George stood nervously in the middle of the living room, taking in his surroundings with wide, frightened eyes as he contemplated what to do. The wooden wall clock ticked-tocked loudly, counting off precious seconds that could have been spent rescuing his mansion. The entertainment center against one wall consisted of a large shelf with a average sized television set, something George found immensely fascinating. He kept turning it on and off until Leila snatched the control away from him. Underneath the T. V. was a modest collection of videos. On the shelf above the television were several photographs of Leila at various ages, her mother, and one of a pale, blond man with bright green eyes. Two ceramic bowls, each looking handmade and hand painted, sat on either side of the pictures. A strange, vine like plant, some kind of bamboo, grew out of the bowls, spiraling up into odd twists and turns. George suspected that Mrs. Toombs was the artsy sort, judging by not only the bamboo bowls, but by the little hand made (well, technically sown using a machine) dark green pillows on the couch, and the hand woven tapestry hanging on the wall. It was a very curious piece that George couldn't resist studying for a moment. The image on the cloth was that of a beautiful young dancing girl. But if he turned his head just right and looked at it from a certain angle, he could see a dancing skeleton.

In awe, he throughly examined the work. He was a lover of the arts; perhaps not a true connesseur, but he still appreciated unique craftsmanship. Back when he was alive, he had collected many similiar objects. Very tentavily, he touched the thread with his fingertips, feeling the patterns of bumps and smoothness in the cloth. He grinned, thrilled by the sensation.

"Do you like it?" asked a level, calm voice behind him, causing him to turn. Leila's mother walked into the room, holding a steaming mug in each hand. She was a pretty, mousey woman in her early forties. Loosely, her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and tendrils had escaped, curling around her ears and face. She wore a simple, long poofy-sleeved white top, with tiny emboroided flowers around the collar and on the shoulders. It reminded George of something a peasant might have worn in the times of the Renaissance. A long, beige skirt flowed down nearly to her comfortable mocassins. Around her neck she wore a thin strip of leather that had a small silver pentagram charm dangling from it. She had kind slate gray eyes that exuded warmth, despite their cold color.

"It's beautiful," answered George, taking a step back away from the tapestry. "I've never seen one like it before."

"It's one of a kind," Mrs. Toombs beamed, handing Leila and Paul each one of the mugs. "Took me nearly a year to make. I'm surprised you haven't seen it, Paul. But, then again, I had it in the attic for a while and put it back up a few weeks ago. Maybe you just haven't visited since." She smiled in a sad sort of way. "Ashley thought it was too morbid."

George inhaled the aroma of hot chocolate, his mouth watering in anticipation. And Mrs. Toombs had even put in marshmallows! "Well, she obviously has poor taste."

Mrs. Toombs didn't say anything. The corner of her lips twitched up slightly, as if she couldn't decide whether to smile or cry.

"Paul," Leila interjected, breaking what was becoming an awkward silence, "you can't have marshmallows, remember?"

"I can't?" asked George, the edge of the cup tilted to his lips.

"No, you can't. They make your braces all gunky."

"Oh, sorry about that, Paul!" Leila's mother cried, taking the mug from him. "I'll get you a fresh glass."

As she hurried into the kitchen, a pitiful squeak escaped George. "But... my marshmallows." He turned to Leila, eyes big and lip quivering pitifully. "That's not fair!"

She shrugged one shoulder and slucked up one of the white, cotton-like lumps loudly. "Them's the breaks."

He glared at her as fiercely as he could. His shoulders slumped as he thought of those bits of fluffy goodness getting away. But after Mrs. Toombs returned, his worries were soon forgotten as the delicious hot liquid poured down his throat.

"Paul?" asked Mrs. Toombs worriedly as she watched the boy chug the cocoa as fast as he could without choking. "Were you thirsty, dear? Should I get you some water instead?"

Without pulling his lips away from the cup, he looked at her and shook his head. He drained the entierty of the glass and finally looked up with a sigh. "Ah...That's good cocoa," he declared with a contented smile.

"Should I get you another cup?"

As much as he wanted it, he had to shake his head. His throat felt scorched, and his tongue felt as if the skin had been burned off. "No, thank you, ma'am."

Leila stifled giggles behind her black sleeve. She patted the couch beside her, motioning for George to sit down. He obeyed, feeling grateful for the soft seat. His backside was still sore from hitting the pavement so much during the dodgball game.

"So," Mrs. Toombs began as she sat on a reclinear across from them, "what have you been up to, Paul?"

"Oh, um..." George struggled to think of something. "Not much. We had a history test today."

"How'd you do?"

