The Ghost of Popcorn Hill Page 3

  “She wants us out there with her,” Martin said. “Come on.”

  They splashed toward the rock, with Rosie getting more excited every second. When Martin was just a couple of feet away, she launched herself into the air, hitting him squarely on the chest. Down he went, knocking over Peter on the way. They crouched in the water and watched Rosie climb back on the rock.

  “It’s a game!” Martin laughed. “She’s made up a game. She wants to defend that rock. She doesn’t want us near it.”

  “You stay here and I’ll go around to the other side,” Peter said, splashing noisily through the water. “She won’t know what to do.”

  But Rosie was ready for him. For the next twenty minutes she defended herself against every attack, hurtling at them like a black-and-white cannonball when they got too close. Again and again the boys toppled backward, partly because it pleased Rosie so much and partly because the water felt good.

  When they were too tired to play the game anymore, they waded to shore and opened the lunch bag their mother had packed. Rosie barked at them to come back, but soon she gave up too and joined them.

  Peter broke off a corner of his peanut butter sandwich and dropped it in front of her.

  “Good girl!” he said softly.

  After lunch they followed the creek bed for a while, watching for fish and throwing stones in the water. Then they turned back toward home.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Martin said slowly. “I’ve been thinking about—well, you know.” He hated to say the words and possibly spoil the day.

  “What?” Peter looked at him suspiciously.

  “About having two ghosts.”

  “Don’t talk about it,” Peter ordered.

  “We have to,” Martin said. “They’re there, aren’t they? Tom Buffle’s hanging around because he’s lonesome, and the sheepdog came last night because he wants friends too. What I was thinking is, why don’t we try to get them together? If they have each other, they won’t need us.”

  Peter stared. “How could we do that?”

  “I’m not sure,” Martin said. “We’d have to wait till the dog came back again, and then we’d have to figure out a way to make Tom Buffle appear at the same time.”

  Peter’s eyes widened in horror. “No, no, no!” he roared. “You can’t! You mustn’t!” Rosie dashed between them, barking wildly.

  “We have to,” Martin said. It seemed to him that a shadow had settled over them, even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. “We can’t lie awake watching for ghosts every night, can we?” He paused. “Can we?”

  “Don’t talk about it,” Peter said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “If He Does Come Again, We’ll Be Ready”

  “Let’s go out to the rock and watch for the ghost dog,” Martin whispered after supper that night. “If he sees us looking, maybe he’ll come back to the cabin tonight.”

  Peter shook his head. He picked up a ball from the bedroom floor and rolled it out into the kitchen for Rosie to chase. “I’d rather play with Rosie,” he said. “You’d better not go either.”

  But Martin was determined. Now that he’d thought of bringing Tom Buffle and the sheepdog together, he was going to find a way. It was the only answer he could think of to their problem.

  It was lonely out on the rock without Peter. Fog rested like cotton candy over the tops of the trees in the valley. Martin sat down and wrapped his arms around his knees.

  If I see the dog, I’ll just wave at him and run back to the cabin, he decided uneasily. He didn’t like ghosts any more than Peter did.

  Minutes dragged by while he sat and thought about the ghost dog and Tom Buffle. Below him, the orchard and the little meadow in front of it disappeared from sight. The fog began creeping up Popcorn Hill.

  Martin shivered. Bit by bit, the path up the hill vanished. The dog could be right here before I know it, he thought. He listened hard and imagined he heard the soft flip-flop of big paws.

  He’s here! Martin jumped down off the rock and raced headlong toward the lights of the cabin. He had hoped to make sure the sheepdog was still around, but he didn’t want to meet him out here all alone.

  Mrs. Tracy was reading and Peter was drawing a picture when Martin burst through the doorway. Peter followed him into the bedroom.

  “Did you see him?”

  Martin peered out into the mist-filled yard. There was no sign of the dog. “I didn’t see him,” he admitted. “But I’m pretty sure he was close by. And I’ve thought of a plan. If he does come again, we’ll be ready.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Peter said.

