The Scariest Night

by Betty R. Wright

  “If you’re going to just sit here, you might as well scratch behind my left ear. It’s been itching for years.”

  The voice was thin, whiny, and so close that Erin jumped. She stared unbelievingly into the eyes of the stone lion.

  “Don’t gape,” the lion whined. “People always gape, and it makes me nervous.”

  Erin thought she must be dreaming. The stone lips didn’t move, and the eyes didn’t blink, but the lion was talking, as sure as he crouched there.

  Chapter Six

  “It talked!” Erin had waited till the rippling sounds of a piano told her Cowper was busy with the Thursday night radio concert. Now she faced her mother and father with the incredible news. “It was a miracle!”

  Mrs. Lindsay smiled, and Mr. Lindsay slapped his forehead in mock astonishment. “What did he say?” he demanded. “That he was tired of just lion around?”

  Erin ignored the pun. “He said, ‘Scratch me behind the left ear. It’s been itching for years.’”

  Her mother and father burst out laughing. “And did you scratch him?” Mr. Lindsay wanted to know.

  Erin frowned. “I ran back inside.” She knew what had happened was hard to believe, but she didn’t want her parents to laugh. “You’d have run, too, if you’d heard him.”

  “Erin, you have a wonderful sense of humor,” Mrs. Lindsay said. “I was beginning to think you’d lost it someplace between here and Clinton. Obviously not.”

  “And a great imagination,” her father added. “I’ve often wondered what a statue would say if it could talk. Now I know.”

  “I’m not making this up!” Erin exclaimed. “The lion talked to me.”

  Her mother’s smile began to slip away. “All right,” she said, “don’t carry the joke too far. A funny story is one thing but—”

  “If Cowper told you the lion talked, I bet you’d go right downstairs and listen for yourself. But when I tell you, you say I’m lying.”

  Mr. Lindsay stood up and stretched. “I’m game,” he said. “If I thought he’d talk to me, I’d sit on the steps all day and all night.”

  Erin saw the little grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t bother,” she said with as much dignity as she could manage. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not.”

  But of course it did matter. Over the next few days, when her parents went to their classes at the university and Cowper was delivered each morning to the conservatory, Erin thought about the lion a lot.

  She tried to describe her adventure in a letter to Heather. I was sitting there by myself, and all of a sudden … She started again. The scariest thing happened to me yesterday.…

  It was no use. Heather might not laugh at her the way her parents had, but she wouldn’t believe what had happened either. She and Meg and Emily had probably had such a thrilling time investigating the haunted schoolhouse that they weren’t giving Erin Lindsay a thought.

  The next few days dragged by. Erin listened to soaps and read two suspense novels her father brought home from the university library. Sometimes she sat on the front steps of the apartment building, wishing she had a friend to talk to but finding no one. The people who went up and down the wide steps were all old and worried-looking. Few of them bothered to say hello.

  Sara Crewe would find something exciting to do, she told herself. And still she sat there.

  Once, when she was sure no one was looking, she reached up and scratched the lion behind his left ear. He didn’t even purr. By the fourth day, she began to wonder, just a little, if her mother and father might be right. Maybe the lion’s voice really had been in her imagination. Sara Crewe always made up fantastical stories to cheer herself when she was depressed. Was it possible to do that without even knowing it?

  On the fifth morning, after Erin’s mother had left with Cowper and her father had gone to their bedroom to study, Erin decided to give the lion one more chance. She hung the apartment key on a string around her neck and let herself out, closing the door softly behind her.

  It was a dark, overcast day, so the long hallway was even drearier than usual. Erin turned to the back stairway, deciding she’d rather walk than ride in the creaking elevator. On the fourth-floor landing she stopped, then started down the hall toward Molly Panca’s apartment. Maybe Molly would listen to her story of the talking lion without laughing; after all, a medium should be used to strange happenings.

  “Help!”

  Erin jumped as the harsh cry broke the silence of the hallway. The voice came from apartment 405, just a few feet from where she was standing. Erin looked around, hoping someone else had heard it, but all the doors remained tightly closed.

