The Case of the Black-Hooded Hangmans

by John R. Erickson

  Well, you know me. I began to worry. Remem­ber, I’m in charge of kids. Years ago I took the Solemn Cowdog Oath, which included the part “. . . will protect and defend all little children against snakes, monsters, and crawling things.”

  You know what? I’ve been known to goof off at times, but on this matter of protecting the kids—hey, there are no days off, no foolishness, no compromise.

  I was in charge of Alfred’s safety and I was getting a little uneasy. I let him know what I was thinking but he didn’t listen.

  “Just a wittle more, Hankie. See where the twacks go?”

  My eyes followed the line of Eddy’s footprints. They went straight to . . . hmm, an old abandoned house. The windows were boarded up, the front door hung open, and the roof above the porch was about to fall down.

  It looked pretty creepy, to tell you the truth, and . . . what was that? I’d heard a sound: something banging in the wind. Yes, and there it was again, same sound.

  Alfred’s eyes were pretty wide by this time. “Do you weckon it’s a haunted house, Hankie?”

  I . . . uh, tried to ignore the cold chills that began skating down my backbone and went all the way out to the end of my tail.

  Haunted house? Well, I sure didn’t know about that, and I sure didn’t want to know about it either. It seemed to me that this would be a very good time to head back to the ranch. I mean, with the snow and everything . . .

  Alfred began creeping toward the porch. Well, the boy had nerve, I had to give him that, and since I was in charge of kids, I couldn’t just stand there and let him . . .

  Have we discussed haunted houses? I don’t like ’em, never have. Your average haunted house looks creepy and sounds creepy, but the creepiest part of all is that most haunted houses are HAUNTED, and we’re talking about ghosts and skeletons.

  And bats. I’ve got no use for a bat. And spiders and witches and pirates, Egyptian mummies, Frank­in­cense monsters, and all kinds of discombobulated spirits.

  Is that any place for a normal healthy dog? No sir, show me a haunted house, fellers, and I’ll show you the way home . . . only Little Alfred seemed determined to go inside, and I kind of wished he wouldn’t.

  He began creeping toward the front porch. What could I do but creep along behind him? But then, all of a sudden and out of nowhere, I heard this . . . this strange whispering voice!

  Holy smokes, the hair on my back stood straight up and I whirled around to face . . .

  Okay, false alarm. I had more or less forgotten . . .

  “Drover, how many times have I told you not to creep up behind me when I’m creeping up on a house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I don’t either, but don’t do it. You give me the creeps.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got ’em too and I don’t like ’em. Hank?”

  “What.”

  “This old leg of mine is starting to hurt. And you know what? I don’t like the looks of that house.”

  “That’s fine, Drover. If that house could talk, it would probably say that it doesn’t like your looks either. Everything works out for the best.”

  “I don’t want to go in there.”

  “Great. Stand out here and wait for that bus you were talking about.”

  “All by myself? Hank, I’m scared. Are you?”

  “Ha, ha. Scared? Not at all. You see, Drover . . .”

  Yikes! What was that strange screeching noise? All at once I forgot Drover and his foolish fears and whirled around to face the attack of . . .

  Chapter Nine: I Enter the Haunted House

  Actually, it was just the sound of Little Alfred opening the door. It had squeaky hinges, don’t you see, very squeaky hinges, hinges that didn’t sound like hinges at all.

  They sounded more like . . . I don’t know, the screech of an Egyptian mummy or something like that, and I’ll admit that my nerves were just a bit on edge, mainly because of Drover.

  The little mutt had a childish fear of old houses. Thought they were haunted or something. How silly.

  Anyways, Alfred had pulled open the door and now he stuck his head inside. For Drover’s sake, I hoped that the boy would take one look around and decide that we could probably spend our time better somewhere else.

  I was worried about Drover. Maybe I already said that.

  He stuck his head inside the door. Little Alfred did, not Drover. Drover was standing behind me, shivering and moaning. I could hear his teeth clacking.

  Alfred looked inside, then his head emerged. “I don’t see Eddy. It’s too dark and spooky.”

