The Ghost of Ernie P. (7 page)

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 looked 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.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

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.

“Hey, Jeff, you like fishing?”

“I don't know,” Jeff said. “Maybe. I only tried it once—off the dock at Camp Wickawackoo.”

“Well, listen to this!” Art exclaimed. “My dad and his buddy were going musky fishing this morning, but his buddy got called in to work. So my dad says we can go with him if we want.”

“Musky fishing?” Jeff repeated, aware that his mother was listening to every word. “The thing is, I was going to take it easy for a while—you know, like we talked about yesterday.” He waited for Art to remember his own advice.

“Sure, sure,” Art said impatiently. “You want to hide out, right? Well, where's the best place in the world to hide, tell me that? On a nice quiet lake, that's where. No one around to bother you. Just you and the water and the woods and the clouds and the fish.”

Jeff hesitated. He didn't want to refuse, now that he and Art were friends again. And he'd always wanted to go musky fishing. He just wished Art had called before he'd told his mother he was going to stay home and rest.

“I'll call you back,” he promised, “in a few minutes.”

To Jeff's surprise, his mother was pleased with the change of plans.

“I think Art is right,” she said. “Rest is fine, but moping is bad. And besides, the fresh air will be good for you. Tomorrow you can sleep in as late as you want.” She gave him a hug. “We'll have you back to normal in no time.”

Jeff hoped she was right.

Later, sitting in the backseat of the Pattersons' sedan, he began to wonder if this fishing trip was going to be as restful as Art had promised. For one thing, he'd forgotten what a blustery, short-tempered man Mr. Patterson was.

“We'll get along fine as long as you guys follow orders,” he thundered. “I don't take kindly to dumb mistakes.”

“What kind of dumb mistakes?” Jeff asked Art, his eyes on Mr. Patterson's bulging shoulders. The car radio was on full blast, and the boat trailer set up a noisy rattle that covered their conversation.

Art rolled his eyes. “Well, you know,” he said, “muskies are the biggest game fish around here, and the hardest to catch. That's why it's exciting to go after 'em. But they don't bite very often, and when one does you have to do everything right, or else!”

“I don't even know what you're talking about,” Jeff protested. “How'm I going to do everything right?”

Art looked at him in surprise. “We aren't going to do any fishing ourselves,” he said. “We're just going to help out, okay?”

“Okay,” Jeff said. “But how'll I know if I'm making a mistake?”

Art grinned. “Don't worry,” he said, “my dad will tell you.”

It was a warm day, with a gray, overcast sky. When they reached the landing area, Eagle Lake was gray, too, and broken by millions of tiny ripples.

“Just the way I like it,” Mr. Patterson rumbled. “Not too calm. Breeze from the southwest.” He backed the trailer down to the water's edge and slid the boat expertly into the water.

“Now, you monkeys jump in and put on those life jackets,” he ordered, “while I park the car. Art, sit in the middle so you can row if I need you. Jeff, you go up front. You're the net man.” He lifted a huge blue net from the trunk of the car and dropped it into the boat. “If we catch a musky, I'll work him up to the boat, and you'll net him.”

“Net him!” Jeff exclaimed as the car moved away from the shore, dragging the empty trailer to a parking place. “How do I do that?”

The net was attached to a wide metal ring with a long handle. Art seized the handle and waved the net over the water. “You dip way down, like this,” he demonstrated. “Be sure you go deep enough, so you're under the fish. And then you lift up. Nothing to it.”

Jeff took back the net and gave it a couple of test swings. He couldn't imagine a fish big enough to need a net the size of this one. “Have you ever netted a musky?”

“No,” Art admitted, “but I've watched a few times.”

“Well, then, you do it. I'll row.”

Art shook his head. “I'd better row,” he said quickly. “My dad likes the way I do it.”

Jeff settled into the seat in the front of the boat, and the boys waited silently till Mr. Patterson returned and started the motor. “We'll go along there.” He pointed to the far side of the lake. “Then Art takes over with the oars.”