End of Last Post:

Nancy slowly perused the shadowy faces in the crowd. The process of passing the flame must now occur, and she wasn't quite certain how she was going to do it. Drake Settler had gotten off easy. He just wrote a note on a piece of parchment and placed it in a box. She, on the other hand, had to stand in front of a throng of people and talk.

Taking a deep breath, Nancy Jordan glanced at the note cards in her hand. Gently she laid them aside. She would not need them now. Clearing her throat nervously, she began. As she started to speak, her countenance changed. Years seemed to fall away from her face, as she became, once again, a 12-year old Daredevil Girl from Bunker Hill.

The Story Continues:

"Let me first begin by explaining my style of storytelling," Nancy said. "I always add conversation as I remember it or imagine it was said. It makes the story seem more realistic. I don't have a perfect memory, but that's just how I tell stories."

"We'll do the same," Tabby said from beside her. "Just get it started and we will follow as closely as we can."

Nancy nodded and began again.

"I would also like to say that there are such things as supernatural beings. They are as diverse in kind and purpose as are the creatures that grace our planet, and like these creatures, you can find the gentle, the beautiful, and the deadly. Most are good people, living out their lives as law abiding citizens. Others are vicious predators. It is these that you hear the most about, for it is human nature to be attracted to danger.

"The one thing these beings have in common is their determination to remain anonymous. There was once a time in civilization's history when they were accepted, their kind embraced by a trusting world. But those days have long since passed, as the exploits of the evilest betrayed that trust. In the beginning, I could not see them any more than any of you can, but now I do. You simply have to know what you are looking for and where to find them. As you listen to my stories, you will gain a window into their worlds. After that, you just have to allow yourselves to believe.

"I will not go into how our group formed or even about our earliest activities together. Suffice to say, we gathered together with the intention of enjoying each other's company and of making our community a better place to live. All went smoothly until the ghost of a man named Drake Settler bestowed on us purpose and direction. He gave us the task of searching out and destroying the evils of our generation. After that point, we usually didn't have to hunt for adventures; they seemed to come looking for us.

"My story begins on the 4th of July, in the summer before we started the seventh grade. Our chief intentions that night were to have a good time and to celebrate the Birthday of our country. What could have been more innocent and carefree? But as had begun to happen to us already, the night had different plans.

"There was a creepy old house on the outskirts of Bunker Hill, called Fur Trader Creek Estate, that was a bicycle ride away from where I lived. The mansion was three stories high with a full basement and attic. It was rumored to have secret rooms as well. It once belonged to a wealthy family, the Smyths, who had immigrated to Bunker Hill from London in the early 1800s. Wealthy before they arrived, they became even richer once they turned a 2000-acre ranch into a cotton plantation. The estate utilized scores of employees, slaves and indentured servants.

"Their business endeavors eventually became so widespread that you could find the Smyth name appearing in local real estate, banking, shipping and some other profitable, yet less legal, areas of industry. They were harsh taskmasters and unforgiving landlords, but they seemed to be a necessary evil in the developing town.

"Then, as often happens to such people, tragedy struck. The youngest son, Stewart, was killed in a saloon in town in a situation that he entered into with the best of intentions. While pure in heart, and shielded by his family from the shadier areas of their operation, he was somewhat aware of the mischievous tendencies of his older siblings, and that's what got him into trouble that night.

"It all started when he was in town picking up supplies. He overheard a rumor that there was going to be trouble at the local eatery and bar, the Silver Spoon, that very evening. According to the rumor, the owner's sons were determined to teach the rowdy Smyth boys a lesson in manners once and for all. They were tired of being pushed around. Stewart happened to know that his four older brothers were headed there to play poker and drink. He decided to go warn them of the danger.

"When he arrived, he begged them to listen to what he had heard, and to follow him home at once. They laughed off his fears and ordered him to return home. He refused, choosing to plant himself on a barstool and wait. They were a bit concerned about their mother's reaction to them allowing the teen to stay in the bar, but they were young and headstrong, and figured he needed to learn something about being a man.

"At first, everything went well. Games were played, games were won and lost, and no one really got upset. But then, as usually happened, an argument broke out between the Smyths and the saloon owner's sons. The difference this time was that the owner's sons had come armed and ready for battle. As bullets whizzed around, mostly designed for intimidation, Stewart was accidentally shot and killed. No one had planned to hit the boy, but gun battles are gun battles, and often the most innocent are the ones who pay the price for violence.

"The next day, Tom Smyth, the patriarch of the family, took his remaining four boys and went to pay the saloon owner a visit. Someone tipped the owner off before they got there, and they never made it to the front door. Mr. Smyth and three of his sons were killed within minutes of their arrival. One son, though seriously injured, survived to tell his mother, Maggie, what had happened.

"Almost at once, Maggie became reclusive, and the business crept inevitably towards ruin. Blake, the lone surviving son, eventually gave up trying to run it at all. He joined the army and was killed in the battle of Gettysburg. Upon hearing her last son had died, Maggie sank further into despair, finally drinking poison and dying in an upstairs bedroom. It was rumored that her ghost and the ghosts of her husband and sons haunted the decaying mansion.

"There is nothing like the lure of a haunted house to draw a group of young sleuths out on a warm summer night. So, on the evening of my story, we decided to bundle our collective courage and spend the night in the old house. We stuffed our backpacks full of everything we could think of that we might need to survive our adventure. We also packed enough fireworks to start a small war for a front lawn party. Haunted houses can't just be entered straight away, you see. You have to work your way up to them."