The Invisible Realm

By Evelyn Louise Dunbar Webb

Eleven-year-old Hattie is on vacation. But rather than splash in the water, she’s trapped inside a beach cottage as storm-tossed waves pummel sand and wind bashes shutters. As if that’s not enough, she’s also stuck babysitting for her new stepsister Dacey. Bored to the brink of tears, upset over Dacey and her monstrous cat

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bumblemeyer Publications
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780998669892

Book preview

Hattie stared as sheets of water poured down outside, her curly red hair damp from pressing her face against the windowpane. Waves and wind pounded the shore, dumping seaweed like wet dishrags across the sand.

Even my freckles are depressed, she muttered at the swirl of dark clouds hurling across the murky sky. I’ve got to find something to do or I’ll scream.

Some family vacation. Her first trip to the beach since her dad and stepmom Isabelle were married, and it was ruined before it began. She glanced down on her stepsister Dacey, who sprawled on the floor with her nose stuffed in some book about a talking sea serpent, her mossy brown pigtails dangling like beagle’s ears. Hattie sniffed. Married all of three weeks and already Hattie’s dad managed to coerce her into babysitting, and on vacation, too.

Hattie interrupted Dacey’s fascination with talking snakes and nudged her stepsister’s book with the end of her toe.

Aren’t you seven? Why do you need a babysitter, anyway? If you’re old enough to read, you can stay by yourself for an hour or two.

Dacey kept her attention on her book.

You do anything else besides read?

Like what?

Like anything. Our vacation’s being washed away with every raindrop—doesn’t that bug you?

With her nose still stuffed inside her book, Dacey shrugged. I guess we could go for a walk.

Hattie gaped at her stepsister as if she’d sprouted an extra head. A walk? It’s a hurricane outside.

Dacey again shrugged. We could walk around inside.

Oh, really? Where exactly inside?

"The bedroom. We haven’t explored anything, and we’ve been here almost an entire day."

Bedroom? Hattie’s brow arched. That’ll be a short, uninteresting trip.

Where, then?

It seemed to Hattie that Dacey, who demanded so much attention and wasted so much time reading weird creature stories, had this irritating habit of acting dumb when it suited her. Hattie let it slide, but only because she had to admit she was somewhat intrigued by the thought of exploring the old cottage, with or without the bedroom. Her dad had said the place was built way before the Civil War, so that meant there had to be something good stuck somewhere.

What about the attic?

Dacey’s head popped up from her book, her eyes wide. Not the attic.

Why not?

I—I don’t like attics, Dacey stammered. They smell strange, and have lots of spiders, even rats. Her last word ended in barely a whisper.

Uh huh…well, trust me, we’ll be fine.

Dacey bit her lip.

Hattie chose to ignore her stepsister’s panicked face. The attic probably has all sorts of treasure. Weren’t you listening when my dad told us about the people who used to own the cottage? They traveled all the time—Africa, Peru, even China.

Dacey’s eyes narrowed.

And the cellar, Hattie considered, who knows what we can find there—think about it.

I really hate spiders.

Well, I’m 11, I’m the one in charge, so I’m the one who makes the decisions, Hattie declared. She bent down, picked up her stepsister’s book, and shoved it under the sofa where, if Dacey really wanted it back, she’d have to crawl to reach it. We’ll start with the attic.

At that, Dacey’s oversized, multi-toed, freaky cat sauntered into the room, his thick silver tail twitching.

Why don’t you bring His Royal Tubbiness with you? Hattie suggested, leaned forward, and winked. He’d take care of the spiders and rats. He does look sort of hungry.

Dacey stood and gently lifted the cat into her arms. His name is Sir Whiskers, and he’s not fat. He’s a Maine Coon, with lots of fur.

Hattie rolled her eyes. Whatever.

And he doesn’t eat spiders or rats, just crunchy kibble.

BRR-RROW, Sir Whiskers added, and buried his face in Dacey’s arms. Within seconds, however, his attention to the conversation wavered and he squiggled free, landing on the space between Hattie’s feet and curling himself into a corkscrew around her legs.

Hattie pulled the clinging furball free and handed him back to Dacey. Why does he do that?

He likes you.

Couldn’t he just rub and purr, like any normal cat?

Sir Whiskers rotated his head to stare at Hattie upside down. She groaned inwardly. So now the beast had to look at her, all cutesy-like?

He wants you to pet him, Dacey explained.

