Henry Fickle And The Secret Laboratory

Willow Creek was a quiet town, the kind everyone called "an old fashioned sort of place." Nothing new or unusual ever happened. In fact, it was a most boring and unhappening place to be.

When you'd pass by the worn and rusted sign that read, "Welcome to Willow Creek, Established 1714, Population 1,614," you could have held your breath from one end of town to the other. That's how small it was. Everyone knew each other, especially when juicy gossip was going around, like the time George McNulty, the town's gardener, had coffee at Betty Lou's Kitchen with Mrs. Peachtree, who just happened to be on her third marriage.

The town had a scanty police department, one-garage firehouse, and the Willow Times, which was the most uneventful newspaper ever printed, until something unthinkable happened.

Avid readers woke up to a large photograph of the wrinkly face of Henry Fickle, with his scruffy beard and messy gray hair, across the front page. The bold headline read:

BREAKING NEWS

Henry Fickle is reported missing, the police announced late last night. "The case is under investigation," said the chief of police, Smitty, standing outside the station. "If anyone has any information, you're advised to contact our office immediately." Smitty declined to answer any more questions, except to confirm no evidence was found of a break-in and no suspect was taken into custody, as of today.

Fickle's sudden disappearance had been discussed so many times that nobody was quite certain what the truth was anymore. Everyone's interpretation of the tale, however, started in a similar way: Ralph Picit, the mailman, had delivered a large package to Fickle's house, and nobody had seen or heard of Fickle since. He had vanished mysteriously, leaving no trace of what happened. Had he been kidnapped or, worse yet, murdered?

Over at the Watering Hole, the town tavern, the gossip circulating was that Fickle supposedly had a laboratory in his house. "Always thought Henry was a nut," George McNulty told the eagerly listening folks, after his third shot of Whiskey. "He went crazy in the head, he did."

"I quite agree," said a toothless man sitting at the bar. "Why would he be wanting a laboratory?"

The two men exchanged tense looks.

"He had a mad look about him, if you ask me," said an older woman, sipping her wine. "Never associated with anyone. Kept his business to himself ..."

"Ah, terrible childhood," said the bartender, shaking his head. "I remember my grandfather telling me, when Henry was just ten-years old ..."

Nearly a year had passed since Willow Creek had awakened to the shocking news about Henry Fickle, but nothing changed. Nobody had seen any suspicious strangers, and since Fickle's body was never found, the police were convinced the old man had skipped town.

Worn and ripped newspaper clippings dangling from store bulletin boards really showed how Fickle had become old news. Folks moved on with their lives and became interested in other matters. The Willow Times had been busy announcing that Dr. Rufeous Hearty's retirenment party would be held at the local fire company. And, of course, there was the annual bake sale and craft show.

Some curious folks still ventured past the rickety house, even though it had been a year since Henry Fickle lived there. It stood perched alone on a hill at the end of Windy Drive. Folks felt the old house was creepy, and kids often threw stones through the windows. Once a worthy-looking structure with its massive iron gates, the house was now deteriorated and abandoned.

Since Fickle never married or had any living relatives to take over his humble possessions, his belongings were given to charity and the house put up for sale, although no bids were offered.

Then, just when things were back to normal, the Allbrights moved into town, which changed everthing. The case of Henry Fickle had been kept secret from outsiders, and for a very good reason. If word leaked out, if others found out a murder may have been committed ... well, Willow Creek's name would be scarred forever. When the gossip about the Allbrights reached every ear our story starts.

It was late August and nearly midafternoon when the town's nosiest neighbors peered through their curtains, watching the moving van make a wide turn onto Windy Drive. The muffler spit out a loud bang as it crawled its way toward the top of the hill. The atmosphere on the streets of Willow Creek was extremely tense. Uninvited guests made the folks uneasy and restless.

Kipper Reeves, the newspaper boy, skidded his bike just short of the Fickle house's spiked iron gate. He sat there open-mouthed watching the van drive up the long gravel drive. He couldn't believe someone had actually bought Fickle's house. They must have been fearless of Fickle's ghost.

On top of the pillars sat towering statues with intense-looking eyes. To the left of Kipper was an Egyptian god with the words "Thoth, keeper of the records" carved into the stone. On the right was an Egyptian goddess with huge wings. The words "Isis, goddess of the underworld" were carved at her feet. Kipper had never seen such serious statues ... statues that looked to be guarding something very important.

A strong gale made the tree branches curtsey along the gravel drive. Dillon Allbright had been watching the tall, lanky boy from the rear window of the family car. He turned in his seat and smiled, knowing they'd be best friends before the day's end, knowing he'd meet two other kids, whose last name started with the letter F, and knowing that he had unique abilities. But he couldn't foresee that at this very moment, two people meeting in secret knew he'd arrived and were saying in excited voices, "Dillon Allbright is here at last!"

Henry Fickle and the Secret Laboratory Book One
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