  “Help!” The cry came again, followed by another, even more startling. “Save the poor sailor!”

  Hesitantly, Erin turned the doorknob of 405. If the door was locked, she’d have to run upstairs and get her father. But it swung open easily, and she found herself staring into a living room the size of Molly Panca’s. An old man lay on the couch that filled one wall, his head pillowed on his arm. A large green parrot perched on the arm of the couch at his feet.

  “Help the poor sailor!” the parrot squawked. He swiveled his head to peer into the kitchen where flames leaped from a frying pan on the stove.

  Erin hurtled across the living room and into the kitchen. The fire was licking at the bottoms of the cupboards above the stove and had already blackened one wall. A dish towel on the counter was starting to smolder.

  She looked around desperately for something she could use to smother the fire. On the tiny kitchen table was a baking sheet covered with neat circles of dough waiting to be fried. Erin snatched it up and slid it over the flaming skillet with enough force to send the doughnuts flying in every direction.

  Something heavy landed on her shoulder. Sharp claws dug through her T-shirt. “Good girl!” the parrot cheered. He hung on fiercely while Erin turned off the gas burner and dropped the scorched dish towel into the sink. Then he flapped to the counter and paced its length with a haughty expression.

  “What’s all this now?” a voice demanded. Erin whirled around and discovered the old man standing close behind her. His white hair stood up in tufts all over his head, and his glasses rode on the tip of his nose. He looked frightened and angry.

  “Who let you in?” he demanded. “What’re you doing to my poor Sailor?” He held out an arm, and the parrot promptly strolled up to his shoulder.

  Erin pointed at the blackened back wall. “Your parrot called for help,” she explained. “I was walking down the hall and—”

  “Good gravy!” The man ran gnarled fingers through his hair, making it stand up straighter than ever. “The doughnuts! I remember now. Got ’em all ready to fry, and then I thought I’d rest a little while the oil was heating.… Don’t ever do that!” he turned on Erin severely. “When you’re heating oil you better be on your toes every minute, and don’t you forget it!”

  Erin nodded. “I-I don’t make doughnuts,” she said. “My mother says it’s too dangerous.”

  “Your mother’s a smart woman,” the old man said. He touched the charred wall and shook his head. “I’ll have to fix this up,” he said. “Don’t want Grady to see it, that’s for sure. Have enough trouble with him over Sailor here. The man don’t like pets, you know.” He picked up a limp ring of dough from the floor. “Wasn’t really my fault, anyway. My wife said, ‘Cook,’ so I cooked. I bet she’s sorry now.”

  Erin looked around. There was nothing about the stark little kitchen to suggest a woman worked there, but she was relieved to hear the old man had a wife to look after him. In spite of his blustering, Erin could tell he was deeply upset.

  “When your wife comes home,” she said, “please tell her I’m sorry about the doughnuts. I couldn’t see anything to smother the fire with except the baking sheet.”

  “Oh, she’s here right now,” the man said cheerfully. “Can’t talk to her, of course, but she’s here. Been dead six years this August, but
she never leaves me—not for a minute.”

  “Really?” Erin backed across the living room, ready to run. “I have to go now,” she said nervously. “You’ll be okay, won’t you?”

  “Of course I’ll be okay. Sailor and me—we do just fine.” He put out a hand. “Name’s Barnhart. What’s yours?”

  Erin told him her name and explained that she had just moved in for the summer. “I’m glad to meet you—and Sailor.” She reached for the door.

  “Poor Sailor,” the parrot commented. He twisted his head to look again at the mess in the kitchen. Then he turned back to Erin. “Good girl,” he announced firmly.

  “Just don’t try to make doughnuts,” Mr. Barnhart said. “Better stick to meat loaf.”

  Erin let herself out and closed the door behind her. Laughter bubbled up inside her. She’d probably saved Mr. Barnhart’s life, and all she’d gotten for her trouble was a warning. Except for Sailor, of course, she corrected herself with a giggle. Sailor thought she was great.

