House of Secrets Read Online Free PDF

to think that question was weird. “Best way to fix a curse is to find the person who set it up,” he said, shrugging. Then he left Brendan to think about the old crone.
    Out on the sidewalk, the mover returned to the Spartan truck for his next item: a white trunk with bands of riveted bronze. It had rounded metal corners and the faded initials RW stenciled over a hefty lock.
    “What’s in that trunk?” Cordelia asked. She was standing outside with her father.
    “Just some old family records,” said Dr. Walker. “You never noticed before? I’ve been lugging them around for years. Master bedroom!” he told the mover. Two hours later the Walkers had settled in, hardly daring to believe that this was their new home. Since the purchase price had covered the furniture, everything inside was as beautiful as when they’d first visited: the pottery, the suit of armor, the grand piano. . . . The Walkers’ belongings seemed out of place, unworthy of their new surroundings. Even the box of groceries that they had brought from their old house didn’t seem to belong in the shiny kitchen. After making her family take a self-timed photo with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, Mrs. Walker let her kids wander while she made tea in the stellar kitchen and her husband dozed beneath a sunbeam in the living-room Chester chair.

    Cordelia went to the library to return Savage Warriors to the shelves but was surprised to see there wasn’t any space for it, as if the other books had multiplied in its absence. Oh well, she thought, putting it on the table and taking down a book called The Fighting Ace .
    Eleanor went upstairs and bravely passed under the creepy old pictures, moving to where Diane Dobson had pointed out the dumbwaiter. She pulled the knob in the wall; it opened like a mailbox. She was just tall enough to see a small compartment hanging on what looked like two bicycle chains. She wanted to climb in, but she knew that her mother would have a fit, so she tossed her dolls inside the dumbwaiter and tried to figure out how to make them go down to the kitchen.
    Brendan grabbed a lacrosse stick to use as a weapon and went outside to investigate the stone angel. He was sweating nervously and hated himself for it as he crept around the side of the house. He came to where the statue had been . . .
    And it was still gone. Pine needles and twigs lay over the area in uniform distribution.
    It was her, Brendan thought. He had no idea where the thought came from, but he knew he was right. He remembered how the angel had been missing a right hand. He tried to remember which hand the old crone had grabbed him with. He would put money on the left. Eleanor saw her, and she turned into stone to hide herself. Now she could be anywhere.
    Brendan scanned the property. He didn’t hear anything but a babbling squirrel and the irregular sibilance of cars passing on Sea Cliff Avenue. After a few minutes he decided he wasn’t doing anything useful and made his way back inside.
    She was right there, in the great hall, talking to his family.

“W hat are you doing here?” Brendan demanded, brandishing his lacrosse stick like a two-handed ax. “Leave my family alone!”
    “Brendan!” his mother snapped. “Have you lost your mind? Put that down !”
    The old crone turned to face him. She wasn’t dressed in dirty rags anymore. She wore a loose polka-dot dress and a floral bandanna that hid her baldness; her teeth were freshly cleaned and polished, almost white. She carried an apple pie in her left hand; her right was tucked into her dress pocket. “What’s wrong, son? You seem troubled.”
    Brendan gritted his teeth. “You bet I’m troubled. Now drop the pie, put your hands over your head, and get out of our house—”
    “Brendan! Give me that lacrosse stick! Immediately! ” his father ordered.
    “Dad, this old bag’s evil. I’ll bet she spiked that pie with arsenic—”
    “You’re playing too many video games. Hand over the