  Martin made a face. He was scared himself, and his brother wasn’t helping. “Don’t you want to get rid of the ghosts?” he demanded.

  Peter wouldn’t look up. “Sure I do,” he mumbled.

  “Then you’d better listen, because you have to help.”

  Peter threw himself down on his bed. “What do I have to do?” he asked unwillingly.

  “Something you’re real good at,” Martin said. He was still annoyed. “You have to cry.” And then he explained the plan he’d thought of, sitting out there in the fog.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  How the Plan Worked

  Mrs. Tracy was sleepy and decided to go to bed early. That made the first part of the plan easy. Just before the boys climbed into bed themselves, they lifted the screen out of the bedroom window.

  “I know a ghost dog could come right through a screen if he wanted to, but we have to be sure he knows he’s welcome,” Martin explained.

  “He’s not welcome,” Peter said stubbornly. “I wish Daddy were home. What if something goes wrong? I’m scared.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” Martin said. He was glad Peter couldn’t see the goose bumps on his arms.

  “I wish Rosie could come in and sleep with us,” Peter persisted. “She’d like that.”

  Martin didn’t answer. Peter knew very well why Rosie couldn’t be with them. If she got excited and started jumping around, the ghost dog might not come.

  The boys were still for a while, listening to the wind that had blown the fog away. Moonlight spilled through the window. Then the wind faded to a breeze, and Martin heard the same soft flip-flop steps he had heard earlier in the evening.

  Something panted at the windowsill.

  “Oh, no!” Peter whimpered. He crouched under the covers with just one eye showing as the sheepdog leaped through the window and landed in the middle of the bedroom.

  Martin watched the big dog explore the room. Each time he passed the window, moonlight shone through him.

  I don’t know if I can do this! Martin thought in a panic. One ghost was bad enough. Two would be even scarier. But then he remembered how sorry he’d felt for Tom Buffle. Tom wanted a friend, and the sheepdog wanted one too. Otherwise the dog wouldn’t be here, pacing around their bedroom in the middle of the night.

  He took a deep breath and started the next step of the plan. It was simple. He was going to tell a story, the saddest story he could think of. If he made it sad enough, Tom Buffle might come to cheer them up.

  “Once upon a time,” he began in a shaky voice, “two boys were left all alone in a cabin in the woods.”

  The sheepdog wandered over to Peter’s bed and sniffed his pillow.

  “Cry!” Martin whispered. “This is supposed to be a sad story.” Then he realized he didn’t have to tell his brother what to do. Peter was already crying, because of the dog, not because of the story.

  Martin started again. “So these two boys—” He stopped. He couldn’t think of what to say next! Usually when he told a story, he put in real adventures and made-up ones, and the ideas came faster than he could say the words. But not this time. The ghost dog and Peter’s muffled sobs had dried up every thought in his head.

  “So these two boys what?” Peter sniffled. The sheepdog ambled across the bedroom and rested his see-through head close to Martin’s.

  “I—I do
n’t know,” Martin groaned. His plan was falling apart, and all because he hadn’t made up the story in advance.

  The sheepdog padded to the window. He looked as if he might be going to jump out.

  “So the poor boys didn’t have anything to eat!”

  Martin couldn’t believe his ears. Peter had stopped crying. In a quivery, shivery voice, he was telling the next part of the story.

  “It was snowing, and they didn’t have any wood for the stove,” Peter went on. He looked fearfully into the corner where Tom Buffle had stood in the past.

  “And they didn’t have any blankets. Not even a little one.” There was another pause. Martin held his breath.

  “They didn’t have anything to play with, either.” Peter began to sound desperate.

  “They didn’t have any games.”

  Was that a faint, far-off “Ho-ho-ho”? Martin wasn’t sure.

  “And no storybooks.”

  “Ho-ho-ho!” This time there could be no doubt.

  “They didn’t have a dog, either!” Peter’s voice faded to a whimper as the scarecrow figure began to appear. First came the long, narrow face, then the red suspenders, then the ragged trouser legs. A booming “HO-HO-HO!” brought a quick end to Peter’s story.