"Great! After all, I was there when--" Before he could make a stupid mistake, Leila nudged him hard in the ribs. "Ow!"

Mrs. Toombs gave her an odd look. "Leila, I got a call from Mr. Coats after school let out." She raised her eyebrows in such a way that Leila knew she was in trouble. "How did you manage to get detention?"

"Locker trouble." The girl quickly answered.

Again, the eyebrows were raised, letting Leila know that she had been caught lying. "We'll discuss this later." She smiled. "So Paul, how has your little sister been?"

"Oh, uh, fine!" George practically yelled. "She's as sweet as always." Those arched eyebrows creeped him out.

"Mom," Leila quickly interjected, "Paul and I have some homework to do." She jumped up from the couch, holding his wrist.

"Bye Mrs. Toombs!" George called as she dragged him into her room. "Thanks for the cocoa!"

"You're welcome Paul...Leila, keep the door open!"

Her daughter groaned. "Mo-om!" Her mother had never asked her to do that before. She wondered what it was exactly that Mr. Coats had told her mother.

Leila's room wasn't very big. But, then again, her house wasn't either. Above her bed was a large dream catcher. She had a digital alarm clock on her bedside table. A bookshelf, crammed full, was along the right wall, a dresser occupied the left, and a book-covered desk was beside the closet doorway. Atop the dresser were various photogrphs, mainly of her and Paul at various birthday parties, hanging out at the beach, and some with them just grinning or laughing. Beside the dresser, was a painting her mother had done. It depicted a very young--perhaps three or four years old--Leila with the same blond man George had seen earlier. In tiny pen writing on the bottom of the picture it read, "Leila and Ashley" and it was dated nearly twelve years ago.

George felt a pang of embarrassment. He had thought that Ashley had been some friend of Mrs. Toombs, not Leila's father!

"Whatever Mr. Coats said, it's not true!" Leila cried before almost, but not quite, shutting the door. "Great. My own mother thinks we were...you know...doing that in the hallway." She visibly shuddered at the thought of her and Paul kissing. "Lord knows what rumors will spread by tomorrow. I hate people." She put her hands on her hips and huffed. "So, let's get to work."

"What are we looking for?" asked George as he watched Leila pull a cardboard box out of her closet. It was marked "Ashley's Books".

"Ghost stories, of course."

"Dude, this is so awesome!" cheered Paul as he scanned his eyes over the shelves. "Are these all first editions?"

"Oh great," groaned Ezra sarcastically, "we got a book worm."

Paul didn't take his eyes off of the tomes as he said, "You're just jealous 'cause you're illiterate."

"What's that 'sposed to mean?" shouted Ezra defensively as Phineas and Gus laughed.

"Is this," Paul gasped, "a first edition of H. G. Wells's Time Machine?"

"Yes," said a nasal, whiny voice near Paul's ear. "It's signed, too, sir." Paul looked up and saw nothing but a ladder. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that some books were shuffling themselves, moving in and out of the bookcase, rearranging according to topic and then alphabetical order according to title.

"What about the whole 'only ghost stories, of course' thing?" the young man asked, gently waving the book with a grin.

There was a pause, and Paul could imagine the invisible librarian arching an eyebrow skeptically. "That whole gimmick was your idea, Mr. Gracey, not mine." He sounded as if he had gone into the afterlife with a nasty cold. "Of course, you've probably forgotten that by now, just like you've forgotten the library." The room seemed to darken with his mood, the light dimming as he became more depressed. "No one comes in to read, they would all rather party. No one likes to discuss great literature."

"I like to," said Paul, hoping to cheer up the ghost, and genuinely interested in the topic.

"No, no, no!" Ezra, Phineas, and Gus hissed, shaking their heads and waving their arms frantically. When they felt the librarian turn towards them, they hid their hands behind their backs and muttered, "Hey Mitlon," "What's up, Milton?" "How's the librarian business treating you, Milton?"

"You-you never said so before, sir," said Milton, clearly happy. "You usually just come in, grab a book, and leave. You never stay to chat." The lights brightened as his modd lifted. "Have you ever noticed any parallels in Ray Bradbury's and H. G. Wells's writing?"

"Yeah!" Paul agreed enthusiastically, plopping down into a dusty, purple rocking chair.

The three others groaned loudly. "Well," said Phineas optimistically, "it's better than having to worry about Atticus getting him."

A stack of books Milton had been holding dropped to the floor. "Atticus is back!"

"Yeah," replied Phineas. "Did you hear?"

"No, no one ever tells me anything!" Was he on the verge of tears? "George, what are you doing just standing here? Shouldn't you and Leota be taking care of this problem?"