  Well! That just about wrapped it up, didn’t it? I mean, when it’s too dark to see, it’s time to go, right? I turned myself around and pointed like a compass needle in the direction of . . .

  That was, odd. The boy wrapped his arms around my chest and picked me up off the ground and . . . HUH? Started stuffing me into the door that led into that HOUSE FULL OF MONSTERS!!

  Hey, wait a minute! We needed to talk this thing out, make some plans, I mean, it was awfully dark in there and . . .

  I wouldn’t have supposed that Alfred was stout enough to do that, but he did. And there I was, standing on the brink of the edge of the terrible black darkness and . . . gulp . . .

  Alfred spoke to me in a whisper. “You go first, Hankie, and check it out for monstoos, ’cause you’re big and tough.”

  Yeah. You bet. That was me, all right, big and tough and my mouth sure was dry. And the insides of my legs sure were wet. Snow melt, no doubt.

  Gulp.

  Well, there was nothing for me to do but to mush on and hope for the best. After a minute or two, my eyes began to adjust to the darkness. I looked around.

  There was an old table, a wood-burning stove, a broken chair, several Mason jars, a packrat’s nest, and a layer of dust on everything, but no Eddy. Now that I could see, I felt somewhat bolder. I took a deep breath and a step forward.

  Nothing happened so I took another step. Hey, this was going to be a piece of cake. I couldn’t help chuckling at my . . . at Drover’s childish and irrational fears of old houses. What was an old house but a house that had gotten old?

  I decided to call. I cleared my throat. “Eddy? Eddy the Raccoon? A rescue party has just arrived to take you back to the ranch.”

  No answer. I called again and listened. Aha! I heard the little snipe, or at least the scraping of his claws on the floor upstairs.

  He didn’t want to go back home, that was the deal. Well, too bad for him and what he wanted. We’d hiked all the way over here, crossed rivers and climbed snowy mountains to find him, and by George we weren’t going back without him.

  I spotted the old stairs near the east wall. I was feeling pretty sure of myself by now and started up the stairs—even though they did, uh, make a pretty scary groaning noise, and I began to notice that the higher I climbed, the darker it got.

  Yes, the loft area turned out to be quite a bit darker than the downstairs. I reached the top stop and stepped.

  I reached the stop step and top.

  I reached the top step and stopped. I stopped and cocked my ear and listened. Yes, there it was again, a faint scratching sound.

  “Eddy, come out. We know you’re there. We’ve come to take you home. Can you hear me?”

  Then at last I heard his voice. “Yeah. Over here.”

  “Fine. We’ve come to take you home. I’ll tell you, in all honesty, that it wasn’t my idea. This is Little Alfred’s business. If it were up to me, I’d leave you here—you backstabbing, two-timing, con-jobbing little fraud! Did you actually think I was dumb enough to think those eggshells would go back together?”

  “You never know.”

  “Well, I was. You know why? Because I was also dumb enough to trust a coon.”

  “Yeah. Never trust a coon. I could have told you.”


  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “I’m a rat. Dirty rat. They ought to lock me up.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “Hey Eddy, we’ve been through all this before. You WERE locked up. You were safe behind bars, just where you ought to be, but then you couldn’t wait to get out.”

  “Yeah. I know. Moonlight Madness. What a rat.”

  “What a rat is right. Well, come on and we’ll rush you back to your cell.”

  “Can’t.”

  “What do you mean, can’t?”

  “Two ghosts, right over there.”

  HUH?

  “Eddy, I think we had a little static on the line. There for a second, I thought you said . . .”

  “Two ghosts?”

  “Right. But you didn’t really say that, did you? An answer of ‘no’ or ‘false’ will be just fine, either one, just go ahead and say no.”

  “Yes. Two ghosts. I’m scared to come out.”

  I must have had my Back-Down-the-Stairs circuits switched over to automatic, because I found myself backing down the stairs. Quietly but with some haste.

  “Oh really? Ghosts, huh? Eh, what do they look like?”

