The next morning, I was jarred awake by the music of the Doors. The bright sun beaming in through the open windows made my head pound. I was exhausted from the bus ride to Hipsterville, searching for Alexander, and my nocturnal meeting with the inhabitants of the Coffin Club. As I looked outside, the mortal world seemed the same. Jeeps parallel parked. Hipstervillians pushed chic strollers. Birds hung on telephone wires.

But the morning sun shed new light on last night's events. Maybe my Coffin Club experience was just a dream and Jagger just a concoction of my nighttime imagination.

I rose from the futon with a gentle laugh, thinking about my overimaginative nocturnal dreams, when I spotted a charm on Aunt Libby's wooden footlocker, next to my bracelets.

Jagger's skeleton earring. It hadn't been a dream.

I held it in my hand. The bony charm stared up at me. If Jagger was a vampire, I wondered what frights it had observed, dangling from his ear. Was it witness to late-night bites on unsuspecting girls? Had the tiny pewter bones seen Alexander?

I reminded myself that I was doing to Jagger what Trevor had done to Alexander. Trevor had started rumors that the Sterlings were vampires, not because he knew their true identity, but because he wanted to make them a town scandal. Now I was making judgments and jumping to my own conclusions about Jagger without having any facts. I had to spend my energies searching for what I had come to Hipsterville for--a real vampire instead of a wannabe.

I remembered my conversation with the Village Dracula. I had to get to the Historical Society as soon as it opened.

I found Aunt Libby in the kitchen cooking eggs-

"Good morning, honey," she said. "Did you sleep well?" "Like a baby."

"I'm surprised you did," she said, cutting me off. "Something in the living room smells funny," she said, turning off the stove and placing the skillet on another burner.

"My mom packed me some goodies for the bus ride," I said, following her into the living room. "Maybe something spoiled."

"It seems like it's coming from over here," she said, pointing toward the window above the futon.

She quickly pulled back a broken window shade before I could stop her.

"I found it on the floor last night when I went to the bathroom," I improvised. "I thought it was a seashell."

I paused, waiting for her response.

She looked at me skeptically.

"Well, after watching your show last night, I just couldn't sleep," I added.

"But I thought you liked vampires."

"I do, but not at my window."

"You remind me of your father when he was growing up. Loved scary movies, but must have slept with the light on until college," she said.

"Then I guess it's in my genes," I said, retrieving the garlic from the windowsill and sticking it back in the Tupperware container.

"I can throw that away for you," she offered, extending her hand.

"I want to keep it," I said, as I put the container in my purse. "Until college." Aunt Libby laughed, and I followed her into the kitchen. "I have a list of things we can do," she said, as we sat down to breakfast. "We can start by going to the art museum. There's an exhibition on Edward Gorey I think you might enjoy. We can go to the Nifty Fifties diner for lunch; they make a great bacon cheeseburger. Of course, I've never had it, but that's what I hear. After that, we can go antiquing in the neighborhood. Then I have my show. But you can hang backstage. I'm afraid it might be too scary for you to see again," she teased. "Sound cool?"

"I'd like to check out the Historical Society," I requested.

"All that talk about mansions last night with Marshall?" she guessed.

"I think I'll do a report on one for history class."

"During spring break? I figured you'd rather have a picnic in the cemetery," she said, putting down her coffee.

"Great idea! Let's do that afterward."

"I was joking," she responded.

By the time Aunt Libby got ready and I showered and dressed, the morning hours were dwindling. Libby was everything my dad wasn't--while he was an uptight type-A personality, she was a laid- back type-ZZZ. He was fifteen minutes early to a movie, and she was lucky to make it before the credits rolled.

I couldn't convince Aunt Libby to pack a basket of tortilla- wrapped tofu sandwiches and sit by empty graves, but I was able to trade in the art museum for the Historical Society. I grabbed my Olivia Outcast journal from my suitcase and put it in my backpack, and we finally headed out the door.

Dullsville's Historical Society was in an unhaunted late- nineteenth-century church. I had visited it only once on a school field trip and spent most of the time exploring the three tombstones in the cemetery until a teacher discovered my whereabouts and threatened to call my parents.

Hipsterville's Historical Society proved to be more interesting, located in two Pullman railway cars at the old train station.

Inside, I rummaged through pictures of Victorian houses, original menus from Joe's Eats, and letters from early residents. From the second car emerged a woman wearing a lime green pantsuit with matching sandals and a red-hair That Girl do.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"My niece is visiting and would like to do a report on our historical mansions," Aunt Libby said, peering at black-and-white photos of streetcars that hung next to the emergency brake.

"Well, you came to the right place," she said, and pulled a book from a shelf.

"I'm interested in an abandoned estate near a cemetery."

The woman looked at me as if I were a ghost. "Strange. A man was in here the other day asking about the very same thing!"

"Really?" I asked, surprised.

"Was it Marshall Kenner?" Aunt Libby inquired. "He's starring in Dracula."

"No, Marshall was in earlier in the month. This was a gentleman who was new to town."

My ears perked up.

She pulled out several more books and leafed through them as Aunt Libby explored the museum.

"Here's the Landford Mansion," the woman pointed out. "It's in the far north part of town. And the Kensley Estate, toward the east." I studied all the pictures, imagining which one Jameson would have selected. Nothing remotely resembled the Mansion on Benson Hill.

"Which one was the man interested in?" I whispered.

She looked at me strangely. "You should do your report on what you like."

I looked again at all the mansions, each one statelier than the last. I wrote down their names and addresses on the back of the Historical Society's brochure and realized it would take me several spring breaks to visit them all.

As I was ready to close the book, I noticed the edge of a bookmark peeking out toward the back. When I turned to the noted page, I lost my breath. A black-and-white photo of a gloomy nineteenth-century grand estate stared back at me. A wrought-iron gate surrounded the towering house, and at the top of the mansion was a tiny attic window. I envisioned ghosts hiding behind the curtains, too shy to be photographed.

Underneath, the picture read "Coswell Manor House."

"What's this?" I asked the woman, who was organizing the bookshelf.

She glanced at the picture. "I didn't think to mention that one because it's on the outskirts of town. It's been abandoned for years."

"It's perfect," I said.

"Weird. That's what that gentleman said, too."

The woman jotted down an address and handed it to me. "It's on Lennox Hill at the far end of the road."

I dropped a donation in the "Friendly Funds" jar as we left the museum. "That was nice of you," my aunt said, as we walked through the parking lot to the Nifty Fifties diner.

"I'd have given her my college fund if I could've."