The Master of Phoenix Hall by Jennifer Wilde

Fete. Greg had informed me that he was going to have to take all the boys from school to the affair, and I would be an additional chaperone. Nan was going with Billy Johnson, and both of us were sewing on the dresses we would wear for the occasion.
    One lamp burned on the low parlor table, and our chairs were drawn up on either side of it. We sat in a pool of warm yellow light, all our sewing things in our laps. It was a comfortable feeling to be surrounded by the silence and serenity of the house. The walls of the parlor were covered with old ivory paper with tendrils of dark green leaves, and the carpet was dark green, faded. The furniture was golden oak, simple and serviceable, and the lamp light shone dimly on the rows of books with their brown and gold leather bindings, I felt at ease, relaxed, having put aside my feelings about Roderick Mellory and now only looking forward to the pleasures of tomorrow and Greg Ingram’s company.
    Peter lay at my feet, curled up and drowsy, his sleek silver gray head resting on his front paws. Nan’s canary sat on his perch, silently pecking at his seed. Nan was sewing bright pink ruffles on the white and green striped dress she would wear to dazzle Billy Johnson and, no doubt, all the other local lads. It was very late and I was sleepy. I wanted to finish putting the stitches in my dress, however, and I sang a little song under my breath in order to keep awake.
    Peter leaped up with a start, bristling. Nan dropped the ruffles, her mouth opening in surprise. For a moment we said nothing, both of us so startled by the dog’s sudden action. Then we heard something outside the window, something moving. It sounded as though someone was in the garden directly in front of the parlor window. I turned off the lamp. I heard Nan give a little gasp as darkness engulfed the room.
    â€œWhat—what is it, Miss Angel?” she whispered hoarsely. “I don’t know, Nan. If anyone is there, I don’t want them looking in on us. Do—do you hear footsteps in the garden? Perhaps Peter had a bad dream—” I paused, listening. There was movement outside. I could not be sure what it was. Perhaps a cat, perhaps the wind blowing one of the tree limbs against the side of the house.
    I stepped across the dark room to the window, pushing back the curtain and peering outside. It was a beautiful night, the moon riding on a bank of dark black clouds. It went behind the clouds temporarily, and the garden became a patchwork of velvety black shadows, relieved by tiny pools of silver. The shadows moved, but it was windy and the tree limbs groaned and waved, throwing dark arms of shadow over the garden. I was not greatly alarmed. There could easily be a logical explanation for the noise, and Peter could have been dreaming.
    â€œIs anyone out there?” Nan whispered.
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œBut that noise.”
    â€œIt must have been the wind, Nan.”
    â€œOh.”
    Peter threw his head back and began to howl. Nan clutched her hands together dramatically. I squinted my eyes, peering out at the maze of shadows, seeing the flagstone path shining in silver glow, surrounded by the dark tree trunks, all in shadow. I saw the dark form of the wheelbarrow I had left in the garden and beside it the lumpy half full bag of manure Billy had brought me to fertilize the flowerbeds with.
    Then I saw the dark form standing beside the oak tree. It was unmistakably human. I felt a cold chill creep over my body. Nan came up behind me, and she, too, peered out over my shoulder. We watched the man standing there, half leaning against the trunk of the tree. We could see that he was not very tall and had the stocky build of many of the local men. He held a large, flat object in his hand, but it was so dark that we could not tell what it was.
    â€œMiss Angel—”
    â€œKeep still, Nan. The doors and windows are all locked. He can’t get in.”
    â€œWhat is