"She seems to have it under control," said Paul pathetically.

"Tell me where it is!" demanded Atticus. A purple stream of magic burst forth from his palm, lifting Leota up off of the table and into the air.

"Never!" Leota shouted back as she hovered near the ceiling.

"Put her down!" shrieked Little Leota, tugging on Thorn's robe. "Daddy, put her down now!"

Without looking, he smacked her away with his free hand, sending the small girl tumbling backwards. "You are not my child, you sickening little freak!" he spat.

Large, green eyes filling with tears, Little Leota trembled. She thought this situation over, seeing it simply as only a child could. Mommy was in trouble, and that person causing the trouble was daddy, who was being a very bad man. Just like Master Gracey had said. She liked Master Gracey and trusted him. Vainly, she wished he were here now, but he was gone and that Paul boy was in his place. Paul wasn't going to help them; he didn't understand even as much as she did, and he had probably been terrified after being flung out the window.

Frowning, she gritted her teeth in determination and got up. She bolted, running as fast as she could, aiming her transparent body at Thorn. Before she could tackle him, he flung back his arm. His eyes had never wavered from Leota, never moved, but he hit Little Leota and sent her flying through the door and out into the hallway. Reeling from the blow, but not actually hurting, she shook her head to chase away the dizziness. Quickly, she jumped back up and tried to run into her mother's seance room. She bounced off the door.

"How does it feel to be left out?" cackled Thorn from inside as Little Leota pounded her small fists on the door. It wasn't fair! She couldn't do anything!

Maybe she could...

Her father -that slimy, evil creature- was looking for something. Maybe she could find it and keep it hidden from him until Master Gracey returned. She had a feeling that if she found it, whatever it was, she would know. With renewed hope and a silent prayer for her mother, she began her search.

"I can't help thinking," George said as he and Leila took book after book out of the box, "that your father is in a very unusual line of work." He looked at the stacks of books around them. All of them had to do with ghosts and magic.

"Was," she corrected. "And I don't know what he did exactly."

"Was he fired?"

She stopped and stared at him. He honestly didn't get it. "He died about four years ago."

"Oh." He blinked a few times and looked away, unure of what to say. "Sorry."

"You didn't know," she said in a flat tone. "It's okay."

After a short moment of silence, he said "If it's any consolation, I lost my father at a young age." She stopped pilfering to look up at him. He seemed torn between being genuinely sad and not caring. "My mother buried a hatchet in his head," he continued, as if it was normal conversation. "She found out he'd had an affair. After his death, I went off to boarding school, and she left."

"Who took care of you?" Leila asked, pausing to hear his story.

"An aunt, my mother's older sister. How did your father die?" The question was asked as if he was just inquiring about tomorrow's weather.

"The plane he was on crashed while flying to one of his business trips." She waited for a reply, but just got a noncommittal "Ah." She wondered if George knew what a plane was, but didn't ask. "Did you ever know something was going to happen before it happened?" she asked.

"You mean, like a foreboding feeling? A few times. Do you get it a lot?"

She nodded. "Yeah, that and deja-vu. This Thorn guy you mentioned makes me feel that way. I still don't know what I'm supposed to do about him, by the way."

"Leota tapped you for a reason," said George simply. "I think she made the right choice. There's something about you that's unsettling, you know."

She arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"It's true. There's an energy about you. It flickers in your eyes." He stared hard into her eyes, making her nervous. "It's a fierceness I've only ever seen in one other person."

"Who?" she whispered.

"Leota." He leaned back away from her; she hadn't realized they had been so close. If her mother had stepped in, it probably would have lead to a grounding.

She averted her attention down to the cardboard box. Lying at the bottom of it was the last book, an old laterbound volume. It was simply black, with no lettering or title on the front. The pages were yellowed and unevenly cut along the side. As she picked it up, she felt a jolt, like electricity, rush through her hand and up her arm. In her surprise, she almost dropped it.

"What is it?" asked George. His mouth dropped open. "I've seen this before!" he cried excitedly.

Leila opened the front cover very carefully, afraid it would tear off. On the first page it read in carefully handwritten script:

The Journal of Sisters Alea and Leota Audley and Mr. Uriah Toombs
The Brotherhood of Light

"Oh my god," whispered Leila. "Alea and Uriah...those are my great grandparents!"

Several spaces underneath of those names, in blue ink was:
Christopher and Rosa Toombs

"They were my grandparents!" She knew what must come after that as her eyes scanned down towards the bottom of the page.

In much darker ink was:
Ashley Toombs

"My dad."

A/N: Our sincere apologies for the delay in chapter putting-up-ness.

That stupid line button wouldn't work.