To read the previous edition of the Haunted House, go to NeverEnding Stories!

Glancing around the corner, Isadora crept down the hall toward the art studios at her school.  If one of the hall monitors caught her, not only would she get detention, but she wouldn’t get to learn more about Mrs. Watkin’s old house.  And right now, math and reading were the last things on her mind.  The knot of curiosity smoldering in her stomach was now raging, the flames tickling her fingers and toes.  Besides her grandmother, there was only one person she trusted to tell her the truth–Ms. Bluebell, the art teacher.

Not only did poor Ms. Bluebell have the name of a dairy cow, but she looked like one.  Cursed with a wide droopy face, large eyes and a nose that had a tendency to sprout thin white hairs, a ring of grey curly hair surrounded her sagging cheeks and chin.  Every day, her large frame lumbered around her room, her shoulders slumped and her feet plodding along as she helped children with their projects.  She always had a jar of cookies on her desk, and a jug of milk in the tiny fridge under the paintbrush boxes that the children were welcome to.  Luckily, few children were ever cruel and those who were got shunned immediately by the rest of the children.  What Ms. Bluebell lacked in looks she made up for in personality–she was everyone’s favorite teacher and had won dozens of awards, all which modestly decorated the art supply closet.

Taking one final look around, Isadora raced across the hall and ducked into Ms. Bluebell’s room.  Skidding across the slick floor, she crashed into a desk.  The teacher glanced up, her long lashes fluttering.  “Hello?” she called.  “Is someone there?”

“Just me,” Isadora squeaked, one foot waving in the air.

“Hello, Isadora.”  Ms. Bluebell waved, chewing on a breakfast bar slowly.  “What are you doing here?  Shouldn’t you be in advisory?”

Standing up, Isadora brushed herself off.  “Actually, I had a question for you.”

Ms. Bluebell took another bite.  “Shoot.”

“What do you know about the Watkin’s house?”  Isadora stepped closer to her teacher’s desk, dragging her full backpack behind her.

“Well, a lot, I suppose,” Ms. Bluebell said in her slow way.  “Why are you asking?”

“It’s for a project,” Isadora lied, crossing her fingers behind her back.  “My grandmother told me that a bunch of children had disappeared, and when the police went to search for them, they disappeared as well.  She said the house was empty when people looked inside, but was full of people at night.”

“Yes.”  Ms. Bluebell took another bite, chewing slowly.  “That’s all true.”

Isadora waited a moment.  Her teacher chewed, her mild eyes gazing ahead.  “What else do you know?” she asked.

“What else do you want to know?”

Isadora stifled a groan.  If this had been any other adult, she would have been convinced they were tormenting her.  Because it was Ms. Bluebell, she knew better.  “I want to know who lives there!  I want to know why I’ve seen people go in, but never out of the house.  I want to know why people are so scared of it!”

Ms. Bluebell nodded, popping the final bite into her mouth.  “Well, Isadora, it’s pretty simple,” she said in her gentle way.  “People are scared of it because no one understands it.  No one has for years–ever since she came.”

Isadora perked up.  “She?” she repeated, leaning forward.  “Who is she?”

Ms. Bluebell shuddered, throwing the wrapper from her breakfast bar away.  “All anyone referred to her as was Raven,” she murmured, rubbing her arms as she glanced down at her desk.  “She wore only black–her hair was black, her eyes were black, her clothes were black.  Her skin was as pale as a sheet of paper.  She never spoke to anyone, even when she’d come to town for things.  She was odd–you would expect someone like that to be shy, but she wasn’t.  She would get in people’s faces and just stare at them, stare into the depths of their souls.

“Of course, people thought she was a witch.  When she moved into the Watkin’s house, the rumors just got worse.  She moved into the top room, part of the attic.  At night, for hours, people would see candles flickering and shadows moving across the walls.  And the Watkin’s had been already been seen as strange, though they were such kind people.  The father was disabled and suddenly walking one day, the children obsessed with ghoulish, morbid things.  Many thought Mrs. Watkin’s was a witch.  She had an herb garden and would mix up all sorts of cures for the townspeople–well, before Raven came.  Once Raven came, the Watkins quit going out.  And then the children began to disappear.  Ever since then, the only people that have ever gone into the Watkin house have never come out.”  Ms. Bluebell leaned back in her chair, wrapping her hands around her mug of coffee to tame the goosebumps scattered over her limbs.

“But why?” Isadora demanded.  “Why did they just disappear?  And who is this Raven person?  Didn’t anybody bother to look her up?”

“No one wanted to look her up,” Ms. Bluebell replied.  “She scared everyone.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Isadora muttered, running her fingers through her hair.  “It’s almost like this woman is keeping everyone prisoner.”

Ms. Bluebell shook her head.  “I don’t know, and I don’t intend to find out.”  She leaned forward, her large eyes worried.  “Isadora, please don’t go to the Watkin’s house.  In fact, just don’t ask about it anymore.  Do another project, or whatever  you need to do.  Many people get upset just talking about it.  And if you’re planning to go there–that’s not a very good idea at all.”  She shook her head, her sagging cheeks swinging.  “Isadora, please believe me.  There is nothing good in that house.  There’s something evil there, something terrible.  Please–just stay away.  Don’t talk about it, don’t wonder about it.  Just forget it ever exists.”

The school bell rang for first period, and both teacher and student jumped.   Ms. Bluebell clutched at her chest, her large eyes rolling in her head.  “I hate that bell,” she muttered.

Fat chance of that, Isadora thought to herself.  Aloud, she cooed, “Whatever you think is best, Ms. Bluebell.  I appreciate you telling me everything.”

“Anytime,” Ms. Bluebell replied weakly, bracing herself for the next screeching bell.  “You better hurry along now.  It’s first period.  As I recall, you have Mrs. Mitchell for math.  She hates late students.”

Isadora smiled again and thanked her teacher.  Barreling through the hoards of students, she hurried down the hall to her math class.  The entire way, her mind buzzed with excitement.  Talking to Ms. Bluebell had cemented it in her mind.

After school, she was going to the Watkin’s house.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  Tomorrow we have a delicious new recipe and Friday, a brand new tale! And this weekend, a new creative woman!  Stay tuned!

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