The Ghost of Ernie P. (4 page)

Jeff's mother was on the patio, a book on the table beside her. It was one she read a lot called
The Problems and Joys of Raising Boys
. “Was Celia Muggin pleased to get the recipe?”

Jeff nodded. He didn't tell her that Mrs. Muggin hadn't remembered asking for the recipe. “She made me stay for lemonade,” he said.

“
Made
you or invited you? She's not an ogre, for goodness' sake.” Mrs. Keppel laughed, but Jeff didn't smile. His stomach felt quivery, as if he'd just eaten a large cheese-and-sausage pizza, three chocolate milk shakes, and a bushel of popcorn—instead of a glass of lemonade and one cookie.

“What did you talk about, dear?”

“Their niece is staying with them,” Jeff told her. “Their niece” sounded harmless, but he couldn't think about Margo Muggin without shivering. She was the most terrifying person he'd ever met. The sweet, smiling Margo of the last half hour of his visit couldn't wipe out the memory of that other, threatening Margo. When he closed his eyes, he could still see her striding across the dark living room, her arm outstretched, one long finger pointing, her eyes glowing with rage.

“I did hear they had a houseguest,” Mrs. Keppel said. “What's she like?”

Jeff shrugged. “I forget.”

“You forget?” His mother sounded exasperated.

“She's tall and thin and she has long black hair and she's—sort of strange,” Jeff said hurriedly. “I think I'll get the tent out of the attic now, okay?”

He was halfway up the stairs before the next question came. “What do you mean, sort of strange?”

“Just strange,” Jeff shouted back. He didn't want to talk about Margo Muggin. He pictured his mother shaking her head and picking up the book again. Maybe she'd find a chapter on how to tell when your kid was scared out of his wits.

Jeff spent the next hour setting up the tent in the backyard. It would have been easier if Art had been there to help him, but he didn't want to call and risk having his friend hang up. Later in the afternoon he biked to the Pattersons' house, determined to apologize for calling Art's T S P sweatshirt dumb. If they made up, maybe they could camp out in the tent tonight.

The Pattersons' yard was oddly empty for a Saturday afternoon. Usually Art's four little sisters were there, chasing each other, screaming orders that no one listened to, or sitting on the front steps with a row of dolls and teddy bears. The house looked different, too. The windows and doors were all closed.

“Don't bother to knock,” Mrs. Harper called from the porch next door. “They've all gone to Chicago. A golden wedding celebration.”

Jeff went back to his bike. He felt lost. Usually Art would have told him if the Pattersons were going out of town. He might even have been invited to go with them.

Jeff rode home slowly. He'd been counting on good old Art to help him stop thinking about the Top Secret Project and about Margo Muggin. Now he was all alone.
Alone and scared
, he thought. He hated the way that sounded, but it described exactly the way he felt.

“What you have to do is set a goal for yourself every day,” Mrs. Keppel said at breakfast Monday morning. “Take control of your life, dear.”

Jeff knew she was worried about him. Yesterday, when he'd stayed around the house, reading, dozing, watching television, she'd asked him six times if he was feeling all right. Once she'd even wanted to take his temperature.

Now, as he wheeled his bike out of the garage, he tried to look cheerful because he knew his mother was watching from the kitchen window. Actually, he did feel a little better. Nothing frightening had happened since his visit to the Muggins, so maybe his life was going to get back to normal.

He had two goals for today. First, he wanted to make sure that Art Patterson was still his best friend. Second, he was
not
going to think about the Top Secret Project. Maybe if he ignored the T S P for a while, the ghost of Ernie P. would leave him alone. He hoped so.

He had to give up the first goal right away. Art's battered brown-and-silver Speed King wasn't in the bicycle rack where it belonged. Tony Scaffidi and Justin May and most of the other boys from Jeff's homeroom were gathered near the front door, but Art wasn't with them.

They stopped talking and watched Jeff come up the walk.

“Heard you went home sick Friday,” Tony said. “Because you felt bad about Ernie.”

Jeff groaned to himself. He wished he could tell the truth—that he and Ernie had never been close friends. Now it was too late.

