Part 7: What's Behind Door Number One
Dutchy made it into the mansion in record time, heading straight for the music room. The first thing he saw was the rest of the newsies crowding the doorway, watching something very interesting. Dutchy pushed his way through to find Specs sitting at the organ; a melancholy tune seeping out that was so intense, it could drill holes into your bones. Specs seemed oblivious of anything around him, his back hunched over the keys.
Dutchy shooed the others away, promising he'd explain what's going on later. He closed the door, and walked casually to Specs' side - an icebox manifestation set next to him. Dutchy found himself shivering involuntarily.
Specs plucked out the last notes of the tune then raised his head, looking at Dutchy. "Hi Dutch, what are you doing here?" he asked, an eerie calmness in his voice.
Dutchy stared into the glassy eyes of his friend, frightened he might say something to set him off again. "Just coming to see if you were all right."
"I'm fine" Specs replied, monotone. He stood. "I think I'll go back to my room to..." he paused slightly bemused. "...rest."
Dutchy held out a hand, catching Specs' arm. "You sure you don't want company? I mean, you've been frazzled from all the strange happens."
Specs glanced down at the hand that held his arm then back up at Dutchy throwing visual daggers at him. "No, I want to be alone, if you don't mind." He tugged away, and was gone in an instant from the room.
With an exasperated sigh, Dutchy fell to his knees, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. "I wish we would of never even come to this place." He landed his hand on the wooden floor to keep balanced, but found the floor next to him loose.
"Wonder why" he whispered. There was the conclusion that the house was plain old and the floor board was coming loose. But, a feeling in his gut was telling him to check this out.
Dutchy slipped his hands between the boards, pulling at the loose one. It raised up rather easily. Whoever placed it there didn't do a good job of replacing the board. He looked inside the hole he'd made. There - revealed - was a small, rusty trunk. Dutchy plucked it from the hole, setting it down beside him and opening the top which had no lock.
He peered in. "What the...?" Dutchy picked up the first item: a diary with the name "Helena" engraved in it. "Hope she doesn't mind if I read it" he chided, flipping it open to a page almost exactly in the middle.
"My love, Harold, is dead. The scoundrel, Kurt Jenkins, is to blame. He shot Harold for no explained reason! Harold will never know the love I have carried for him. I will never hear Harold play his angelic music on our organ again. With Harold, I must die too. One day, I will have my revenge on Kurt Jenkins. But, for now, I must be with my love."
Dutchy shrunk back slightly. "This must of been her last entry." He moved to close the diary when a newspaper clipping fell out on to his lap. He picked it up. The headline read: Local Musician Killed by Good Friend. "Must not of been that -good- of a friend." He unfolded the rest of the article where a photograph was printed.
Dutchy's eyes widened almost to saucer shaped circles. "Oh my goodness! It's Specs and Skittery." Two men in the photo appeared to look as duplicates of his two friends. The names were Harold Franklin and Kurt Jenkins. Dutchy jumped up, "I have to tell Specs!!!", and run out the room with the article and diary in hand.
***
Twenty minutes after they had left, Jack and Kid Blink were at the doorstep of a small country house in town. "Why, hello, Mr. Kelly" Mr. Petre greeted with a warm smile. "What brings you boys by?"
Jack stood with his fingers hooked in his belt loops. Blink stood slightly behind him. "We need to talk to you about Kloppman's daughter, Helena."
"What about Helena?" Mr. Petre said, a stutter in his voice which sounded fidgety.
"We've had a few encounters with her, I don't know what to call it, ghost?"
Mr. Petre paled as if he'd heard this scenario before. Jack could tell the older man was holding a secret back. "Come in. Tell me what has been happening, and I'll tell you everything I know."
***
Meanwhile, there was much activity in Specs' room. Skittery had told all the newsies to stay away from Specs because of what was going on with him. So, Specs was alone in his room...almost.
"Yes, Harold, that is the suit I want you to wear."
Specs blankly stripped all his clothes beside his long-johns. A gray three piece suit lay on his bed, ready to be adorn.
Helena pressed her cold body against his warm body, giving him an open-mouth kiss. "You will look beautiful for your cross over to be with me in eternity."
