Secrets at the Chocolate Mansion by Leslie Margolis

Author:Leslie Margolis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2013-08-17T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

The car glided smoothly, as though propelled by an invisible hand.

A ghost hand.

I looked across the living room at Beckett’s door, which stood slightly ajar. Then I noticed the remote control next to me on the table. I picked it up, thinking maybe I’d accidentally triggered it somehow—but the entire remote felt suspiciously light. I turned it over and opened the battery compartment. The empty battery compartment.

There were no batteries in the remote.

I yelled and threw it across the room, then ducked under the afghan on the couch. As if a bunch of yarn could protect me. Yarn filled with dust, I realized as I immediately sneezed. I threw off the afghan and tried not to panic, because I was supposed to be the responsible babysitter. I had a job to do: protect Beckett. But how could I protect him from something that didn’t exist?

I stared at the car, now sitting in the middle of the living room, a good three feet away.

Okay, I told myself. That did not just happen. I must’ve imagined the whole incident. Except here’s the thing: I knew I didn’t.

The car had been on one side of the room, and it drove to the other side of the room—all by itself.

The next time I checked on Beckett he was asleep, so I closed his door.

I turned on the hall light. And the fancy crystal chandelier in the dining room, and every other working light source I could find in the entire house, except for those in Beckett’s and his moms’ rooms.

Not knowing what to do with myself next, I walked into the kitchen and peeked into every single cabinet. I found dishes, wineglasses, regular glasses, and the food pantry. I munched a handful of baked potato chips, then ate some mixed nuts. Then I wandered back into the living room and turned on the TV, figuring I could use a distraction. But guess what was playing? Friday the 13th.

Because tonight was the thirteenth of the month. Not Friday, but still; thirteen is an unlucky number any day of the week.

I turned off the TV and opened my book, thinking I’d do some English homework. Except my assignment was to answer questions about “The Raven,” by Edgar Allan Poe. The poem starts like this: Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary. I slammed the book shut, because that opening line sounded way too creepy for tonight. Then I read about the poem online. It turned out “The Raven” was about a talking bird and a man grieving over the death of his girlfriend. Gah! That’s the absolute worst poem I could read right then. It was like I was being stalked by spooky stuff.

I went back to math, because there’s nothing scary about numbers.

After I finished the assignment I looked at my watch. I’d been taking care of Beckett for over three hours now. Lisa and Caroline were only going out to dinner, as far as I knew. That’s what they’d

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