by Bill Myers
“Five-seventy-two,” Sean answered.
“That means you’re right next to 570.” The man sighed and nodded. “I thought so. I’m going to move you to another room.”
“Why?” Sean asked. “What’s going on in there?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Melissa challenged.
The night manager sighed again. “Well, some people think that room is haunted.”
“Haunted?” Sean and Melissa both said the word at the same time.
“By who?” Melissa asked.
“Union soldiers,” the man said.
“From the Civil War?!” Sean exclaimed.
“That’s right,” the man nodded. “Not that I believe it. There’s bound to be a natural explanation. A regiment of the Fifth Cavalry was headquartered here for a while in 1863. Ever since those days, there’s been a legend the hotel is haunted. Only recently . . .” his voice trailed off.
“Recently what?” Melissa asked.
“It seems to be getting worse.”
“Worse?” Sean repeated. “How?”
“Over the past several months we’ve had a lot of people say they’ve seen ghostly soldiers wandering the halls. Others have heard noises. Moaning, laughing, crying, the sound of horse hooves galloping past. And most of it seems connected to room 570.”
“Wow!” Sean exclaimed.
“Yes, well, anyway,” the night manager said, smiling, “I’m going to move you down to room 326.”
Sean took the new room key, and he and his sister hurried back to their old room to retrieve their suitcases.
“Imagine that! We’re staying in a haunted hotel!”
“It’s not haunted,” Melissa said. “You know there’s no such thing as a ghost.”
“Oh yeah,” Sean gulped. Then, with a shaking hand, he pointed, “Then what’s that?”
Just ahead of them, in the dim light of the hall, stood a man dressed in the unmistakable blue uniform of the Union Army. The brass buttons and buckles gleamed in the light. His hand rested on the sword that hung at his side. He wore a long, gray beard, and his skin was just as gray. He had a thin, crooked nose, which looked as if it had been broken at one time. His bushy eyebrows ran in one straight line across his forehead, and his eyes stared straight ahead, as if he didn’t see Sean and Melissa.
Melissa grabbed her brother’s arm.
“Sean,” she whispered, “he’s coming straight at us!”
4
RING AROUND THE ROSE GARDEN
The ghostly soldier was almost upon them, his hand still resting upon his sword. He was within a few feet when Sean suddenly grabbed his sister’s arm and pulled her out of the way. They stood with their backs pressed against the wall as the “ghost5’ strode past. His eyes never seemed to acknowledge their presence.
They turned and watched him march down the hall. He had disappeared around a corner by the time Melissa caught her breath enough to say, “He didn’t look like a ghost to me.”
“How do you know?” Sean asked. “You ever seen a ghost before?”
Melissa put her hands on her hips. “How could I ever see something that doesn’t exist?” she asked. “He just looked . . . too solid.”
“Come on,” Sean said. “Let’s follow him and see where he went!”
Melissa forgot about how tired she was as she and her brother ran down the hall to catch the “ghost.” But when they rounded the corner, no one was there.
“He’s gone!” she exclaimed.
“But where’d he go?” Sean asked.
Melissa pointed at the door marked Exit. “Maybe he went down the stairs.”
“Good thinking,” Sean replied. “Let’s go.”
The two young detectives raced down the stairs, all the way to the first floor, without seeing anything unusual. But when they reached the door that led out to the street, it was left standing open, as if someone had just gone through it. Sean and Melissa ran outside. Even at this late hour, the street was crowded with tourists.
“We’ll never find him out here,” Melissa complained. “We might as well go back to our room.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Sean agreed.
They turned back toward their hotel when a tall man, wrapped in an overcoat, stepped out of the shadows and stood in front of them. Without saying a word, he thrust something at them.
“Look out!” Sean shouted. “He’s got a knife!” He pushed the man, making him stumble, as he and Melissa took off back to the hotel.
The man quickly regained his balance and started after them shouting, “Hey! This is for you!”
He quickly gained on them until . . .
“Augh!” Sean cried as he hit a pothole and fell face-down.
Melissa ran back to help, but she was too late. The man with the knife was upon them. “Here!” he said. “Take this!” He jabbed at them with his . . .
“Wait a minute!” Melissa shouted. “That’s not a knife. It’s a—”
“Tract,” the man finished her sentence. “It tells how you can be born again.”
“Born again!” Sean shouted as he rose and dusted himself off. “You scared us half to death!”
“Don’t you want to know about Jesus, God’s Son?” the man asked.
“Is this fellow bothering you?” someone asked. The voice belonged to a uniformed security guard from the hotel.
“I was just trying to tell them about Jesus,” the man protested.
“I’ve told you to quit pestering people out here,” the security guard snapped.
“He wasn’t pestering—” Melissa started.
“Nobody wants to hear about Jesus tonight,” the security guard said. “So beat it!”
Melissa looked at Sean, expecting him to say something in the man’s defense, but he didn’t open his mouth.
As for the fellow in the overcoat, he looked big enough to snap the security guard in two. But he didn’t even get angry. Instead, he just said “All right” as he tucked his tract back into his pocket. “But don’t forget: Jesus loves you.” With that, he turned away and headed back into the darkness.