Dutchy made it into the mansion in record time, heading straight for the music room. The first thing he saw was the rest of the newsies crowding the doorway, watching something very interesting. Dutchy pushed his way through to find Specs sitting at the organ; a melancholy tune seeping out that was so intense, it could drill holes into your bones. Specs seemed oblivious of anything around him, his back hunched over the keys.
Dutchy shooed the others away, promising he'd explain what's going on later. He closed the door, and walked casually to Specs' side - an icebox manifestation set next to him. Dutchy found himself shivering involuntarily.
Specs plucked out the last notes of the tune then raised his head, looking at Dutchy. "Hi Dutch, what are you doing here?" he asked, an eerie calmness in his voice.
Dutchy stared into the glassy eyes of his friend, frightened he might say something to set him off again. "Just coming to see if you were all right."
"I'm fine" Specs replied, monotone. He stood. "I think I'll go back to my room to..." he paused slightly bemused. "...rest."
Dutchy held out a hand, catching Specs' arm. "You sure you don't want company? I mean, you've been frazzled from all the strange happens."
Specs glanced down at the hand that held his arm then back up at Dutchy throwing visual daggers at him. "No, I want to be alone, if you don't mind." He tugged away, and was gone in an instant from the room.
With an exasperated sigh, Dutchy fell to his knees, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. "I wish we would of never even come to this place." He landed his hand on the wooden floor to keep balanced, but found the floor next to him loose.
"Wonder why" he whispered. There was the conclusion that the house was plain old and the floor board was coming loose. But, a feeling in his gut was telling him to check this out.
Dutchy slipped his hands between the boards, pulling at the loose one. It raised up rather easily. Whoever placed it there didn't do a good job of replacing the board. He looked inside the hole he'd made. There - revealed - was a small, rusty trunk. Dutchy plucked it from the hole, setting it down beside him and opening the top which had no lock.
He peered in. "What the...?" Dutchy picked up the first item: a diary with the name "Helena" engraved in it. "Hope she doesn't mind if I read it" he chided, flipping it open to a page almost exactly in the middle.
"My love, Harold, is dead. The scoundrel, Kurt Jenkins, is to blame. He shot Harold for no explained reason! Harold will never know the love I have carried for him. I will never hear Harold play his angelic music on our organ again. With Harold, I must die too. One day, I will have my revenge on Kurt Jenkins. But, for now, I must be with my love."
Dutchy shrunk back slightly. "This must of been her last entry." He moved to close the diary when a newspaper clipping fell out on to his lap. He picked it up. The headline read: Local Musician Killed by Good Friend. "Must not of been that -good- of a friend." He unfolded the rest of the article where a photograph was printed.
Dutchy's eyes widened almost to saucer shaped circles. "Oh my goodness! It's Specs and Skittery." Two men in the photo appeared to look as duplicates of his two friends. The names were Harold Franklin and Kurt Jenkins. Dutchy jumped up, "I have to tell Specs!!!", and run out the room with the article and diary in hand.
***
Twenty minutes after they had left, Jack and Kid Blink were at the doorstep of a small country house in town. "Why, hello, Mr. Kelly" Mr. Petre greeted with a warm smile. "What brings you boys by?"
Jack stood with his fingers hooked in his belt loops. Blink stood slightly behind him. "We need to talk to you about Kloppman's daughter, Helena."
"What about Helena?" Mr. Petre said, a stutter in his voice which sounded fidgety.
"We've had a few encounters with her, I don't know what to call it, ghost?"
Mr. Petre paled as if he'd heard this scenario before. Jack could tell the older man was holding a secret back. "Come in. Tell me what has been happening, and I'll tell you everything I know."
***
Meanwhile, there was much activity in Specs' room. Skittery had told all the newsies to stay away from Specs because of what was going on with him. So, Specs was alone in his room...almost.
"Yes, Harold, that is the suit I want you to wear."
Specs blankly stripped all his clothes beside his long-johns. A gray three piece suit lay on his bed, ready to be adorn.
Helena pressed her cold body against his warm body, giving him an open-mouth kiss. "You will look beautiful for your cross over to be with me in eternity."