Jilly-Bean (Jilly-Bean Series # 1) by Celia Vogel

noiselessly, then stopped abruptly as if he were unsteady and about to collapse onto the floor in front of him; but the next instant, he vanished into thin air. “Jesus bless me, was that a ghost?”
    Jillian threw back the blankets and got up. Her first thought was that Mr. Mueller was in trouble. She almost stumbled out of bed; her legs felt weak, and her teeth were slightly chattering; a sweat was trickling down her face and neck. She tried to convince herself this was some kind of mistake or that maybe just a dream. She threw her dressing-gown around her shoulders and stepped out into the corridor, looking about; the whole house was eerily quiet and seemed wrapped in sleep. With a heightened sense of apprehension, she swallowed hard and slowly made her way past the closed doors, down the dark narrow hallway, like a sleepwalker. At last she reached the top of the stairs and stood there, squinting out into the darkness.
    She was looking down into the entrance hall, which lay in complete darkness except for a dim shaft from the porch light coming through the front-door window. She could make out the shadows of furniture and the big grandfather clock in bold relief, its tick, tick reverberating in rhythmic continuity, and for a moment she wasn't sure it wasn't the sound of her own heartbeat thumping against her chest. As if awoken from a bad dream, she grew suddenly aware of being very much alone in a strange house, standing at the top of the stairs in nothing more than her nightgown. She felt a terror creep into the very core of her being; the hairs on the nape of her neck immediately stood on end when she heard a frantic scratching coming from the front door. She wanted to scream, but her throat had tightened up. Her heart was beating wildly. She wanted to turn back; she wanted to flee the scene, but her legs refused to move. It was too late to turn back! She felt giddy and feared she was about to fall down the stairs; so she steadied herself with one hand, leaning against the wall and felt at once a familiar object— a light switch. She drew a deep breath and flicked it on. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness; she scanned the scene before her, and there at the bottom of the stairs was a large human figure lying on the floor. She stared in disbelief, then exclaimed “Oh, Mr. Mueller!” She could barely hear his wheezing laboured breathing as he lay sprawled on the floor like a clump of clothes. His arms and legs looked unnaturally contorted.
    Again she felt giddy, felt the blood rush from her head. It took all her energy to scream out: a scream that shattered the stillness of the house.
    When she came to, she felt a warm hand on her shoulder; someone was smoothing her hair. She looked up and saw Mrs. Mueller gripping the banister as she made her way down the stairs in a pink silk nightgown that strained across her heavy breasts, her hair dishevelled from sleep. “John? Oh, no! Is that my John?” she whimpered. Aunt Jean was trying to comfort her, gripping her hand: “He'll be all right, Joyce. I think he fell down the stairs. The ambulance is on the way.”
    Looking as if he had woken from a bad sleep, her father demanded angrily, “What the heck is going on here?”
    “John's had an accident,” replied Aunt Jean. “It looks like he fell down the stairs.”
    Within minutes the police and paramedics arrived on the scene for the second time.
    Jillian's mother couldn't be consoled. She was in hysterics: “Oh, but didn't Madame Zelda predict an omen of sorts? And there was a warning that John should avoid high altitudes?”
    “What high altitudes? He was walking down the stairs!” replied Adam angrily.
    Mr. Paradis, looking like a defeated man, was pacing back and forth, sweat gleaming on his forehead, his fingers opening and shutting convulsively. “Well, this has turned out to be quite an evening. If the papers get a hold that there was a witches' mass here this evening, I'll be a