The Case of the Halloween Ghost
John R. Erickson
Illustrations by Gerald L. Holmes
Maverick Books, Inc.
Publication Information
MAVERICK BOOKS
Published by Maverick Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 549, Perryton, TX 79070
Phone: 806.435.7611
www.hankthecowdog.com
First published in the United States of America by Maverick Books, Inc. 1987,
Texas Monthly Press, 1988, and Gulf Publishing Company, 1990.
Subsequently published simultaneously by Viking Children’s Books and Puffin Books, members of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 1999.
Currently published by Maverick Books, Inc., 2011.
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © John R. Erickson, 1987, 1989
All rights reserved
library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Erickson, John R.
The case of the Halloween ghost / John R. Erickson ; illustrations by Gerald L. Holmes.
p. cm.
Originally published in series: Hank the Cowdog ; 9.
Summary: Hank the Cowdog has one of the scariest adventures of his life when he and his cowardly companion, Drover, find themselves in a strange and spooky place on Halloween night.
ISBN 978-1-59188-109-4 (pbk.)
[1. Dogs—Fiction. 2. Halloween—Fiction. 3. West (U.S.)—Fiction. 4. Humorous stories. 5. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Holmes, Gerald L., ill. II. Title. III. Series: Erickson, John R.Hank the Cowdog ; 9.
PZ7.E72556Cat 1999 [fic]—dc21 98-41809 CIP AC
Hank the Cowdog® is a registered trademark of John R. Erickson.
Printed in the United States of America
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Dedication
To Kris on our 20th anniversary
Contents
Chapter One The Mystery Begins with Something Fishy
Chapter Two The Mystery of the Talking Petunia
Chapter Three Slim Cleans House
Chapter Four Miss Viola and Her Dogs
Chapter Five Miss Viola’s Peculiar Eating Habits
Chapter Six Strange and Eerie Sounds in the Night
Chapter Seven Two Ugly Black Things in the Trees
Chapter Eight Junior Claims He Saw a Ghost
Chapter Nine The Case of the Mysterious Tricker Trees
Chapter Ten Caution: Hazardous and Scary Material!
Chapter Eleven You’ll Think It Wasn’t a Ghost, but It Was
Chapter Twelve Don’t Worry, We Escaped but Just Barely
Guarantee of 100% Truth
Chapter One: The Mystery Begins with Something Fishy
It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. Slim’s house was cold and also a terrible mess, and I haven’t gotten to the part about the ghost yet.
There’s a reason for that. A guy can’t get his entire story into the first paragraph, no matter how hard he tries. So you’ll just have to be patient. I’ll get to the part about the ghosts as quick as I can. And when I do, you’ll probably wish I hadn’t.
What we’ve got cooking here is one of the scariest stories of my entire career, mainly because it involves a GHOST. I didn’t think I believed in ghosts, but as you’ll soon see, the ghost we encountered didn’t really care whether I believed in him or not.
So there you are.
It all began, mysteriously enough, at the beginning, and I happen to know the exact time it began: around six o’clock on the evening of October 30.
Drover and I had been making a routine patrol around the western quadrant of ranch headquarters, when all at once we encountered Pete the Barncat down at the calf shed.
There was nothing particularly mysterious about that, because the calf shed was one of his favorite loafing spots. He had several favorite loafing spots. He loved loafing above everything except himself.
Have I ever mentioned that I don’t like cats? I don’t like cats, Pete in particular. So when I saw him primping and preening himself there by the calf shed, I slipped up behind him, said “WOOF!” real loud, and gave him a good scare.
Ho, ho. Hee, hee. Ha, ha. I love it!
He turned wrongside-out, hissed, gave out his usual “Reeeeerr” and climbed the nearest post.
“Sorry, Cat, but we don’t allow loafing or loitering on this outfit. If you’d been taking care of the mouse problem, I wouldn’t have had to do that.”
He glared down at me with his big cat eyes. “Oh, it’s only Hankie.”
“Yeah, and Drover,” said Drover.
“I thought maybe it was a ghost.”
“A ghost?” said I. “Not likely, Cat. I run a tight ship here and I don’t allow ghosts on my ranch.”
“Oh really? Did you know that tomorrow night is Halloween?”
“No, I didn’t know that. Now ask me if I care.”
“Mmmmm, all right. Do you care?”
“Not even a little bit. But, for the sake of argument, what is Halloween?”
Pete moved off the post and parked himself on the top board of the fence. Funny, how a cat can do that. “Halloween is the scariest night of the year. It’s the night when all the ghosts and goblins come out.”
“Oh my gosh,” said Mister Scared-of-His-Own-Shadow, “I don’t think I’ll like that!”
“Quiet, Drover. I’ll handle this.” I turned a withering gaze up to the cat. “For your information, Kitty, we don’t observe Halloween on this ranch, and if you run into any gobs or ghostlins, you might tell them the same thing.”