Sean shook his head as he watched him go. “What a geek!” he said.
“At least he’s not ashamed of his faith,” Melissa countered.
“Oh yeah!” Sean shot back. “Is that what you want me to be like? Well, no thanks!”
MONDAY, 7:23 EST
When Melissa woke up the next morning, Sean was already gone. That was unusual, to say the least. If there was anything Sean liked more than eating, it was sleeping in. Nevertheless, Melissa found him in the hotel lobby.
“What are you doing up so early?” she asked.
“I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep,” he said. “I guess I was kind of . . . I don’t know . . . feeling guilty.”
“Guilty?” Melissa asked.
“Yeah, I should have defended that guy last night. Or at least let him know I was a Christian, too.”
Melissa agreed, not letting him off the hook. “You’re right. Lately, it’s like you’re embarrassed to be a Christian or something.”
Sean sighed. “Yeah.” Then, changing the subject, he said, “Anyway, I’ve been watching that guy over there. I think he’s up to something.” He nodded his head in the direction of a man sitting in an overstuffed chair, chatting on a cell phone.
“Why?” Melissa whispered. “What’s he doing?”
“Wait until he puts the phone down,” Sean whispered. “Then take a look at his mustache.”
Melissa didn’t have long to wait.
“Yes, dear, I’ll be home tomorrow,” the man was saying. “I love you, too. Kiss-kiss!” He said it too loud, as if he wanted people to think he was talking to his wife when he was really talking to someone else. He clicked the phone off and dropped it into his briefcase. Now Melissa could clearly see his face.
“He only has half a mustache!” she exclaimed.
“That’s because I have the other half
right here!” Sean opened his hand to reveal something that resembled a fuzzy caterpillar.
“How did you . . . ?” Melissa began.
“I was in the elevator with him when it fell off,” he said. “Obviously he’s wearing a disguise. I’ll bet he’s one of those spies we’ve been hearing about.”
Melissa thought for a moment. “Or maybe he just thinks he looks better with a mustache.”
“Yeah, well, just before you got here, I saw him talking to his ball-point pen,” Sean said.
“Doing what?” Melissa asked, wondering if her brother’s imagination had been working overtime again.
“That’s right,” Sean said, “talking to his pen. He took it out of his pocket, clicked it, and started talking into it. I’m not kidding. There’s something very strange about this guy, and we’d better keep—”
“Oh, there you are!”
Sean and Melissa both wheeled around and looked into the smiling face of Mrs. Tubbs.
“I’ve been looking for you,” the woman said sweetly. “We don’t want to be late now, do we?”
Melissa glanced at her watch. “Oh, that’s right!” she said. “We’ve got a tour of the White House this morning.”
“Better than that,” gushed Mrs. Tubbs. “We’re going to attend a ceremony in the White House Rose Garden. President Shrub is going to be there.”
“He is?” Sean asked.
“Yes. He’s going to be accepting a special gift from the Royal Family of Who-kares-ik-stan. Who knows? We might even get to meet him.”
“Cool!” Sean exclaimed. He turned to his sister. “Do I look okay?” he asked.
“Now, there’s a switch,” Melissa laughed. “You worrying about how you look.”
“It’s not every day you get a chance to meet the president,” Sean replied.
“Well, you look fine, except—” Melissa stopped in mid-sentence and reached up to pull something out of Sean’s hair. “You have some more of that grass—or whatever it is—in your hair.”
Sean shrugged. “It’s probably pollen,” he said. “I can tell there’s a lot of it in the air. AH-CHOOO! See what I mean? Oh, sorry, Mrs. Tubbs,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sneeze all over you.”
“That’s all right, dear.” She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her face.
Sean and Melissa exchanged nervous glances.
Could Mrs. Tubbs be acting any weirder? She acted so . . . so . . . well, almost . . . nice. Not like herself at all.
“Just think how grand it’s going to be,” she said. “A president—that’s me,” she clasped her hands together, “gets to meet another president—Mr. Shrub.”
“You’re a president?” Sean asked.
“Of the Midvale Garden Club,” Mrs. Tubbs snapped, but then she quickly became sweet again. “You know that, dear,” she smiled.
“Of course, Mrs. Tubbs, I just forgot,” Sean apologized.
“Can Slobs go with us?” Melissa asked.
“Slobs? Well, I’m not sure if they allow dogs . . .”
“We’d hate to keep her locked up inside all day,” Sean said. “And what about Precious? Wouldn’t he like to meet the president?”
Mrs. Tubbs threw her hands into the air. “Oh, why not. They’ll have fun. But remember,” she shook her finger at Sean, “that dog of yours better be on her leash.”
“All the time,” Sean promised. “All the time!”
MONDAY, 11: 17 EST
The White House Rose Garden was gorgeous—like a huge rainbow full of flowers of every imaginable color, including a few Melissa had never seen before.
The kids waited nervously, along with a few congressmen and some other dignitaries, for the president to arrive. Slobs, on her leash, sat obediently at their feet. It was almost as if she knew something special was going on and that she was expected to be on her best behavior.
