngest cousin.  “Um, I’m done actually,” she said firmly.
               Chris was ten and the biggest spoiled brat Phoebe had ever met.  He fixed her with a positively evil grin.  “No, you’re not,” he said.  “You have to wash my bowl.  You have to, cause if you don’t I’ll tell my mom that you left it on purpose.”  He had that deceivingly angelic look about him, with light brown hair and big blue eyes, but Phoebe wasn’t fooled.  He had put a frog in her bed his first night there.  Luckily she wasn’t afraid of frogs, but Chris didn’t know that; he had done it just to be mean.      
               Phoebe picked up Chris’s dish without taking her eyes off of his smug face.  “Someday,” she said in a low voice, “someday you will know what it’s like to be treated the way you treat others.”
               “Ooohh, I’m so scared,” he said, wiggling his fingers and acting all dramatic.  He laughed rudely and walked back out of the room.  
               It incensed Phoebe that on top of everything else she had to wash Chris’s dirty dishes.  It was humiliating to be treated like that by a ten year old.  She scrubbed them hurriedly, resentment boiling over into indignation.  She really did hope that someday the Baxter kids—the Pack, as she privately called them, because of their tendency to behave like a pack of wild animals—would someday get a taste of their own medicine.  She was so busy thinking up ways that justice could be served that she nearly forgot what she meant to do when she went back upstairs.     
               But at the top of the stairs, halfway in the doorway of her room, she heard a soft creak.  She turned and saw that the bottom door to the attic was open slightly.  For a moment she just stood in the darkened hallway, her heart pounding for some inexplicable reason.  She remembered the key in her pocket, and also thought of the mysterious journal.  If she could just get another look at it, maybe she could figure out a way to open it.  
               Phoebe glanced over at the door to her grandmother’s room and saw that the light was already out.  She chewed her lip and considered.  This might be my only chance to put the key back, she told herself.  But she knew that she could not go up with out a light, so she went quickly and quietly into her room and grabbed a candle and a small box of matches.  
               She took her time climbing the attic steps, wincing at every creak and stopping several times to make sure that her grandmother had not been awakened by the noise.  The hand holding the lit candle shook slightly and made the flickering light dance even more.  When she reached the top and opened the second door—and whoever thought of putting two doors to an attic? she thought crossly—she was struck by how spooky the room looked in the candlelight.
               Exploring the attic by daylight, even dim daylight, was one thing.  Rummaging around in the dark, with one small candle for light, that was another.  She tried to shrug off the impending chill she felt in the decidedly creepy room.  
               “Okay,” she breathed softly, “I’m just going to put the key back where I found it and get the heck out of here.”  All desire for investigating the fate of her parents had vanished.  She moved closer to the trunk, and set her candle carefully down.  Then she cleared the trunk off, opened it, and kneeling beside it, pulled out the key.  
               She hesitated only a moment to study it again before returning it to the trunk. “You are a mystery,” she murmured, “but I don’t have time to figure out what you are for.  I wish I did.”
               Just then, a gust of wind made her candle flicker wildly.  Phoebe looked around, startled.  There were no windows in the attic, and both doors to downstairs were closed, so where was the air coming from?  Even the vent at the far end didn’t seem like it could let in that much air.  She shivered slightly, but whether from nervousness or from the steady draft sweeping over her, even she couldn’t tell.  
               All at once she remembered the very same thing had happened earlier that afternoon; but she still couldn’t figure out what was causing it.  She stood and turned around, until she was facing directly into the wind.  It was coming from a darkened corner and from the vent.  Her heart beginning to pound again, Phoebe picked up her candle again by its holder.  She advanced slowly, using her other hand to shield the tiny flame from the gust.
               There, in the dim, flickering light, she saw a tiny door.  It was no more than three or four feet in height, almost as wide as it was high, and had a very curious, antiquated doorknob.  She was quite sure she had not noticed it before.
               Phoebe held her breath.  She could feel the air seeping steadily in from under the door, blowing wisps of her hair around and making other things in the room flutter.  Her skin was alive with tingles of curiosity.  Where did it lead to?  Was there some kind of secret passageway in her grandmother’s old farmhouse?  Perhaps a hiding place slaves had used during the times of the Underground Railroad?  Or did some kind of dark, scary mystery lurk behind the strange door?  A portal to another dimension, perhaps?
               Phoebe searched her memory quickly.  To her knowledge, her grandmother had not once ever mentioned anything about a mysterious little door in the attic.  Phoebe considered this curiously.  Why would her grandmother keep it a secret?  But in the same moment she wondered if it could be the reason Abigail was so nervous about the attic.  
               She focused her attention back on the door.  Eyes wide with wonder, she took  several deep breaths to try to calm the rapid hammering of her heart.  She felt like she was standing on the edge of a real-life adventure.  As a little girl, Phoebe had used her vivid imagination to concoct all sorts of adventures for herself.  In front of her now, however, was something much more exciting and terrifying than anything she had dreamed up.
               She had to know what was behind the door, she simply had to!  Terrifying or not, she had the same feeling she’d had earlier in the attic: the sense that something was pulling at her, calling to her from the other side.  Before she even realized it, her hand had reached out to touch the doorknob.  She could feel every hair on her body standing on end with the electricity of anticipation.
               She gulped, about to turn the knob and open the door, when—she had a terrible thought.  What if the door was locked?  Or, worse still, what if it were unlocked, but there was nothing behind it except an ordinary closet?  What if it wasn’t an adventure at all, but merely her overdeveloped imagination again?  Perhaps that was why Grandmother had never mentioned it—there was nothing interesting about it!
               Phoebe licked her lips.  Whatever the case, she decided firmly, she had to know.  It probably was just a storage closet…with a hole in it or something…but if she didn’t at least try it, she’d never know.  She didn’t want to think about how awful she’d feel if there were nothing but boxes behind the door, and she certainly wouldn’t let herself imagine anything terrifying…for very long, anyway.
               Phoebe steadied herself, fixing her greenish eyes on the curious door.  Rousing all of her determination, she gritted her teeth, locked her elbow, and tightened her grip on the doorknob.  Her stance was firm, and her mind made up.  This moment might change Phoebe Sullivan’s life forever, although she hardly knew why she thought so.  She reached out and twisted the doorknob.