The Ghost of Ernie P.

by Betty Ren Wright

  The auditorium was at the far end of the building. Jeff skidded to a stop in front of the big curtained doors in the lobby and looked around. There was no one to see him. He opened one of the doors a few inches and slipped in sideways.

  It was like stepping into a cave. All at once, the brightly lit hallway seemed miles away. He slid his hand along the wall, looking for a light switch, and almost panicked before he found one. Tiny lights flicked on above the doors and around the walls. They only made the rest of the auditorium seem darker. He could barely see the stage.

  Walking down the long center aisle was just about the hardest thing Jeff had ever done. He tried to picture the auditorium the way it had been less than an hour ago, filled with people and conversation, but that only made the emptiness more scary. When he’d gone halfway, he realized that the stage curtains had been closed. If he wanted to find his speech, he’d have to go behind them to look for the podium.

  No way, he thought. I can’t do it. But he kept on walking. This was the only chance he’d have to find the clipping. After today, the school would be locked up for the summer. He’d have weeks and months to worry about what might have happened to Ernie’s “evidence.”

  He reached the front of the auditorium and tiptoed up the little flight of stairs on the left of the stage. The velvet curtains swayed as he made his way toward the center. Something rustled on the other side, and Jeff froze.

  It’s just a mouse, he told himself. A big mouse.

  He tugged at the folds of the curtain, searching for the opening. It had to be just about—here! He held the heavy folds back with one hand and leaned into the shadows to look for the podium.

  A moment later he was racing up the aisle, his feet hardly touching the floor. He hadn’t seen the podium beyond the curtain, but he’d seen something else that had sent him flying off the stage in one wild leap. Margo Muggin was standing there, as if she’d been waiting for him. Her face was milk-white, and her eyes—witch’s eyes, for sure—glittered in the dark.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Hey, watch it!” Mr. Lang, the head maintenance man, shouted in surprise as Jeff barreled through the auditorium doorway. “Wait a minute there, Buster!” He seized Jeff’s shoulder. “What are you doing in the auditorium? You kids are supposed to be out of the building by now.”

  Jeff tried in vain to pull away. He could picture Margo Muggin stalking up the aisle toward them, her terrible eyes gleaming. “I was l-looking for something,” he puffed. “Some papers. I—I left them up on the stage.”

  Mr. Lang scowled. “In the dark? You were looking in the dark? Or did you switch on the stage lights?” he demanded, outraged at the thought. “Nobody’s supposed to fool with those lights.”

  Jeff tried again to get away. “I didn’t turn on the stage lights. Honest! I don’t even know where they are. I just”—he looked fearfully at the auditorium doors—“I just wanted to find my speech. But it was too dark.”

  Mr. Lang’s grip relaxed. “Well, you should have come to me in the first place,” he grumbled. “We cleaned up in there as soon as the kids cleared out. There were some papers left on the podium, and I took ’em to the principal’s office.”

  Jeff leaned against a wall. “Wh-what did he say?”

  “Didn’t say anything,” Mr. Lang snapped. “He wasn’t there.” He started down the hall, shooting his wide mop to one side and then the other. Jeff trailed anxiously behind. “Nobody was around, so I just left the stuff on the counter. Figured somebody’d be smart enough to ask in there before they went poking around backstage in the dark. Know what I mean?… Hey, where are you going now?”

  “To the office,” Jeff shouted over his shoulder. “Thanks a lot.”

  Hardly daring to hope, he tore down the hall and around the corner to Mr. Morgensen’s office. Miss Kemper, the school secretary, was gone, but a light was still on in the inner office. Jeff tiptoed inside. The counter was end-of-semester clean, except for some papers near the door. He snatched them up. The clipping was there, under the rest of his speech.

  He was tiptoeing back to the hall, the papers safely in his pocket, when the door of the inner office started to open. “Who’s there?” Mr. Morgensen called. “Did you want to see me?”