“It’s ghosts or goblins,” said Drover.
I stared at him. “What?”
“I said, ghosts or goblins.”
“Yes? Is that supposed to mean something?”
“You said ‘gobs or ghostlins.’”
“I did not.”
“Did too, I heard you.”
“And so did I, Hankie.” That was the cat. “You said ‘gobs or ghostlins.’ But no matter what you call them, they’ll be out tomorrow night because tomorrow night is Halloween, and you can’t stop it from being Halloween.”
I drew myself up to my full upright position. “Oh yeah? I said there will be no Halloween on this ranch, and there will be no Halloween on this ranch, period.”
“Oh yes there will, Hankie, because Halloween is already on the calendar.”
“Oh no it isn’t, Kitty-Kitty, because I don’t believe in calendars, ghosts, goblins, or Halloweens, and as long as I’m in charge of Ranch Security, what I believe is the definition of what IS. Any more questions?”
The cat smirked down at me and twitched his tail. “When you see the ghosts and goblins tomorrow night, remember these words: ‘Wlcidkgh elskck clslckbnnbe slckeke.’”
“Huh?” I turned to Drover. “What did he just say?”
“I don’t know.”
I turned back to the cat. “What did you just say?”
“I said, ‘Wlcidkgh elskck clslckbnnbe slckeke.’”
Must have had some wax in my ear, couldn’t make a lick of sense out of what that cat was saying. “What?”
&
nbsp; “Come closer and I’ll say it one more time.”
I hopped my front paws up on the fence and . . . you know what that sneaking, no-good, counterfeit . . . he slapped me across the nose with his claws, stung like fire, brought tears to my eyes, and before I could hamburgerize him, he had vanished.
Drover was staring up at me. “What did he say, Hank?”
“He said . . . shut your little trap and get back to work, you nincompoop, you’ve just been duped by the cat.”
“That sounds like something you might say.”
“I just did.”
“I thought maybe you did. But what about Hollereen?”
“It’s been cancelled.”
“Oh good! Are the ghosts cancelled too?”
“That’s correct. Come, Drover. We’ve used up our allotment of time for your bungling and now we’ve got work to do.” We headed east, out of the front lot and into the saddle lot, and ran into Slim. He had just finished his chores and was closing up the medicine shed for the night.
Drover and I fell in step beside him and escorted him to his pickup, even though my nose still hurt. He lived in a little hired man’s house down the creek—Slim did, not my nose; my nose lived on my face—and he was fixing to drive home for the night.
The sun was going down in the . . . well, in the west, of course, and a chill was beginning to rise from the ground.
Slim blew on his hands and rubbed his arms and looked down at us. “Why don’t you boys come home with me tonight? I need some company, and I’ll let you stay inside.”
Stay inside, like your ordinary pampered house mutts? No way. In security work, we’ve got to be just a little . . .
Oh what the heck, one night in a nice warm house . . . we hopped into the pickup and headed down the creek.
After all, Slim needed company. He was lonesome and . . .
Okay. We pulled up beside the house, after a bone-chilling ride in the back of Slim’s pickup. Drover and I were near frozen, yet somehow we mustered the energy to leap out of the pickup and make a lightning dash for the front door. We were shivering, see, and ready to begin our evening of selfless volunteer work around a nice warm wood-burning stove.
Slim pushed open the door and we raced inside.
Drover cheated and got there first. When I arrived, he had seated himself in front of the wood stove. I went over and joined him, although sitting in front of the stove didn’t do either of us any good because the fire had gone out.
Between shivers, Drover looked around the living room and said, “Gosh, I wonder what happened to this place.” It was a mess.
“I’m not sure, Drover. Either a train wreck or tornado.”
Slim came over and dropped an armload of wood beside the stove, pitched his coat over the back of the nearest chair, opened up the stove, shoveled some ashes into the ash bucket, made a little teepee out of kindling wood, and started wadding up newspapers and pitching them inside.
Then he lit a match and before long the stove was blazing and the chimney was roaring. He closed the door and held his hands over the stove.
“There. Now we’ve got us a fire.” He walked into the kitchen and built himself a sardine and ketchup sandwich for supper, and I, being the senior member of the crew, took the best spot, right in front of the stove.
Say, it was really roaring and kicking out the heat now. Felt wonderful. Sent warm delicious waves up my backbone and out to the end of my tail.
My eyes began to droop and I entered into a state of near perfect contentment—until Drover broke the spell.
“Hank, do you smell something?”
I sniffed the air. “Yes. Sardines.”
“Do they have kind of a burned smell?”
“Negative. Sardines are a species of fish, son, which explains why they have a fishy odor.”
“That’s funny. I thought I smelled burned hair.”
“Impossible. Sardines have neither hair nor fur nor whiskers. Catfish have whiskers but catfish don’t come in a sardine can, so there you are.”
“Well, maybe so, but I could swear . . .”
“Swearing and cursing will never get you anywhere, Drover. You’d be much better off learning to control that temper of yours.”