Which translates into me having to babysit for some creature as well? No way.

Sir Whiskers continued to stare, his unblinking eyes making the hairs on the back of Hattie’s neck jump to attention.

Boo.

Sir Whiskers didn’t budge.

His Royal Tubbiness appears to have a defect.

Dacey pouted at Hattie’s words. Sir Whiskers has nothing wrong with him. He’s just very sensitive.

Fine; now, get moving before my dad and your mom get back and we’re stuck helping them put away all the groceries.

But what about Sir Whiskers?

Like I said, bring him along. Maybe he can sniff out some treasure.

Dacey hugged her cat tighter. Sir Whiskers, however, had had enough of being held. He twisted from her grasp and with a THUD, landed on the floor next to a well-chewed toy mouse.

BRR-RROW-RROW! One fat paw swatted the fuzzy toy, and it sailed down the hallway towards the back of the cottage and the open stairwell that led to the attic, Sir Whiskers thumping close behind.

Dacey shrieked. Catch him!

What for?

He’ll get lost, Dacey wailed.

Hattie doubted it, but said nothing. The last they saw of Sir Whiskers was his fluffed-out tail as he sprinted up the stairs and disappeared into the dark.

Dacey’s eyes filled. Now what do we do? He might get hurt, or trapped, or—.

Stop it, Hattie snapped. He’s a cat. Cats see in the dark. They hear better than us and can smell danger. They use their whiskers to make sure they fit into spaces. His Roy—Sir Whiskers probably found a hole in the wall and some real mouse to chomp on, much better than any stupid toy.

Yuck, Dacey mumbled, but at least she wasn’t crying.

C’mon, kid; you don’t have a choice if you ever want to see your cat again.

CRASH… THUMP… BANG!

W-what was that? Dacey cried.

Hattie shrugged. Ghost, goblin; who knows. We’ll figure it out when we get up there. Let’s find some flashlights.

Of course, now she had to figure out where they should look for flashlights. Maybe a living room or kitchen drawer? Or the pantry, or possibly the back porch.

She checked the porch, but all she saw were boxes waiting to be unpacked. She moved back to the living room, Dacey watching her, and checked inside the end tables on either side of the sofa; empty.

Hattie harrumphed. You going to help?

I don’t know where to look.

Hattie squashed her retort and pointed towards the kitchen.

Check the pantry while I search the counter drawers.

Already did; pantry’s empty.

Hattie ignored her and rummaged through each of the drawers next to the sink until she found two small flashlights and a bunch of different sized batteries. She tossed one flashlight to her stepsister and stuffed a package of batteries in her pants pocket.

Ready?

Dacey swallowed. But the spiders—.

Maybe bats or lizards have already eaten all the spiders.

B-bats? Lizards? Dacey blanched.

Move it, kid; we’re wasting time.

WOO-OOO—THUNK…

Don’t be such a baby—it’s just wind.

Dacey appeared nailed to the floor, so Hattie yanked her sleeve and dragged her towards the stairwell. She flipped the wall switch next to the railing; a flicker of light sparked, then the old bulb at the top of the stairs sputtered to life, adding an eerie reddish glow to light their way.

Aren’t you scared?

Hattie sighed heavily. Wind in a chimney can’t hurt us. I hope, she added to herself, and crossed her fingers behind her back. But I’ll go first, just to make sure the steps are safe.

Shadows popped at her from the cracked plaster wall. A wind gust hit the outside of the cottage above their heads, filtering through unseen cracks in the attic door, which coaxed the old lightbulb into a lopsided sway. In turn, the shadows wavered, then merged into faces.

At least that’s what they look like, Hattie mused.

What are those spots? Dacey asked, indicating the wall.

These? Hattie pointed at the faces. They’re shadows.

They look like ghosts. I don’t like ghosts.

They’re not ghosts; it’s just the light moving because of the wind.

Hattie swallowed against her own uneasiness. The shadows did look like ghosts, one of which only had a head, the other pointing to the top of the stairs.

She walked back down to where her stepsister waited. Okay, kid; stairs are fine. Let’s go.

Dacey hesitated.

Hattie prodded her forward with her flashlight. Come on, kid—we have treasure to find, and your cat to rescue.

Slowly, the girls crept up the stairs, closer and closer to the top, their own shadows dancing along the walls. For several long minutes, all you could hear was the soft squish of Hattie’s sneakers.

Another cool draft escaped from beneath the attic door.