  The laughter faded as she imagined herself telling her mother and father and Cowper about this new adventure. Her mother would be appalled at the danger. Her father would say, “First a talking stone lion, then a ghost in the kitchen. What goes on here?”

  Too bad I didn’t have the camcorder with me, she thought. Erin Lindsay, Girl Firefighter. It would have been fun to show that to her friends when she got home.

  Erin stopped short, the word camcorder ringing in her ears. Camcorder—what exciting thing could she do with the camcorder? Suddenly, she knew.

  Sara Crewe would be proud of my new idea, she thought gleefully. She went skipping down the hall without a thought of what the ogre Mr. Grady might do if he caught her.

  Chapter Seven

  “First a talking stone lion, then a ghost in a kitchen! What goes on here?” Mr. Lindsay raised his eyebrows at Erin over the top of the sports page. “Do you s’pose it has something to do with your friend the medium? What’s her name—Molly Hanky-Panky? Maybe the spirits sort of hang around this building because she has the welcome sign out.”

  “Her name is Molly Panca,” Erin said. “And I’m only telling you what happened. Mr. Barnhart said his wife was right there in the kitchen with us.”

  “Well, whatever,” her mother interrupted, “I’m very proud of you, Erin. Some people your age wouldn’t have had the least idea what to do in that kind of emergency. Would you know what to do, Cowper?”

  Cowper frowned. “I wouldn’t have thrown all those doughnuts around,” he said. “I like doughnuts. Why not just dump some water on the fire?”

  Erin shook her head disgustedly. “If you did that, you’d burn down the whole building!” she exclaimed. “You can’t put out an oil fire with water. The water just splashes the oil around. You have to cut off the oxygen with a cover. Or you can throw flour on a fire,” she added digging deeper into her memory. Last summer she and Heather and Meg had gone on a weekend camp-out sponsored by the Clinton Recreation Department. The camp counselor had taught them a lot about fires and outdoor cooking.

  “Oh well.” Cowper shrugged as if the whole question was unimportant. But he looked impressed in spite of himself.

  “Anyway,” Erin said, “I have something very important to tell you. And everybody has to listen”—she looked sternly at Cowper—“because this affects you.”

  “Wow!” Erin’s father raised his hands, palms forward, on either side of his head. “I’m all ears, ma’am.”

  “I—Erin Lindsay—am going to make a video! A mystery-ghost-story video!”

  Silence. “Well,” Mrs. Lindsay said uncertainly, “that sounds like quite a project, dear.”

  “How?” Cowper demanded. “How can you do that?”

  Erin could hardly wait to explain. “First I’m going to write the script, and it’s going to be really scary. And then I’m going to direct it. And film it with the camcorder.”

  “Direct who?” Cowper asked suspiciously. “Film who?”

  Erin grinned. “You,” she announced. “And Mom and Dad. And me. We’re all going to be in it.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Cowper said. “I don’t know how to act.”

  “I’ll show you.” Erin had made up her mind not to let anyone discourage her. “The whole thing—the acting I mean—will probably just take an hour or so. And I’ll give you an easy part. Maybe you can be the dead body.”

  “Oh, Erin!” Her mother and father exchanged glances. “I’m sure Cowper can do something more than play dead. We’ll all help. You just tell us what to do.”

  “I want a big part,” Mr. Lindsay announced. “I’ve always thought I’d make a better actor than a schoolteacher.”

  Erin nodded happily. It had been easier than she’d expected. Cowbird would probably be stubborn, but this once—she fought down a surge of anger—this once he was going to have to do what she wanted.

  That night Erin didn’t fall asleep for a long time. At first, ideas for her movie crowded into her head. Then she began to think about her father’s suggestion that spirits hung around the apartment building because they felt welcome there. He’d been teasing, of course; still, Erin certainly had had some odd experiences since she’d come to Milwaukee. Tomorrow, she decided, she’d pay Molly Panca a visit and find out what a medium did.

  In the morning, however, all of her plans were postponed. At breakfast her mother and father announced that, since neither of them had classes that afternoon, they’d decided it was time for a family outing.

  “We’re going to the zoo?” Erin said slowly, hardly daring to believe.