  “Black robes with hoods. Phantoms. Grim reap­ers. Hangmen. Electronic eyes that blink. Help!”

  “Yes sir, those are ghosts, all right, and it’s sure been nice knowing you, pal. If you ever make it back to the ranch, give us a holler.”

  “Help! Help!”

  Gee whiz, I sure hated to run out on the little guy. Even though he’d pulled several low-down dirty tricks on me, he deserved better than THIS. I mean, what a terrible fate, to be a young orphan coon, left alone in a house full of black-hooded . . . whatever-they-weres.

  Hangmans. Black-Hooded Hangmans.

  Yes, I felt pretty bad, backing down those stairs and knowing that I was fixing to shoot through that open door and go streaking back to the ranch.

  On the other hand, Eddy had walked into this mess on his own four legs, and it appeared that he would have to get himself out the same way.

  The important thing is—not that I did nothing to help him, but that I felt pretty bad about doing nothing. Remember: It’s the thought that counts.

  When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I discovered that Alfred and Drover had come inside. There they were, waiting for me in the darkness and dustiness of the dark, dusty living room—or what used to be a living room.

  The boy’s eyes were big and round. “What is it, Hankie? Did you find Eddy the Wac?”

  Through tail-wags and facial expressions and other communication media, I delivered my report to the boy—and to the saucer-eyed Drover, who was cowering between Alfred’s legs.

  “Okay, guys, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that Eddy’s up there in the loft, and as far as I can determine, he’s all right, just too scared to come out.”

  Drover’s eyes were about to bug out of his head. He’d been hanging on every word. “How come he’s scared to come out?”

  “Good question, Drover, and that takes us right into the bad news. The bad news is that there are two Black-Hooded Hangmans up there in the loft with him.” I heard them both gasp. “Do we have any volunteers to go up there and rescue our old friend Eddy?”

  Silence, except for Drover’s chattering teeth.

  “That’s what I thought. In that case, I suggest we . . .”

  Suddenly we heard a loud CRASH. Then . . . a long throbbing silence.

  I glanced at Alfred. He glanced at Drover, and Drover stared at me with two full moons for eyes.

  I coughed. “Guys, we’ve covered the good news and the bad news. Now to the real bad news. The door has just blown shut and we may be trapped in here with whatever that is up there in the loft!”

  Chapter Ten: The Black-Hooded Hangmans in the Loft

  A restless wind moaned through the rafters of the old house. A piece of loose tin banged on the roof. Three nervous hearts banged away in their respective bodies.

  Yikes, I shouldn’t have used that word bodies. It sounds too scary and this deal has gotten about as scary as it needs to be, without any talk about . . . well, you know.

  Let’s back up. Our three hearts were beating, yes, but they had nothing whatsoever to do with bodies or skeletons or ghosts or anything like that. They were just . . . beating. That’s what hearts are supposed to do, right?

  Yes, ours were whamming around in our chests (not bodies), in our chests . . . okay, we were scared. Even I was scared. Who wouldn’t be scared? The door had just slammed shut, the windows were all boarded up, and . . .

  Drover was the first to break into sheer panic. He started jumping around and running in circles. “Oh my gosh, Hank, help, murder, Mayday, my leg!”

  Little Alfred had been a brave little explorer up to now, but when Drover fell apart, the boy’s lower lip pooched outward and downward and began to quiver.

  “I want my mommy. And I want to go home.”

  I tried to think. My mind was racing. “Alfred, try the door. See if you can open it.”

  He didn’t move. He appeared to be frozen. “I want my mom-meeee!”

  “Hey, everybody wants your mommy, but you’re the only one of us who can open that door. Alfred, open the dad-blasted door!”

  A tear slid down his cheek and, my goodness, his lower lip was pooched out about six inches. “I’m scared of hangmans and I don’t wike this pwace . . . AND I WANT MY MOM-MEEEEEE!”

  Well, we’d lost him. He was useless. And Drover? You talk about useless! After squeaking and running in circles, he found an old feed sack in the corner and tried to hide under it.