  No way! Jeff thought. He dashed across the hall to the front door and down the walk to the bike rack. First he’d been running away from Margo Muggin. Then he’d escaped from Mr. Lang. Now he was running from Mr. Morgensen. He felt as if he’d been pursued by someone—or something—ever since the day of Ernie Barber’s funeral.

  A wind had come up and dark clouds scudded across the sky as he sped away from school. Other years, he and Art Patterson had always left together on the last afternoon, full of plans for vacation. Jeff pedaled faster, reminding himself it was probably just as well that Art was out of town. If he were here, Jeff would be tempted to tell him all about the Top Secret Project, and that wouldn’t be fair. If Art knew, Margo Muggin would be after him, too.

  A hard gust of wind almost made him lose his balance as he swung into his driveway. The house was dark, and he remembered with dismay that his mother had said she had some shopping to do after her work at the hospital gift shop. She might not be home until nearly six. That meant he’d be alone again for a couple of hours. He thought of Margo Muggin lurking in the auditorium, and of Ernie’s ghost, furious because Jeff hadn’t read the “evidence” out loud at the memorial service. It definitely wasn’t a good time to be alone.

  He was almost relieved to discover that he’d forgotten to put his key in his pocket. He’d rather wait in the tent, anyway; there were no dark corners or closets where a ghost—or a witch—could hide. Leaning into the wind, he hurried across the backyard.

  It was warm, almost stuffy, inside the tent. Jeff threw himself down on the grass and stretched out, his hands behind his head. For the first time since he’d turned to the last page of his speech and discovered the clipping, he relaxed. It was funny how safe he felt in the tent, even in a gale. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe some part of his brain did remember those long-ago times when he and his father had gone camping together.

  He wished his father were here now to help him make sense out of this strange afternoon. Three things seemed certain. First, Margo Muggin knew about the clippings. That probably meant Ernie had told her he had had them and had threatened her with them before his death. Second, Ernie had told Margo that Jeff Keppel was going to play a part in the blackmail scheme. That was why she was following him, keeping track of what he was doing. And today she’d heard him start to read aloud the clipping that would reveal her secret!

  Maybe he should just put all the clippings in an envelope and mail them to her. His spirits rose, briefly, at the thought of being rid of Ernie’s “evidence,” even though he knew the answer couldn’t be that simple. Ernie’s ghost would be angrier than ever if Jeff betrayed him. And having the clippings might not satisfy Margo Muggin either. She’d know that Jeff could have made copies. Or she might think he could tell people she was a witch, even if he didn’t have the evidence to prove it.

  From now on, he’d have to watch his step every minute. He thought of all the spells Margo was supposed to have cast when she lived in California. Maybe they were coincidences, and maybe not. He didn’t want to find out by becoming a “coincidence” himself!

  The third thing Jeff had learned this afternoon was the reason why the Top Secret Project hadn’t ended with Ernie’s death. At least, he was pretty certain he knew the reason now. When Ernie was alive, he’d wanted to learn black magic, and Margo Muggin had refused to teach him; now Ernie’s ghost was intent on revenge. Why else would the ghost try to force Jeff to read the clipping aloud at the memorial service?

  Getting even had always been important to Ernie Barber. He hated not getting his way. Since a ghost can’t do much but try to scare people, Ernie was trying to make Jeff get his revenge for him.

  There was a lull in the wind, and in the sudden silence Jeff heard a soft swi
sh. The sound could have been a car or a bike on the driveway, or it could have been—his hand flew to his pocket. The speech and the clipping were still there, folded tightly together.

  He sat up straight, straining to hear. If the garage door opened, he’d know his mother was home earlier than she’d planned. It didn’t, but now he thought he could hear someone moving around outside the tent.

  He held his breath. Margo Muggin could have followed him home. She might be on the other side of the tent wall right now, working up some evil spell that would make Jeff wish, more than ever, that he’d never heard of the T S P. She might—she might be going to turn him into a toad. In fairy tales, witches turned people into toads. His mother would see him hopping around her garden and never guess she was looking at her own son.

