The Secret Bedroom Read Free Page B

adults to the wall on the opposite side of the room. “Hey—what’s this door?” she called, her voice louder than she had intended in the closed-in space.
    A wooden door in the wall had been boarded up with a crisscross of two-by-fours. Lea reached out and tried turning the doorknob. The door was locked. “What’s in there? Why is this door boarded up?” Lea asked.
    The others joined her. Mr. Carson turned the knob, coming to the same conclusion Lea had. It was locked.He inspected the two-by-fours. “Looks like someone boarded up this room a long time ago,” he said, knocking hard on the door. It sounded thick and solid.
    Mrs. Thomas gripped her clipboard and held it tightly against her chest. The smile faded from her face for the first time that afternoon. “Well, that door is a very interesting story,” she said, a little reluctantly. And then she quickly added, “I always think that mysterious stories add to the charm of a house—don’t you?”
    Lea felt a sudden stab of dread. She felt closed in. The walls seemed to be moving in on her, the ceiling lowering. She took a deep breath, her eyes examining the locked, boarded-up door.
    Lea’s parents exchanged glances. Mr. Carson leaned back against the wall, his head bent down because of the low ceiling.
    â€œWhat
kind
of mysterious story?” Mrs. Carson asked, her dark eyes alive with interest.
    Mrs. Thomas continued to press the clipboard tightly against the front of her jacket. “Of course, most of the houses on Fear Street have similar stories,” she started, speaking softly. “They’re not true, I don’t think. At least, they’re not
all
true.”
    She stared straight ahead at the brass doorknob.
    â€œYou mean it’s some kind of horror story?” Mrs. Carson asked, even more intrigued.
    Lea shifted her weight uncomfortably.
    â€œI don’t really know the details,” Mrs. Thomas said. “You know how these stories get lost or exaggeratedover time. All I know is that there is a room on the other side of that door. And something terrible happened in that room.”
    â€œSomething—terrible?” Lea asked.
    â€œIt was a hundred years ago. At least a hundred years,” Mrs. Thomas said, her face covered in shadow as the light through the attic window faded. “And someone was murdered in that room. At least, that’s how the story goes.”
    â€œYou don’t know who? Or why?” Lea asked, staring at the two-by-fours that blocked the doorway.
    Mrs. Thomas shook her head. “A murder. That’s all I know. And the room … it’s been locked and boarded up ever since.”
    A hush fell as all four occupants stared silently at the wooden door.
    Mrs. Carson broke the silence with a cough. “We’ll leave it just the way it is,” she said, looking at Lea’s dad as if for reassurance.
    â€œAren’t you curious about what’s behind it?” Mr. Carson asked. He hunched forward and knocked on the door again. “Hello in there. Anybody home?” he called loudly.
    They all listened as if expecting a reply. Then they laughed. Nervous laughter.
    â€œNo. I don’t want to touch this door,” Mrs. Carson said firmly. “We’ve got more than enough to do downstairs.”
    That’s for sure, Lea thought glumly.
    â€œPeople make up these stories,” Mrs. Thomas said, brightening. “I don’t know why. As I said, there’s ahorror story for every house on Fear Street. Yet the people I’ve met who live on this street are all as nice as can be.”
    She edged herself back to the trapdoor and, with difficulty, holding the clipboard in one hand, began to lower herself down the ladder. “Come on, folks. There are some features in the kitchen I didn’t get a chance to show you.”
    Her parents disappeared down the ladder, but Lea lingered behind. She stared at the