  That’s right, nosed his way under it so that all you could see of him was his hiney and stub tail sticking up in the air. The little goof.

  That left ME to hold our little group together—and, yes, to find some way out of this dangerous turn of events. I had to come up with a plan—real quick.

  “Eddy? Eddy, can you hear me?”

  Silence. Then I heard this reply, made in a loud, raspy, hacksaw voice. “I can hear you, but I ain’t Eddy.”

  Upon hearing this strange voice, I was almost overcome by a sudden urge to . . . well, run through the wall. Which I tried to do . . . BAM! . . . and which didn’t work.

  The voice from above spoke again. “What was that loud crash? What’s a-going on down there, and who are you?”

  I scraped myself off the floor, straightened my nose, and shook the stars out of my head. “I can’t tell you what my name is until I find out who you are.”

  “Huh! Too bad for you, ’cause I ain’t talkin’.”

  “All right, then tell me this. Are you one of the Black-Hooded Hangmans?”

  I heard whispering. Then, “Yes, we are Black Hooted Hangmans, we surely are, and we’re fixing to start hootin’ and hang you from the nearest tree if you don’t scram outa here and leave us alone, is what we’re a-fixing to do. Are you that little bitty ghost with the mask over his eyes?”

  “Why yes, of course. Yes, that’s me. How did you know?”

  “Well, we know ’cause we seen you a-creepin’ around up here in the dark, is how we know, and I can tell you right now that we ain’t scared of you, not even a little bit.”

  “Fine, because I’m not scared of you either.” That was a small lie. A big lie, actually, but I had to say something.

  “Well, you orta be scared of us. We’re tough. We’re mean. And we’re dangerous, ain’t we, son?”

  It was then that I heard the voice of the second Black-Hooded Hangman. “Oh y-y-yeah, w-we’re t-t-terrible. And m-m-mean.”

  “There, you see?” said the first one. “That’s my boy. He’s eight foot tall, weighs four hundred and thirty-five pounds, and looks like a go-rilla. He eats trees and horses and big rocks, and he ain’t scared of you, not one bit, are
you, son?”

  “Uh, w-w-w-well . . .”

  “See? I told you, and if you don’t go away and leave us alone, I’m just liable to send my boy down there to whip you.”

  “N-n-now P-pa, w-w-w-wait just a m-m-m-m-m . . . second.”

  “See? I’ve got this boy on a chain, a big old heavy log chain, and he’s up here just a-lunging against that chain, ’cause he ain’t had a bloody fight in two whole days and he’s just a-burning up to start a fight with somebody.”

  “P-p-pa, I w-w-wish you w-w-wouldn’t s-say things like that!”

  “Hush up. Tell him how big you are.”

  “I’m r-r-real b-b-big, real big.”

  “Now tell him how mean you are.”

  “And I’m r-r-r-r-real m-mean, real mean.”

  “Good. Now tell him how bad you want to go down there and whip the stuffings out of him.”

  “Uh, okay. And my p-pa s-s-says your m-m-m-momma eats b-b-b-boogers.”

  Dead silence.

  “Son, I did NOT say that, now that ghost is liable to come up here and . . . you ort to be ashamed of yourself for spreading trash and lies about your own daddy, your very own flesh and blood, and you just . . . Mister Ghost, I did NOT say that terrible thing about your dear old mother.”

  “He d-d-d-did t-too, did too. And h-h-he s-s-said s-she wears d-d-d-dirty sox t-t-too.”

  “Junior, shame on you for . . . son, you are a-fixing to get your poor old daddy thrashed, is what’s fixing to happen!”

  By this time I had pretty muchly solved the mystery of the Black-Hooded Hangmans in the loft, and this is really going to surprise you. You’ll never guess who those guys were.

  See, Eddy the Rac had caught a glimpse of them in the darkness and had reported that they were Black-Hooded Hangmans. That had thrown me off the track for just a few minutes, but not for long. Once I heard them talking, I ran a Voice Scan through Data Control, and when the report came back, it said . . .