by Jason Hawes
“Did he die?” Diana asked. “Did he die in the fire?”
“Yes, he did,” Mark answered softly. “Right here at Heron’s Point Dock. We think the spirit you saw may be Peter Stone.”
“What about all the other things Diana told us about?” Mr. Martin asked. “The banging noises and stuff showing up in strange places?”
“The banging noise has a more everyday explanation,” Jason said. “It’s the bumpers on the dock. They’re old and loose. They make a lot of noise when your boat hits them just right.”
“Well,” Mr. Martin said. “So at least the bumpers aren’t haunted.”
“We never assume anything is haunted,” Jason said. “We always come with an open mind. And we actually like to debunk things. It makes the times when we do decide we’ve encountered the paranormal that much stronger. I’d like to play a recording for you.”
He turned to Lyssa. “Please play back the recording you made in the main cabin.”
“Will do,” Lyssa said. She pulled out the portable recorder. The sound was already cued up. She pressed the play button.
Everyone listened.
“I can hear footsteps. Is that you?” Diana asked.
“Yes.” Lyssa nodded.
Then the whisper came on. So clear and close by that even Mr. Martin jumped.
After the whisper—just silence. Lyssa turned off the equipment.
“I wish we could tell you we know what the voice says,” Jason said. “We can’t make out the words. But the voice certainly sounds like a human whisper. It’s a very clear recording…”
“A recording of a ghost?” Mr. Martin asked.
Jason nodded.
“Hey, check it out,” Lyssa said a couple of weeks later. “We just got a letter from Diana Martin.”
“What does it say?” Jen asked.
Lyssa opened the envelope.
“Dear Jason, Grant, and all the TAPS team,” she read aloud. “Thank you for coming to our houseboat. You helped us a lot! Even my dad thinks so.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Grant said with a smile.
“We had a family meeting after you left. We decided to do some work at Heron’s Point. Dad made some repairs to the dock. He replaced some rotting timbers. And he took off the old bumpers and put on brand-new ones. Guess what? The banging sound is gone.
“But here’s the best part. I haven’t seen the Heron’s Point ghost again. Mom says she thinks maybe Peter Stone was trying to warn us. But things are safer now that we fixed up the dock. So he doesn’t have to hang around.
“True confession: I still don’t always find my stuff where I thought I put it. But I guess Dad was right about this one thing at least. It’s probably me and not a ghost.
“Thank you so much for helping our family. Now I like going to Heron’s Point. Anytime you want to sail with us, just give a call. I promise it won’t be scary.
“Yours sincerely,
Diana Martin.”
GHOSTS WITH NO LEGS
Bill Turner was scared. Big-time scared.
It was midnight. He was supposed to be in bed. But here he was. Creeping downstairs in the dark house, his back pressed tight against the wall. He wished he could make himself flat as a pancake, or maybe even flatter. That way, he wouldn’t stick out into the hall.
Because Bill didn’t want to stick out. Not when there might be something in the hall, something he didn’t want to get too close to.
What was that?
Bill froze. His right foot hovered over the fourth step from the bottom. His heart pounded. His ears strained for the slightest sound.
Nothing. There’s nothing there, he thought. Just keep going.
He had to make it all the way downstairs. He had to make it to his secret place. His safe place. Then he could put his plan into action.
Somebody had to do something about what was going on in his house. Mom and Dad sure hadn’t come through so far. Bill’s older brother, David, was no help at all. Dave was fifteen. He pretended Bill didn’t exist. Mindy, their little sister, was only seven. Too little.
That just leaves me, Bill thought.
He put his foot down.
Creeaak.
That step always creaked if he put his foot down wrong. Cold sweat trickled down the back of Bill’s neck. The best place to put his foot was in the very middle of the step.
To do that, he had to move away from the wall.
Please don’t come, he prayed. Please don’t come tonight. At least not until I get all the way down the stairs.
Bill held his breath. Stretched out his leg. And put his foot down.
Aaaarrrr.
The house gave an unearthly groan.
Bill raced down the last four steps. He didn’t care if he made any noise. He dropped to his knees at the bottom of the stairs. His fingers fumbled in the dark, searching for the knob on the door to his secret place: a tiny room underneath the stairs.
Got it!
He pulled open the door and crawled forward on his hands and knees. He twisted sideways. He barely fit. But he could squeeze in. He had to.
Bill reached out and closed the door.
Darkness. Black. Complete. Total.
Bill squished himself into a sitting position. His neck was twisted. But at least he didn’t hit his head like last night.
That was when he had hidden the flashlight and his other supplies. They were in the deepest, darkest corner of his hiding place. But Bill didn’t reach for the flashlight. Not yet. He didn’t want to turn it on. Not until he was sure it was safe.
Suddenly he felt it coming. The cold. A cold so fierce it made his stomach muscles quiver. Bill’s lungs burned. It was like he was breathing solid ice.