Not far away, Mrs. Tubbs, with Precious on his rhinestone-studded leash, was talking . . . and talking . . . and talking some more to a tall, distinguished-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair. Melissa giggled as she saw the man looking for a way of escape.
But Mrs. Tubbs didn’t notice at all. She just kept on . . . you guessed it, talking.
“We should’ve brought another leash,” Melissa whispered to her brother, gesturing in Mrs. Tubbs’ direction.
“It wouldn’t have helped,” Sean said.
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Tubbs was saying, “I’ve been friends with the president for years. Every time he has an important decision to make, he calls to ask for my advice.”
“You—”
The man tried to speak, but Mrs. Tubbs’ verbal steamroller stopped him after one word: “I’m a president, too, you know. That’s right. Of the Midvale Garden Club. You’ve probably heard of it. It’s one of the best and biggest garden clubs in the entire tri-state area.”
“I’m sure—” he tried again.
“So, of course, Precious and I come to the White House all the time,” she said. “How about you? Do you come here often? I mean, I’d be happy to give you a tour later on. President Shrub won’t mind, I’m sure. Like I said, we’re old friends and—”
“Oh, there you are, Mr. Vice-President! I’ve been looking for you.” The voice belonged to a pleasant-looking blond woman, who wore an elegant blue pantsuit.
“Hi, Donna,” the man said. Then, turning to Mrs. Tubbs, he explained, “Donna is my press secretary, and this is, uh . . . you know, I don’t think I got your name.”
“Hildegard Tubbs,” she sniffed.
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Tubbs,” the press secretary said, extending her hand.
“Sure you are.” Mrs. Tubbs kept her hands on her hips. Obviously, she was wondering how a gal was supposed to catch a man when there was always someone like “Donna” around to mess things up.
She turned her attention back to her new gentleman friend. “Vice-president?” she asked. “Vice-president of what?”
“Why, of the United States,” Donna answered.
“You’re the vice-pres. . . ?”
“That’s right.”
Donna took his arm. “If you’ll excuse us,” she said to Mrs. Tubbs, “I’d like to get some pictures of the vice-president talking to the vice-shah of Who-kares-ik-stan.”
“Sure,” Mrs. Tubbs smiled and stepped aside. “But don’t keep him long. We must finish our conversation.” As they walked away, she shouted after them, “When you come back, I’ll give you my phone number. Then you can call me sometime.”
Come back? Call Mrs. Tubbs? I don’t think so. The poor man was practically running to get away from her.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice announced over the speaker. “The president of the United States—and the shah of Who-kares-ik-stan!”
The strains of “Hail to the Chief” filled the air as the president and the shah, along with their wives and half a dozen secret service men, strode out of the White House and into the Rose Garden.
The president and the shah waved and smiled to acknowledge the applause of the crowd. Then the president stepped behind the podium and signaled for silence.
“Mr. President!” a reporter shouted. “Is there any new information on those spies? Have we recovered that helicopter?”
The president shook his head. “I’ll answer all of your questions later on. But right now, I want to introduce to you my very good friend—Abdul Gamal Zia Chou Nigurski Floddenhooper Jones—shah of the great country of Who-kares-ik-stan. We are very honored to have the shah here with us today, and we’re delighted that he has brought us a wonderful, wonderful gift. Mr. Jones?” He motioned for the shah to step up to the microphone.
“Is my pleasure,” he said, “to give to people of United States two of rarest animals in world. Only ten left.”
He clapped his hands loudly, and two assistants came forward with a large box covered by a black tarp. They set it down where everyone could get a good view, then threw back the tarp.
“Our national rodent,�
�� the shah said. “Giant Who-kares-ik-stani rat!”
(He wasn’t kidding when he said “giant.” Those things were huge!)
“MEOWWWRRR!”
Precious couldn’t resist. He had never seen such fat, flavorful-looking rats! Immediately, he sprang toward their cage.
“Precious! Don’t—” Mrs. Tubbs tried to hold on to his leash but let go after doing a nose-dive onto . . .
“OAFF!”
. . . the White House lawn. As she fell, her wig twisted around on her head so that her face was completely covered.
Meanwhile, the rat cage . . .
CRASH! BANGed!
Unfortunately, all the excitement was too much for Slobs to take sitting down. She’d had quite enough of this “good doggie” stuff, thank you.
“RUFF! RUFF!”
Mrs. Tubbs scrambled to her feet and raced forward, trying to rescue her beloved cat. The only problem was that with the wig in her face, she couldn’t see where she was going.
“OUCH! OOOOOF!”
She ran smack-dab into the president, knocking him backward into the shah of Who-kares-ik-stan and . . .
KER-SPLASH!
. . . the three of them tumbled head-over-heels into the Rose Garden pond.
“Grab her!” shouted one of the secret service men.
Suddenly poor Mrs. Tubbs found herself in the grip of a half dozen more secret service guys. “You’re under arrest!” one of them shouted.
“For what?” Mrs. Tubbs cried as she twisted her wig around to its proper position.
“For attacking the president of the United States!”
5
MONSTER ON THE METRO
MONDAY, 12:19 EST
The rat cage bounced once . . .
BANG!
. . . twice . . .
CRASH!
. . . three times . . .
SMASH!