“Where's Art?” Jeff asked.

“In Chicago,” Justin answered. “Family stuff. The principal said it was okay.”

“For how long?” Jeff asked.

“A few days, I guess.” Justin looked at Jeff curiously. “How come he didn't tell you?”

Jeff shrugged.

Ten minutes later, he had to give up on his second goal, when Coach Peretti stopped him in the hall.

“Keppel!” Coach shouted above the din of voices and slamming lockers. “You feeling better now?”

“I'm okay,” Jeff yelled back.

“Well, good,” the coach bellowed, “because I have a job for you. Ernie Barber's dad was here Friday to pick up the things in Ernie's locker, and nobody remembered that he had another locker down in the gym. You know which one it is?”

“It's next to mine,” Jeff said. Ernie had asked for that one.

“You know the combination?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Peretti beamed. “Well, great, Keppel. I want you to take this bag and go down there and empty out the locker. I don't know what made me remember it today. Guess I must have been feeling sorry for the kid—even though he did play dirty every chance he had.”

“I've got a class now,” Jeff said. “Maybe somebody else—”

Mr. Peretti's genial expression slipped away. “Now, Keppel,” he warned, “don't give me a hard time. Just tell me what class, and I'll take care of it.”

“English class,” Jeff mumbled. “What'll I do with the stuff?” He hoped Coach wouldn't say he had to deliver it to the Barbers' house.

“Just drop it at the principal's office,” Mr. Peretti said cheerfully. “Someone will call Ernie's folks, and they'll pick it up there. Good boy!”

Trapped again
, Jeff thought grimly. How could he forget the Top Secret Project if everyone kept talking to him about Ernie? He felt like a rat in a maze, with no way out.

When he reached the locker room, no one else was there. Jeff switched on the lights and moved quickly down the silent rows of lockers to the back. His footsteps echoed unpleasantly.

Ernie's locker was number 906. Jeff unlocked it, then hesitated. He was absolutely certain that he was going to regret opening the locker, just as he regretted everything that brought back memories of Ernie Barber. Something dangerous could be in there. A ghost could be in there! He wished there were at least one other student in the locker room.

When the door swung open, he stepped back quickly and then felt silly. A sweat suit hung inside, and Ernie's expensive running shoes were on the floor. That was all.

Jeff realized he'd been holding his breath. He took out the running shoes and dropped them into the bag. The sweatshirt and pants, rolled into a ball, went in on top of the shoes. There was nothing on the top shelf but a wad of chewing gum.

Then he saw the manila envelope. It was just like the one that Mrs. Barber had given him, and it was taped to the lower part of the locker where the sweat suit had hidden it. Jeff slammed the locker door and looked around him wildly. He had to get away, fast.

But when he reached the locker-room door, he stopped. The coach had asked him to clean out the locker because the Barbers wanted every single thing that had belonged to their boy. A vision of Mrs. Barber's sad face jumped into Jeff's mind. It didn't seem likely, but what if the envelope held more photographs of Ernie? Mrs. Barber would want them.

He forced himself to walk back down the long aisle. The door of number 906 was wide open. Jeff pulled the envelope loose and stuffed it into the bag. His hands were sweating.

He had reached the locker-room door for the second time when he heard a soft
swish
behind him. He turned and saw the envelope lying on the floor. Hardly able to believe his eyes, he scooped it up and shoved it all the way to the bottom of the bag. Then he ran to the door.

Swish
.

This time the sound was louder. He turned and found the envelope at his feet. It couldn't have fallen out of the bag, and yet there it was.

The chilly, echoing locker room had become a frightening place. Jeff dumped everything out of the bag. He laid the envelope on the bottom and put the rolled-up sweat suit on top of it. The running shoes went in last.

He barely had a chance to pick up the bag before the swishing sound—more of a SWOOSH now—stopped him. He looked behind him. The envelope wasn't on the floor. He reached into the bag, but it wasn't there either.

Jeff leaned against the wall. His knees were shaking so hard that he could barely stand.

“Cut it out!” he croaked. “Leave me alone!”