He bit down on his tongue. Otherwise, his teeth would start chattering. The noise might give him away.
He listened, but he heard nothing. No sound. No clue. No warning. But he knew. Bill knew he was no longer alone.
Outside his hiding place, there was a man. A man that only Bill could see. A man who shouldn’t be there at all.
But he was there. Night after night. Always at the same time. The man came up the stairs. He went past Dave’s room. Past Mindy’s room. On and on and on, straight toward Bill’s room. Straight toward Bill.
And there was nothing Bill could do to stop him.
Then every night the man vanished while standing right inside Bill’s bedroom door. Like a puff of smoke. The man was there one minute, gone the next.
Because of the nightly visitor, Bill couldn’t sleep. He nodded off at his desk during school. His homeroom teacher called his mom. Then Mom asked if he wanted to sleep in Dave’s room, and Bill realized the truth—Mom was scared too. She knew there was something wrong in their house. She just didn’t know what to do about it.
But Bill did. He had a plan.
Bill felt something change that he couldn’t describe. He realized he was breathing easier. It wasn’t so cold anymore. The man was past and on his way up the stairs. On his way to Bill’s empty bedroom.
Now! Bill thought.
He stretched out his arm. His fingers found the flashlight. They wrapped around it. His thumb found the switch and turned it on.
After the total dark, the small flashlight beam seemed bright as the sun. Bill blinked his eyes. Then, quickly, he found the rest of the things he had hidden. Paper. Pen. Envelopes and stamps.
He set the flashlight on the floor and leaned over the paper. He uncapped the pen.
This has got to work, he thought. It’s just got to.
Dear Ghost Hunters,
he wrote.
Please help us.
“Okay,” Jason said. He stretched. “Great follow-up meeting, guys. All our cases are wrapped. That doesn’t happen very often. Maybe it’s time for a vacation.”
“Not so fast,” TAPS researcher Mark Hammond said. He had to raise his voice. Everybody else in the room was laughing.
“Uh-oh,” Mark’s twin brother, Mike, said. “Somebody
pushed Mark’s serious button.”
Mark smiled at his brother. “I think this could be very serious,” he said. He opened a big envelope and pulled out several sheets of paper. “Bill Turner thinks so anyway.”
“Who’s Bill Turner?” Grant asked.
“He’s the kid who wrote this.”
Mark picked up the top sheet of paper. He held it out so the others could see.
Grant looked at the letter. “Why don’t you read it to us?” he suggested.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “But no funny voices.”
“Nothing about this is funny,” Mark said. He gripped the papers tightly. “Trust me.”
Dear Ghost Hunters,
Please help us.
At night. That’s when the man comes. But not every night. That would actually be better.
That sounds weird, doesn’t it?
But it’s true. When something happens all the time, you can get ready for it. Even if it’s something you don’t like. But you can’t be ready all the time.
I can’t, anyhow.
My older brother—his name is Dave—would say that makes me a wimp. I say, it makes me normal.
I should probably back up, huh?
My name is Bill Turner. I’m twelve years old. I live in Peekskill, New York. My parents are named Steve and Dana. I have a younger sister named Mindy. She’s seven. I already told you about Dave. He’s fifteen and thinks he knows everything. So, really, the less said about him, the better.
We used to live in California. Then Dad got transferred to New York. So we moved. Our house is big. It’s pretty new. That’s what Mom likes best about it. It has two floors, plus a basement and an attic. What I like best is I got to pick my own room. It’s a great big one at the end of the upstairs hall.
At first, we were happy here. We all thought the new house was cool. Then the bad stuff started. The stuff I can’t explain. That I can’t tell anyone. But I know the truth.
Our new house is haunted.
That’s why I’m writing to you.
It all started a month ago on January 5. I know because I put a big black X on my calendar. I watch your show all the time. I know you have to write stuff down. To document it. So that’s what I did. I even have my own case file. I put it in the envelope along with this letter. So you can see I’m serious about this.
It started the night I heard my parents arguing.
My parents don’t fight. Well, hardly ever. I can’t explain it. They just always get along. Dave says it’s weird. He says parents are supposed to fight. But I say Dave is full of it. Just because he can’t get along with anyone…
So what happened was, I got up late at night. I wanted a drink of water. Usually, I keep a water bottle right by my bed. But that night I forgot to fill it up. So I grabbed the bottle and I headed downstairs to the kitchen. That’s when I heard my parents arguing.
“What do you mean we shouldn’t tell the kids?” my mother said. “Of course we should tell them.”
“Honey, you’re being emotional about this,” my dad said.
“Emotional!” My mom’s voice went up like when Mindy plays scales on the piano. And it got a whole lot louder. “Of course I’m being emotional!”
My dad made a shushing noise.
“They’re our children, Steve,” Mom went on in a quieter voice. “It’s our job to protect them.”
