Disclaimer:
For anyone deciding to proceed, may it be known that Trixie Belden, and all of her wonderful friends, take-up residence at Random House, in a magical world known as Golden Books. Sadly, I am not a part of Trixie's world, and the words following are simply a tribute, meant to help preserve her memory. In my world, I am not a professional writer, and no money will come from this project. I am just another fan with an imagination, who longs for a new Trixie mystery.
Thank you!
Chapter 1:The Last Laugh
It was the kind of night that would have given any fourteen-year-old girl a bad case of the goosebumps – even one as adventurous as Trixie Belden. The branches of the trees skirting the cornfield were whipping in the autumn winds, bidding their leaves goodbye. And there was a nip in the air which warned there would be frost on the pumpkins by morning.
Every now and then, the moon would peek out from behind its shroud of clouds and observe what was happening below. But on this All Hallows Eve, it wasn't the heavy gloom around Miss Belden that caused the hair on her arms to rise -rather the thinness of the veil between this world and the next. The nervous girl had the creepy feeling that someone had just walked over her grave.
As the last of the paying customers climbed aboard the hay wagon, Trixie's best friend Diana Lynch shut the rear tailgate and then slid the lock-pin in place. The girls had left their other best friend behind at the farm's main entrance. Honey Wheeler was fainter of heart and had been elected to sell tickets. The Bob-Whites' event to raise money for UNICEF was not for the timid. Unspoken horrors awaited those who dared to ride the haunted trail to Sanderson's Pumpkin Patch.
It was Trixie's job to ensure the costumed visitors remained seated along the way. Arms and legs were to be kept in the wagon. There would be no severed limbs or crumpled corpses on Miss Belden's watch, oh no! There were enough of those among the teenagers' props.
So, strolling up and down the center aisle, the grim girl issued a warning to the giggling ghosts and ghoulies to keep their keesters planted. But as Miss Belden finished her spiel and plopped down atop one of the hay bales, the straw pricked through the dry-rotting material of her witch's costume.
As the smarting girl jumped, the pointed toe of her shoe caught in the hem of her dress, causing her to topple and land at the feet of a young lady wearing a high school letter jacket. As the shy teenager grinned, Trixie smiled back sheepishly and struggled to get up.
If Miss Belden hadn't known better, she would have thought the hay bale had been smarting off. And the red-faced girl muttered a curse under her breath as she retook her seat. Oh, how she hated skirts!
But Honey and Di had decided, as event coordinators, that the girls should dress alike. And the choice of get-ups had been pretty much a no-brainer. The B.W.G.s' club treasury didn't allow for fancy store-bought costumes. So the girls had raided the musty steamer trunks in the Wheeler's attic. Take a jet-black Victorian dress, add a tall pointed hat, and presto, you had an instant witch on a Bob-White budget. And even Trixie had to admit the three young ladies' outfits were positively bewitching.
Mrs. Vanderpoel, the girls' widowed neighbor, and her team of volunteers were similarly dressed. She and the Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson ladies' club would be selling popcorn balls, caramel apples, and hot cider at the end of the ride. Of course, all proceeds would be going to the United Nations Children's Fund. And the Sanderson's were giving away a free pumpkin to anyone holding a refreshment receipt.
Yes, indeed. It surely promised to be a night full of tricks and treats. And Trixie smirked smugly as she glanced at the anxious passengers. Most of the thrill seekers were teens and young adults –too old to go begging for candy and too young to be sitting at home answering the doorbell. And though Miss Belden knew the chills and thrills which awaited them. She was just as nervous and pensive as the crowd.
This was because the time had come to roll. So puckering up, Trixie let loose with a whistle of bob-white, bob, bob, white-Mr. Sanderson's queue, they were all set to go.
The old farmer responded by firing up the sputtering tractor, which would be pulling the wagon. And Trixie waved farewell to her raven haired companion on the sidelines. Diana would remain behind to line up the next tour group.
"Happy Haunting!" Di called to Trixie as she stepped away from the cart, her long black skirt rustling forebodingly in her wake.
A hush had fallen over the passengers.
And as the wooden wagon gave a lurch and started down the trail, the old farmer glanced back with a wicked grin and winked at the Trixie. Only for some unknown reason, the curly-haired blonde found it hard to smile back.
It was as if she'd left her perk at the loading gate. Miss Belden couldn't shake the feeling that the present was riding into the past. That somewhere lost in the twilight zone, a black cat had already crossed her path. It was a sensation the young detective had had before. And it had always preceded a mystery.
The thrill-seekers' journey began uneventfully on that ominous October night. The crafty Bob-Whites had planned it that way to build suspense. The club members' intent was to lull the passengers into thinking they were on a humdrum hayride. Then bam! The chills and thrills would begin like a bolt out of the blue.
But Trixie was already growing restless and was more than ready for the fun to start. She'd never been the type of girl to sit still for long. If Miss Belden hadn't known what was lying in wait just over that first hill, she would have been tempted to jump ship.
The other passengers were also growing fidgety, which added to the young lady's antsiness. The frustrated teen was getting tired of having to lay down the law about staying seated. If one more bigmouth was to call her the Wicked Witch of the East? Miss Belden was libel to detonate.
But did Mark Lippenstift, one of Trixie's classmates from school, care? Hardly. "Hey Witchie-poo, how about a refund?" the young man whooped, swaggering the groaning girl's way. "This gig's about as lame as a one-legged dog. If I don't get my money back, I'm going to sue that club of yours for false advertising. 'Guaranteed to scare the bejeebers out of you.' Yeah, right. What the heck are 'bejeebers' anyway?"
As the costumed crowd twittered around her, Miss Belden bristled. She may not have had the vocabulary of her brother Mart, who'd been responsible for the Haunted Hayride flyers. But she was smart enough to know that a person's "bejeebers" were their wits. And the taunted teenager had just reached the end of hers.
"Fine with me, Mark," the aggravated girl returned snippily. "If your whities are still tidy at the end of this trip? I'll double your refund. Until then? I suggest you button that Lippenstift of yours and retake your seat. If you don't? I'll show you what bejeebers are. Got it, cowboy?"
The troublemaker in the white Stetson hooted. "Ooh, I'm shaking in my boots," he jeered. "Hey everybody, the Wicked Witch of the East is going to show us her bejeebers."
The passengers on the wagon were now rolling in the isle, and Miss Belden tossed in her witch's hat. "Better laugh while you can," she thought with a sniff. "I'll be the one with the last laugh."