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"Dad!" My voice frees itself from my throat, making up for its captivity in volume.
The girl gasps, whirling to face my room. Her eyes are wide, but she inches to the threshold to look around.
"Father?" she whispers.
Dad swings around the top of the stairs, glowing white because he's only wearing boxers and socks. "What? You okay?"
"There's a girl," I squeak, pointing down the hallway because I can't get any other explanation out.
And then I can't help it. I freak out. Face it. You'd freak out too, if you'd seen some girl sneaking down your hallway.
Dad should believe me because I'm not the panicking type, but he doesn't. I demand that he check every room, closet, balcony, and behind and under each bed.
He says I was dreaming, but I wasn't. There is a girl who roams the halls at night. I don't believe in ghosts. But I don't know how to explain this one, and I stay up all night trying to figure it out. Maybe reading those letters wasn't a good idea. I don't think about them until the music box plays again, this time so muffled inside the chest that I can barely hear it.
Okay. I'm officially creeped out.
Dragged from New York to Texas by her newly-divorced father, Scarlet Beldon braces for a lonely summer in a Victorian house. A stack of letters dated 1910 introduces her to the house's former occupant who lives with a strict and paranoid father. When a music box connects the girls' worlds, their friendship turns into a mad scramble to unlock the secrets of Clara's future and alter history itself.
The girl gasps, whirling to face my room. Her eyes are wide, but she inches to the threshold to look around.
"Father?" she whispers.
Dad swings around the top of the stairs, glowing white because he's only wearing boxers and socks. "What? You okay?"
"There's a girl," I squeak, pointing down the hallway because I can't get any other explanation out.
And then I can't help it. I freak out. Face it. You'd freak out too, if you'd seen some girl sneaking down your hallway.
Dad should believe me because I'm not the panicking type, but he doesn't. I demand that he check every room, closet, balcony, and behind and under each bed.
He says I was dreaming, but I wasn't. There is a girl who roams the halls at night. I don't believe in ghosts. But I don't know how to explain this one, and I stay up all night trying to figure it out. Maybe reading those letters wasn't a good idea. I don't think about them until the music box plays again, this time so muffled inside the chest that I can barely hear it.
Okay. I'm officially creeped out.
Dragged from New York to Texas by her newly-divorced father, Scarlet Beldon braces for a lonely summer in a Victorian house. A stack of letters dated 1910 introduces her to the house's former occupant who lives with a strict and paranoid father. When a music box connects the girls' worlds, their friendship turns into a mad scramble to unlock the secrets of Clara's future and alter history itself.
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