  One of the tent flaps moved. Jeff shrank into a corner, wishing there were something to hide behind. Later in the summer he’d keep his bedroll in the tent, and a lantern, and a big cooler full of snacks, but now there was nothing. Just a boy who was about to become a toad.

  The flap was jerked back, and something hurtled into the tent. It landed a couple of feet in front of Jeff, quivering menacingly. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out what it was. Then he gave a choked little cry. The thing in front of him was a spider—a spider as big as a dinner plate. Its beady eyes glittered in the dim light.

  Jeff scrambled to his feet. He started to edge around the wall of the tent, his eyes on the spider. Its hairy legs were curled under its body, as if it were about to jump again. If it did—if it actually touched him—Jeff thought he’d die on the spot.

  He reached for the tent flap and then hesitated. What if there were more of these monsters outside? Maybe Margo Muggin had a whole army of spiders that she sent out on special assignments. Go scare Jeffrey Keppel to death, she’d say, and a herd of spiders would take off for the Keppel backyard. If he stepped outside they’d be all over him.…

  He was trying to decide what to do, when the tent flap parted again, and a thin hand came through the opening. She’s here! Jeff thought. Without even thinking about it, he raised both hands and brought them down in a karate chop across the brown wrist. There was an outraged howl, and Art Patterson tumbled through the opening.

  “Hey, whaddya think you’re doing?” Art landed in a heap in the middle of the tent.

  “Look out!” Jeff shrieked. “You’re sitting on it!”

  “On what?” Art demanded. He reached under him. “Oh, that.” To Jeff’s horror, Art’s hand came up clutching the spider by two of its hairy legs.

  Art laughed at the expression on Jeff’s face. “Hey, you fell for it!” He waved the spider back and forth. “Man, you look scared out of your skull!”

  Jeff recoiled. “You mean it isn’t real?”

  “Course not.” Art chuckled. “I bought it in Chicago. Pretty neat, huh?”

  Jeff sank back on his heels and wiped his face. “I thought it was real,” he said. “What am I supposed to think when I’m sitting in a tent and I see a spider?” He paused, taking in the fact, finally, that this was his best friend Art, home again and sitting across from him. “I thought you were going to be in Chicago all week,” he said. “The guys at school said you went to some family reunion.”

  “Fiftieth wedding anniversary.” Art’s grin widened. “But I got to thinking while we were at my grandma’s, and I decided you had something big on your mind, Keppel. I thought I’d better come back and find out what it was.”

  Jeff shook his head. “You didn’t come back all by yourself,” he said. “Your folks wouldn’t let you.”

  Art held up the spider and looked at it thoughtfully. Then he tossed it into a corner of the tent, where it crouched and quivered. “Actually,” he said, “I guess it was the spider that got us back here early. I left it on my bed and my grandma saw it. She came downstairs and said it was time for everybody to go home. She said she’d never live to see another anniversary if we stayed any longer.”

  “How’d you know I was in the tent?” Jeff asked.

  “Saw your bike in the driveway. Saw the house was all dark. I’m a Class-A detective, right?”

  Jeff nodded. Having Art show up was the first good thing that had happened all day. “Sherlock Patterson, that’s you.”

  “So what is it?” Art asked. “Talk.”

  “What’s what?”

  “What’s the big problem that’s been making you such a grouch? You might as well tell me and get it over with.”

  Jeff knew he had to be careful. “Well, yeah, there’s something,” he said finally, “but I can’t tell you what it is. I mean, I’d like to, but I can’t, see? If I do, you’ll be in trouble, same as I am.”

  Art frowned. “Tell me just a little,” he suggested. “Maybe you’d feel better if you talked about whatever it is.”

  That was the same thing Jeff’s mother was always telling him. Talk about it. Don’t keep things bottled up. Jeff knew they were right. More than anything, he wanted to tell someone about Ernie’s ghost and the Top Secret Project.

  Maybe it would be all right to tell; after all, Ernie’s ghost wanted other people to know. But then he thought of Margo Muggin, hiding behind the stage curtain, and he shuddered. The tent walls billowed in the wind again, as if in warning.