  “I can’t do it anymore,” he wailed softly and disappeared again under the covers.

  “That’s a very sad story,” the ghost moaned. “Let me cheer you up.”

  Martin had almost forgotten the ghost dog, but now a movement at the window caught his eye. The sheepdog had whirled around and was staring into the corner. He seemed to hesitate, and then with a great bound he crossed the room and threw himself against Tom Buffle’s chest.

  For a moment the two ghosts disappeared entirely. Martin sank back on his pillow in despair. But then they returned, glimmering and shimmering more brightly than ever. Tom Buffle hugged the sheepdog as if he’d never let him go.

  “Buster!” he shouted, and this time there wasn’t a trace of a moan in his voice. “Buster, is it really you?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “A Great Dog!”

  “Buster,” Martin repeated. “Is that his name?”

  “Sure is.” The sheepdog put his paws on Tom Buffle’s shoulders and licked his face.

  “Is he—was he—your dog?” Peter asked, forgetting to be scared.

  “Nope.” Tom Buffle gave the dog another hug. “This here old feller belonged to my best friend, Jim Curly. They lived in the mill on the other side of the orchard. Buster disappeared in a storm one night, and we figured he got swept away in the creek. And then Jim moved down south. Buster must have come back to the mill to look for his pal, and he couldn’t find him.”

  The ghost dog wagged his tail.

  “Wish I’d gone over to the mill to look around,” Tom said with a groan. “We could have gotten together a long time ago. But there didn’t seem any point to goin’ there. When Jim Curly left, it just stood empty. Funny that I never ran into Buster up here.”

  “He only came here once before,” Martin explained. “I think he’s sort of shy. And I guess he’d rather be at the mill, anyway. He led us over there once.”

  Tom Buffle gave Buster a hug. “Poor old feller. He’s lonesome, same as me—aren’t you, boy?”

  “That’s what we figured,” Martin said eagerly. “We thought you two ought to get together. We didn’t know you were already friends.”

  “You mean you fellers planned this?” the ghost asked. “You wanted to cheer up old Tom Buffle?”

  “And make you go away,” Peter said honestly. “Because we don’t need to be cheered up. And now that you have Buster, you won’t need us.”

  If Tom Buffle’s feelings were hurt, he didn’t let it show. “That’s ’bout the nicest thing anybody ever did for me,” he said. “And it’s goin’ to make Buster pretty happy too, ain’t it, old boy?”

  Buster glanced over his shoulder and then went back to licking Tom Buffle’s face.

  “He smiled at us,” Peter said. “Did you see, Martin?”

  Martin started to say “Dogs don’t smile,” but changed his mind. Buster had smiled.

  “We’ll be on our way then,” Tom Buffle said. “Maybe we’ll settle in the old mill—if that’s what Buster wants.” The figures grew fainter as he spoke, and soon the corner was as dark as if they had never been there.

  Martin drew a long breath. “It worked!” he exclaimed. “You were real good helping out with the story, Peter. You didn’t even sound scared—much.”

  “I was scared though,” Peter admitted. “But I wanted the ghosts to go away more than I wanted to hide.”

  The boys were silent, thinking over what had just happened. Martin got up and put the screen in the window. He was about to climb back into bed when there was a scratching at the door to the kitchen. He opened the door a crack, and Rosie pushed her way in. They watched as she circled the room and stood up on her hind legs to look out the window.

  “You know what’s nice about Rosie?” Peter said. “She’s fun and she’s smart.”

  “That’s right,” Martin said.

  “And she loves us,” Peter said.

  “Right,” Martin agreed.

  “And you can’t see through her,” Peter said. “She’s solid.”

  Rosie ran over to Martin’s bed and jumped up on his stomach. “She’s solid, all right,” Martin gasped. “She’s a great dog.”

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 1993 by Betty Ren Wright

  Illustrations copyright © 1993 by Karen Ritz

  Cover design by Connie Gabbert

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-1341-3

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