I returned to my dreamy state. It was so wonderful, I can hardly describe it. My body had become a battleground, as the Knights of Warmth chased the wicked Demons of Cold down my spine, out to my legs and feet and . . .
My dreams were interrupted by Slim’s voice. “Hank, for crying out loud, your hair’s on fire!”
HUH?
Someone was slapping me on the back, and all at once I smelled . . . well, burned hair, or something very close to it. And there was Slim . . . somehow my hair had . . .
“Hank, you do-do, get back from that stove before you burn my house down!”
My hair is very thick, you see, and sometimes it’s hard to feel . . . I still say that sardines don’t have . . . but just as a precaution, I moved away from the stove.
I turned to my assistant. “We’d best keep our distance from this stove, Drover. It’s hotter than you might think.”
“Did you catch on fire?”
“I wouldn’t put it exactly that way, no.”
“I knew there was something fishy going on.”
“That was sardines, Drover, and I think we can drop the subject now. You were wrong but at least you tried. Next time, try a little harder.
“Oh. Okay.”
That took care of that.
Yes, I know. We haven’t gotten to the business about the ghosts yet, but it will come. In this old life, one thing must follow another, just as one thing must precede another.
It seems to work better that way.
Chapter Two: The Mystery of the Talking Petunia
Slim had nibbled off half his sandwich, and now he stuffed the other half into his mouth, filled her plumb up until his cheeks puffed out. He paced the floor in front of us, chewing his supper and wiping his hands on his jeans.
“Poborrow wul huff to cwee iss house up.”
Drover and I stared at him, and twisted our heads at the same time.
He chewed some more and swallered a lump of sandwich that was so big, it made his eyes bulge.
“Tomorrow, we’ll have to clean this house up. My petunia’s coming over for Halloween supper, and I’d hate for her to think I live like this all the time.” He ran a toothpick around his teeth and scowled. “I don’t understand how this place gets in such a mess. I cleaned it up . . . July, I guess it was.”
He shook his head, went back into the kitchen, and had a Twinkie for dessert.
Drover turned to me. “What’s a petunia?”
“A petunia is a variety of flower.”
“He’s having a flower over for supper?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’ll be derned. What would you feed a flower?”
“Water and flower food, I suppose.”
“What would you talk about with a flower?”
“You’d talk about . . . you heard what he said. He’s having a flower over for supper and he wants to clean up the house because he doesn’t want the flower to think he’s a slob.”
“I didn’t know flowers could think.”
I glared at the runt. “Flowers don’t think, and they don’t talk either. That’s part of their charm. You might try it yourself sometimes”
“But I thought you said . . .”
“Never mind what I said. It’s what I meant that matters. Now stop asking meaningless questions.”
“Oh. You mean . . .”
“Exactly. Dry up.”
He dried up for a whole fifteen seconds. Then, “How do you reckon a petunia chews its . . .”
“Drover!”
“. . . food?”
“Shhhh!”
At last, silence. I curled up beside the fire and prepared myself for a nice, long, warm sleep in front of the stove. Not only did I not know how a petunia chewed its food, but I didn’t care.
That was Slim’s problem. If he wanted to socialize with flowers . . . I just didn’t give a rip, is what I’m saying.
I had just drifted off into a wonderful twitching dream about my one and only True Love, the fair and lovely Miss Beulah, when I heard . . . singing? Singing in the distance?
I raised my head and glanced at Drover, who was curled up in a white furry ball and appeared to be fast asleep.
“Was that you?”
His head came up and one eye fell open. “Murgle skiffer.”
“I said, was that you?”
“When?”
“Just a second ago.”
“Well, I don’t know if it was me or not. What did I look like?”
“No, you don’t understand. I thought I heard . . . listen!” We cocked our ears and listened. There it was again!
Oh brethern ain’t you happy?
Oh brethern ain’t you happy?
Oh brethern ain’t you happy?
Ye Followers of the Lamb.
Yes, it was singing, and it appeared to be coming from outside the house.
Suddenly the hair on my bris backled up . . . the hair on my back bristled up, I should say, and a growl came from deep inside my throat. I sprang to the north window, sniffed the curtains, and . . . sneezed. They were very dusty, don’t you see, but after sneezing twice, I barked.
Slim came out of the bathroom, wearing a nightshirt that exposed his bony knees and skinny legs. He came over to the window, walking on crumpled-up toes because the floor was so cold.
“What is it, Hank?”
I barked again. Someone or something was out there in the night, prowling around and singing without permission.
Slim narrowed his eyes and tugged on his chin whiskers and listened. “I don’t hear anything.”
He didn’t hear . . . well, fellers, I could hear it, plain as day! I hopped my front legs up on the window sill and barked louder than ever. I mean, this was getting serious. We had trespassers out there in the night, and you know where I stand on the issue of trespassing.
The Case of the Halloween Ghost Page 1