Something brushed against his hip. Jeff pushed clenched fists into his pockets and gave a little yelp of terror. The envelope was in his right jeans pocket, neatly rolled.

He snatched up the bag, threw open the locker-room door, and catapulted into the hall.

“Hey, watch where you're going!” Tony Scaffidi jumped out of the way. “What's the matter with you, Keppel? You look as if you've seen a ghost.”

Jeff took a deep breath. “That's crazy,” he said, but he didn't sound convincing, even to himself. He hadn't actually seen a ghost, but he felt as if he had. As clearly as if he'd spoken, the ghost of Ernie P. Barber had told him it was all right to take the sweat suit and the running shoes to the principal's office, but not the envelope. The envelope was supposed to stay with Jeff, whether he wanted it or not.

“I'm okay,” he told Tony. “I'm fine.”

“Yeah? Then how come you're that funny green color?” Tony shook his head. “You're acting weird lately, Keppel. Really weird.”

Jeff shrugged. There was no point in arguing. Weird was how he felt.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

The envelope rode around in Jeff's pocket for the rest of the day. Twice he took it out and held it over a wastebasket, but he couldn't make his fingers let go. What if it flew out of the basket and swooshed after him down the hall, with the whole school watching? So far, he was the only one who knew he was being haunted by the ghost of Ernie P. Jeff wanted to keep it that way.

When he got home, his house had the same closed-up, unfriendly look that the Pattersons' house had had on Saturday. This was his mother's day to work as a volunteer in the hospital gift shop, and sometimes she stayed an extra hour to stock the shelves. Jeff had his own key, but he didn't feel like going into the empty house. Instead he wandered around to the backyard and into the tent.

It was funny about the tent. Ever since he was a little kid, he'd looked forward to camping out, even if it was only in the backyard. He liked the smell of the canvas and the way the sunlight danced over the slanted roof. He liked sleeping in a bedroll and reading mysteries by the glow of a lantern. His mother said it was probably because he and his dad had gone camping together.

He threw himself down on the grass and pulled the manila envelope out of his pocket. Ernie Barber had never been in the tent, but Jeff felt as if he were there now. He could almost smell the peppermints Ernie liked to suck. He could almost hear Ernie saying,
Come on, old buddy, you know what you have to do
.

Jeff stared at the envelope. Whatever was inside meant more trouble—no doubt about that—but sooner or later he had to look. He couldn't help himself.

He slit the top of the envelope and pulled out the contents. There were three clippings from the
Los Angeles Express
, each mounted neatly on a sheet of typing paper. Jeff stared at the first headline in astonishment:

WITCHES
'
COVEN REVEALED

Below the headline was a reporter's story of how she'd gone underground to join a coven of witches. She described their secret meeting place, and a ritual in which the members wore black robes and chanted in strange, high-pitched voices.

The second clipping told how the reporter had become friendly with members of the coven. A couple of them had claimed to do good with their magic, but most of the witches bragged about the bad luck they'd brought to their enemies. One had caused her boss's basement to flood. Another had made her landlord lose his winning lottery ticket. A third specialized in flat tires and suddenly empty gas tanks. All of these “spells” could be just coincidences, the reporter pointed out. There was no way to be sure. But the witches were confident that they could bring “bad luck” to whomever they wished.

The last clipping was the most startling. Under the headline
SUBURBAN WITCH ACCUSED BY NEIGHBORS
was a detailed story about a single member of the coven. The reporter had interviewed this woman's neighbors and had discovered they were all afraid of her. She'd disagreed with the man next door about a fence he was putting up, and the next day the roof of his house collapsed. Another neighbor lost her wallet, her car keys, and her boyfriend on the very day she and the witch had an argument.

“I can do just about anything I want to do,” the witch boasted. She admitted to the reporter that she'd just been fired from her job at Park Valley Hospital because she'd threatened to put a spell on one of her fellow workers. “But I wanted to leave, anyway,” she said. “I'm going to move back East and start a whole new life. I'll be more powerful than ever, because no one will know who I am and what I can do!”