“From what?” my father asked. “What, precisely, do you think we should tell them?”
Uh-oh, I thought.
Precisely is one of my dad’s favorite words. But he only brings it out on special occasions. Like, say, when he’s absolutely, positively sure he’s right. Precisely is the way my dad wins the few fights my parents actually have.
There was this really long silence.
“I don’t know,” my mother said. Her voice sounded tired. “I just don’t know, Steve.”
“There,” Dad said, “that’s my point. Until we know what we’re up against here, we should keep the kids in the dark.”
“In the dark,” my mother echoed.
“You know what I mean, Dana,” my father said. His voice was impatient now.
“Yes,” my mother answered. “I know. But you’re forgetting something, aren’t you?”
“What’s that?”
“In the dark… That’s where those things hide.”
Mark paused and looked up from the letter.
“Okay, now I’m starting to get scared,” Lyssa said with a shudder. “Is that all?”
“No way,” Mark said. “There’s a whole lot more. Listen. I’ll read the rest.”
The dark… where those things hide.
That’s what my mom said. I could have done without overhearing that, let me tell you.
I heard my parents’ footsteps. Any minute, they would come out of the living room. They would spot me in the downstairs hall.
I sprinted for the kitchen, careful to run on the balls of my feet. That way, I wouldn’t make any noise. I crouched behind the kitchen table. All the chairs were pushed in. Even if Mom and Dad looked into the kitchen, they wouldn’t be able to see me at all.
But they didn’t look. Mom and Dad went upstairs. They turned off the lights. Now I was all alone in the dark.
Where those things hide.
Why did Mom say that? I wondered. What did she mean by “those things”?
I’m not just some kid who’s scared of the dark. Though I am. Kind of. Don’t tell anyone.
I filled up the water bottle and headed back upstairs. I was halfway up when I felt the cold.
Most people think cold is just cold. You put on a sweater and it’s no big deal. But this cold was something more. You know what I mean, right? You’re Ghost Hunters, after all.
The cold came from nowhere. That was the first thing. Sure, it was January. But I was in the middle of the house. Not near a window or a door. One minute it was normal temperature. The next minute I can see my breath, like when I’m outside in the snow.
I spun around.
Nothing.
Of course it’s nothing, Bill, I thought. Dave is right. You are a wimp.
Then why was my heart pounding so fast? So hard? My breath was making big white clouds as I breathed in and out. I kept on going toward my bedroom. Up the stairs. One by one. My teeth were chattering when I got to the top. I don’t know what made me do it, but I turned around.
There was a man behind me at the bottom of the stairs. He was staring straight ahead. I don’t think he saw me. I wanted to scream my head off. To yell for Mom and Dad.
Something stopped me. I can’t explain. It’s like there was this big fist in the middle of my throat. Choking me. Choking off even the possibility of sound.
I backed up.
Step. Step. Step.
The man began to climb the stairs. Coming toward me.
Step. Step. Step.
I was in my bedroom now.
Step. Step. Step.
The back of my knees bumped against my bed. I climbed up on it. But I didn’t turn around. There was no way I was turning my back. I scooted all the way to the head of my bed.
There’s nowhere else to go! I’m trapped!
I could see the man’s head. Then his shoulders. And his chest. He kept on coming up the stairs! Coming straight toward me. He was in the hall now. Almost to my bedroom door. I could see his waist. But his legs…
His legs!
I did scream then. I couldn’t stop myself.
All the way up the stairs he came. Along the hall to the door of my room.
Except he couldn’t have. There was no way he could do that.
He didn’t have any legs.
“Wow!” Jen Shorewood said. “That is so creepy.” She shivered. “Just hearing about it makes me cold. So, we’re going to help this kid, right?”
“This could be tricky,” Grant said. “Officially, the family hasn’t asked for any help. By which I mean the parents. We can’t just show up.”
“But there must
be something we can do,” Mark said. “We can’t ignore what’s going on.”
“Bill’s letter said he kept a case file,” Jason said.
Mark nodded. “It’s right here.” He spread the papers out and looked them over quickly. “In addition to a stair-climbing guy, there’s also a woman who walks around in the kitchen and a kid about Bill’s little sister’s age who runs back and forth—maybe she’s playing or something—in the downstairs hall.”
“Do any of the others have legs?” Mike asked. “And for the record, I can’t believe I just asked that question.”
“No,” Mark said. “None of them. And here’s something else. They do the same thing, over and over.”
“That’s interesting,” Grant commented.
“At least let me do some research,” Mark said. “Maybe if I can figure out who these ghosts are, I can solve the puzzle of what’s going on. Then we could get in touch with the parents. When we have something solid to tell them.”
“Sounds like a good approach,” Jason said. “Keep us posted.”
“Will do,” Mark promised.
The meeting broke up. Mark put Bill’s letter and case file back in the envelope. He tucked it under his arm.