The Case of the Crooked Carnival by Michele Torrey

D awn had barely cracked in the small town of Mossy Lake. A few squirrels sleepily rubbed their eyes. Mostly, though, the town was still asleep on this early, lazy Saturday morning.
    But in one particular house, up the stairs and in the attic, all was astir. Beakers boiled. Solutions swirled. And electrical currents flowed.
    In the center of it all stood Drake Doyle. Now one might think he was mad, in the mad scientist sort of way. His cinnamon-colored hair stood straight up, as if he’d slept upside down. He wore a lab coat. He stared through the apparatus in front of him as if he’d unlocked the secret to brain transference. Or Martian communication.
    But Drake was no mad scientist. No indeed.
    He flipped the switch. He said, “Aha!” and scribbled in his lab notebook.
    Just then, the phone rang. Who would be calling at such an hour? Perhaps it was because his business cards said to call anytime:
    Doyle and Fossey:
Science Detectives
call us. anytime. 555-7822
    Drake and his partner, Nell Fossey, were the best amateur science-detective geniuses in the fifth grade (besides being best friends). They had a long list of satisfied customers and cases solved.
    And that’s why, on this early, lazy Saturday morning Drake picked up the phone: “Doyle and Fossey.”
    “Uh—uh, hello? Is this Detective Doyle?”
    Drake’s heart sank. It was Edgar Glum, the gloomiest kid in school. Edgar never told jokes. Edgar always wore black. If someone passed out cupcakes on their birthday, he’d say, “I only got one.”
    But, sinking heart or not, Drake was a professional, and professionals never lose heart entirely. “Ah, yes, Mr. Glum. What can I do for you?”
    “Woe is me. I have a problem. I’m hearing ghosts and ghouls at night.”
    By this time, Drake and Nell were considered ghost experts. Even so, Drake’s heart still skipped a beat. “Ghosts and ghouls, you say?”
    “Their moaning and howling and clanking have kept me awake for a month. Oh, woe,” Edgar sighed drearily. “I suppose you won’t take the case. I’ll have to call James Frisco.”
    Frisco! While Drake only appeared to be a mad scientist, James Frisco was the real deal. Frisco splashed and spilled chemicals, while Drake carefully poured them. Frisco made paper airplanes out of instructions, while Drake carefully read them. Frisco’s favorite scientist was Dr. Frankenstein, while Drake’s was Dr. Einstein. (In fact, Frisco’s mother was still having nightmares following Frisco’s latest attempt to reanimate dead cockroaches.) So you see, Frisco was a very bad, very mad scientist indeed:
    FRISCO
bad mad scientist
(Better than Doyle and Fossey)
Call me. Day or night. 555-6190
    Drake could never let Frisco take the case! “Never fear, Mr. Glum. No ghost or ghoul is too frightful for Doyle and Fossey!”
    Drake hung up and called Nell. “Edgar Glum’s got ghosts and ghouls. We must investigate.”
    “You do know, Detective Doyle, that Edgar lives in the dreariest, spookiest house in town?”
    “Check.”
    Click.
    The Glum mansion was indeed the dreariest, spookiest house in town. Porches sagged. Gnarled trees loomed overhead.
    Now Drake might have lost heart entirely had it not been for Nell, who, as usual, was the first to arrive, ready for business. Her coffee-colored hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she had a pencil behind her ear. “Ready, Detective Doyle?”
    “Ready.”
    Together they stepped onto the sagging front porch and rang the doorbell.
    After a few tense moments in which Drake thought he felt something tickling the back of his neck, the door opened.
    It was Edgar, looking as if he’d just eaten a lump of cold oatmeal. “You rang?”

I nside, Edgar’s home was dark and creepy. Yellowed wallpaper peeled from the walls. A rickety staircase led upward into the shadows. A chilly draft crept through the hall, smelling like mummies and wet socks.
    If truth be told, Drake wished with all his heart that he could turn right around