  “What would you do,” he began, “if two—two people you know were having a fight and trying to get even with each other, and you got caught in the middle? What if one person was trying to make you help him because he couldn’t do anything much himself? And what if the other person was very tricky and was trying to stop you? What would you do?”

  Art thought hard. “Mean people?”

  “Real mean.”

  “I guess I’d hide out for a while,” Art said. “That would be the safest thing to do. And if that didn’t work—I’d tell both of ’em to go jump in the lake.”

  The tent shook violently, and the sound of the wind rose to a piercing whistle. Both boys scrambled to their feet.

  “We’d better go in your house,” Art shouted. “The tent could blow down.”

  “Can’t go in,” Jeff shouted back. “My mother isn’t home, and I don’t have a key. That’s why I came out here in the first place.”

  The wind slapped and tore at the canvas. “Weird!” Art roared. “Hey, look at that thing!” He pointed to the spider. It had moved out from the corner, pushed by the wind and the billowing canvas. At least, Jeff hoped that was what had made it move.

  “It really looks alive!” Art exclaimed. “It looks ready to jump!”

  That was more than Jeff could bear. He plunged through the tent flaps. A moment later Art was beside him. They clung to each other, hardly able to stand in the fierce wind.

  “The garage,” Art bellowed. “Let’s go!”

  “It’s locked,” Jeff shouted back. But he’d no sooner said it than the electric door began to move as his mother’s car came up the drive. Gratefully, they ducked into the garage ahead of the car.

  “Talk about good timing!” Art gasped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the spider, crumpled now into a hairy ball. “Think I should drop this on the hood of the car, or would it scare your mom too much?”

  Jeff stepped backward. “Don’t!” he said. “She might think it’s real—same as I did.”

  “I doubt it.” Art dangled the spider, which did look bedraggled after having been crushed in his pocket. “But you should have seen it a minute ago, back there in the tent. It even scared me for a minute.”

  “Why?” Jeff asked, unwillingly.

  Art shoved the spider back into his pocket. “When I picked it up, it sort of wrapped its legs around my hand. I mean it actually grabbed me. Just for a minute … very realistic.”

  Jeff swallowed hard.

  Mrs. Keppel opened the car door and stepped out, her arms full of packages. “What a nice surprise, finding you here, Arthur!” she exclaimed. “We’ve missed you lately. And you brought good weather with you!”

  The boys loo
ked at her in astonishment, then turned to the open garage door. The wind had stopped. The sun was shining gloriously, and mourning doves pecked gravel in the drive. There was no sign of the windstorm that had almost blown them and the tent away.

  CHAPTER TEN

  That night Jeff thought about Art’s advice. Maybe his friend was right. Maybe it would be a good idea to hide for a while. He could just stay in his room, pretending he had a cold or the flu. After a week or so, the ghost of Ernie Barber might decide that Jeff was never going to help him. Margo Muggin might decide that she didn’t have to worry about what Jeffrey Keppel would say or do. If he was lucky, a week would get both of them out of his life. He could start enjoying his summer vacation.

  Art’s other suggestion was just crazy. I’d tell both of ’em to go jump in the lake. It was easy to talk about facing up to your troubles, but if your troubles included a ghost and a witch—Jeff’s knees wobbled at the thought of facing up to them. Art didn’t know what he was asking.

  For the hundredth time he wished he’d had enough nerve to speak up when Ernie Barber was just the school bully and not a terrifying ghost. Now hiding out was the only answer.

  “I’m not really sick,” he assured his mother the next morning. “I just want to sort of rest for a while.”

  Mrs. Keppel looked relieved and concerned at the same time. “I told you so,” she said triumphantly. “I’ve been saying all week that you aren’t acting like yourself. Here’s the proof!” She nodded to herself. “I’m just glad you’re such a sensible boy.”

  Jeff felt a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t lied, but he certainly hadn’t told the whole truth either. He was just about to say that he knew he’d soon be feeling great again, when the telephone rang. It was Art, his voice squeaky with excitement.