  “We’ll have a quick lunch as soon as Dad and Cowper get home from the conservatory,” Mrs. Lindsay said, her eyes sparkling. “Or—this is even better—we’ll pack a lunch and take it with us! I’ve been to the Milwaukee Zoo, and it’s wonderful.”

  Erin was thrilled. “I’m going to take notes for my career notebook,” she said. “A zookeeper is my fourth favorite thing to be when I grow up, if I’m not a veterinarian or an actress or a ghost-detective.”

  Cowper took a drink of milk. “You have to get straight A’s to be a veterinarian,” he said through a milky mustache. “I heard a man talk about it on the radio.”

  “So?” Erin glared at him. “Starting next year I’m going to get straight A’s. I can if I try.”

  She glanced at her mother and saw a flicker of doubt, quickly covered with a smile. “Well, you certainly can do better than you have in the last couple of years,” Mrs. Lindsay said. “But straight A’s aren’t the most important thing in the world. You must just do the best you can.”

  Erin’s face grew hot. Her mother didn’t believe she could be terrific if she made up her mind to be and worked hard at it. Her mother only believed in geniuses. And that wasn’t fair, because genius was something you were born with, like blue eyes or red hair. You didn’t have to work hard to become a genius.

  For a while after Cowper and her father left, Erin stayed in her room, reading and cuddling Rufus. Gradually, as she thought about the afternoon ahead, her spirits lifted. The zoo would be great, and when they came home, she’d start working on her video script. She already had a couple of good ideas.

  At eleven she changed into her red shorts and Save the Whales T-shirt and wandered out to the kitchen, where her mother was making sandwiches.

  “Cream cheese and cucumber for me, cheddar with sliced pickles for you, bologna and mustard for your father, and peanut butter with banana for Cowper.” Mrs. Lindsay dropped another packet of sandwiches into the picnic basket. “Also, peaches and apples, chips, cookies, a Thermos of lemonade and a six-pack of soda. Am I forgetting anything?”

  Erin shook her head. “I’m glad we’re going to the zoo,” she said dreamily. “It’ll be fun.”

  Mrs. Lindsay laid paper napkins on top of the lunch and covered the basket with a towel. “I’m glad, too,” she said. “We haven’t done anything together for ages.” She gave Erin a quick pat on the head. “I like your movie project
, dear. We can all have fun with that.”

  Erin munched a potato chip. “Not Cowper,” she said. “He doesn’t like anything I like.”

  Mrs. Lindsay stopped wiping the table and gave Erin a long look. “You’re wrong about that,” she said. “Completely wrong. Can’t you see how much he admires you? He may not say so, but it’s obvious to me. It’s just that music is his one great interest, and that has to come first.”

  Erin sighed. “I wish—” she began. “I wish—”

  “You wish what?”

  She couldn’t say the words. I wish things could be the way they used to be—before Cowper. Sara Crewe would never say those words. She wouldn’t even think them. But I can’t help wishing. Why couldn’t Cowper be somebody else’s genius?

  Erin wished it more than ever five minutes later, when the door opened and Cowper and her father came in. Her father’s expression was somber, and Cowper was wearing what Erin privately called The Look. His jaw was clenched and he stared at the floor.

  “We’re all set,” Mrs. Lindsay told them gaily. “Cowper, change into your shorts, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Oh no, we won’t, Erin thought. Her heart sank as she looked from her father to her foster brother.

  “I’m afraid we have a change in plans here, folks.” Mr. Lindsay tried to sound offhand. “Mr. Salzman—he’s the man who’s conducting the master class, Erin—Mr. Salzman has invited some people from the university’s music department to hear Cowper play tomorrow. There’s a chance—just a chance—that he’ll be asked to make a guest appearance at one of the university’s summer concerts.”

  Mrs. Lindsay’s stricken expression changed to a broad smile. “Why, that’s wonderful!” She bent and hugged Cowper, who continued to stare at the floor.

  “What’s that got to do with going to the zoo?” Erin demanded. “What do you mean about changing plans?”