The Old Willis Place

else? Not the trailer—her father would see me. Not in the woods—Georgie might see us. It had to be the terrace. As long as Miss Lilian stayed in the parlor, she had no way to watch the terrace.
    With the flashlight in one hand and the diary in the other, I stole once more through the woods and across the field to the dark trailer.
    I'd planned to return the diary to Lissa's room, but when MacDuff began barking, I tossed it on the picnic table and ran.
    The old Willis house loomed ahead, dark and crooked against the starry sky. What I was about to do terrified me, but I could think of no other way to show Lissa I was a girl like herself.

Chapter 6
    I sneaked around the side of the house and crawled into a thicket of bushes growing wild by the wall. There, unknown to any of the caretakers, was a small broken window. Back in the days when Miss Lilian and her cats inhabited the floor above, Georgie and I used it to sneak inside. Cautiously I wriggled through and dropped into the cellar.
    A breath of cold, dank air met me, the smell of an old musty cellar shut away from sunlight. I shivered and shined the flashlight into the darkness. The basement was full of snakes, but that didn't worry me. Neither did the rustle of mice in the corners. I feared vague sounds—faint footsteps, mournful sighs, low whispers.
    Hoping I was truly alone, I made my way around boxes, barrels, piles of newspapers, and broken furniture. I took care to avoid the dark recesses of the cellar and the door to the storeroom, still locked, its key long lost.
    I'd never been in the house without Georgie. By the time I reached the rickety stairs leading to the first floor, my skin was clammy and my legs were shaky. Taking a deep breath, I put my foot on the first step, then the second. Slowly I climbed the stairs, stopping every time one creaked. At the top, I eased the door open and stood on the threshold, peering down the dark hall, first toward the kitchen and then toward the front of the house. No sound. No movement. On tiptoe, I edged along the wall, heading for the main staircase.
    The air stank of cat pee and mildew. The floors and walls murmured to each other in creaks and groans. Wallpaper hung from the plaster in long, loose strips. Every now and then a current of air lifted them and their dry whispers joined the other sounds.
    At last, I stood at the bottom of the once grand flight of stairs that led to the upper floors. I remembered Miss Lilian descending the very same stairs, dressed in gray, one thin hand grasping the rail, her head high, her eyes scornful. Behind her, my mother knelt and swept the carpeted steps with a whisk broom, collecting the dirt in a dustpan and watching me anxiously.
    "You, girl, don't play here," Miss Lilian said. "Your mother's working. She can't be bothered with you now."
    The vision was so real I almost ran outside, the way I used to. But tonight the staircase was empty. No one was there. Not Miss Lilian. Not Mother.
    As fearful as if the old woman still barred my way, I ran up the steps, staying so close to the wall I brushed against the family pictures hanging there, dusty, fly specked, faded to pale shades of brown.
    Miss Lilian's bedroom was at the end of the hall, the biggest and brightest, with a view of fields and woods and the road beyond. I walked toward the closed door, wincing every time a board creaked under my feet. She wasn't in her room, I told myself. She'd died downstairs with her cats as witnesses. If she'd lingered—and I was sure she had—she'd be in the front parlor, behind its closed door. I knew the rules.
    But I also knew the exceptions.
    Taking a deep breath, I turned the knob slowly and pushed the bedroom door open.
    Again I saw Miss Lilian as I remembered her, sitting in her big bed, watching my mother set down the breakfast tray, waiting while she poured the tea, finally spying me in the doorway. "Go away, thief. You're after my jewelry, but you won't get it. Not while there's breath in my body!"
    The bed was as empty as the stairs, its sheets frayed by mice. The jewelry had disappeared years ago, but the closets still held Miss Lilian's clothing—skirts, blouses, and dresses long out of style but of fine quality except for moth holes.
    I grabbed some clothes and stuffed them into a pillowcase, too scared to think about what would look best. No time to be choosy. Anything was better than the filthy rags I was wearing.
    Half expecting Miss Lilian to stop me, I ran to the