“It’s dark in here,” she observed. “Those boarded-up windows keep out the daylight, but we can use my flash—”
“We won’t need it,” Peter said, flicking on the light switch and flooding the rooms with light. The dazed owner of the house stood blinking in their bright glare.
“Wh-what’s going on here?” he finally managed to stutter.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” replied Peter. “Danny showed me your note. Is this the business you mentioned?”
“You mean my boy thinks—” He broke off there, apparently too stunned to finish the sentence.
Judy was a little stunned herself. The house was not a home at all. It was a shop, complete with carpenter’s bench and sanding tools. To the left, as she came in, she noticed a small office. And there on the desk, in plain sight, sat a typewriter exactly like the one she had given Holly.
“Is this—your typewriter?” she asked when she could find her voice.
George Anderson glared at her. “You knew this stuff was here, didn’t you? I’ve read about you, always snooping around in empty houses and giving that brother of yours ghost stories for the Farringdon paper. You’re Dr. Bolton’s daughter, aren’t you?”
Judy nodded. She couldn’t speak because she had seen what was in the corner. Either she was dreaming or one of her ghost stories was about to come true. For there, on top of a neat pile of chair rungs and old rockers, was a familiar face. In fact, there were three of them. Only one leg from the lady table was missing.
“Look!” Judy finally exclaimed, pointing to the pile. “They’re like new, and yet I know they must be the other three legs from our table.”