The Castle on Deadman's Island by Curtis Parkinson

turn on some lights, but they couldn’t risk attracting attention.
    On the third floor, they found a number of smaller guest rooms, the furniture covered with sheets, likethe ghosts of the less important visitors who’d been relegated there. They went into every room, looking in cupboards and in shared bathrooms, but all they discovered were spiders in the bathtubs and droppings under the beds from the field mice who’d made cozy nests in the mattresses for the winter.
    The main staircase ended at the third floor, but they found back stairs leading up to the fourth floor. “Stairs for the servants, I guess,” Neil said, as he followed Graham’s circle of light up the steep narrow stairway.
    The servants’ quarters on the fourth floor were small poky rooms, each with one dormer window. The slanting ceilings forced Graham and Neil to crouch in places. Again, they searched every room. There was only a faded note in one dresser drawer, scribbled in pencil.
Colin, love,
it said.
Come tonight at one o’clock. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Betsy.
    â€œUh-huh,
hanky-panky in the servants’ quarters,” Graham said. “Not nearly as much as in the guests’ quarters below, I’ll bet.”
    They finished searching the fourth-floor rooms. Apart from the cellar, the only place left was the attic. At the end of the hall, a rope dangled from the ceiling. Neil pulled on it and a hatch on hinges, with a folding ladder attached, swung down. They looked up apprehensively at the dark opening above.
    Graham took a deep breath, climbed the ladder, and stuck his head in. “Hotter than all hell up here,” his muffled voice came back. “I can’t see a thing. Hand me the flashlight.”
    Neil passed it up and Graham switched it on. “Yikes!” he shouted, half-falling, half-sliding down the ladder. Something light and translucent drifted down with him.
    Neil looked at the object on the floor. It was long and scaly and paper-thin. “Holy smokes! Is that what I think it is?”
    Graham nodded. “A snake skin. Gave me quite a start. There’s a whole pile of them up there.”
    â€œHow could snakes get way up there?” Neil wondered aloud.
    â€œSnakes can climb,” Graham said. “They probably crawled up between the walls looking for warmth and hibernated there over the winter. Then they shed their skins in the spring and away they went.”
    â€œJeez, maybe there’s live ones still up there.”
    Graham started back up the ladder. “Not likely at this time of year.”
    Neil followed him reluctantly. There was just room to stand. Cobwebs brushed their faces and dried snake skins crunched underfoot. Graham swung the light around the acres of attic. It picked out old steamer trunks with worn leather straps and boxes overflowingwith books. Then, in a far corner, something big and black. In the weak beam of light, it looked like a figure without a head.
    They scrambled for the ladder.
    Neil stopped abruptly. “Wait a minute,” he said, as recognition sunk in. “I know what that is. My mother has one in our attic. It’s a dressmaker’s dummy.”
    Graham climbed back up the ladder. “Of course. Difficult to tell what it was in the dark….”
    â€œOf course,” Neil said.
    Roaming the attic, they came across a rocking horse, its mane and tail moth-eaten, and boxes of expensive-looking toys, barely used. Armies of colorful lead soldiers – British Grenadier Guards, with their tall fur hats, and mounted U.S. Cavalry – were carefully lined up in formation, facing German soldiers with their First World War spiked helmets. Except for the layer of dust on the soldiers’ hats, someone could have just finished playing with them.
    Neil remembered hearing the story of the young son of the second owner, who vanished mysteriously from the castle years ago. “I’ll bet these belonged to