Ghosts Don't Wear Glasses Read online

  “Cut the ghost talk, okay, because I am telling you there is no ghost,” I said. “It’s a bike-by and reconnaissance mission. We need to do a perimeter check that may or may not involve actually breaching the target.”

  “I hope you’re right and we don’t encounter an entity, Fish,” said T. J. in a calm voice, as if he knew something I didn’t. “But like you always say, we have to be prepared. I think I should be the head field investigator because I know the most about paranormal stuff. Then our team needs—”

  “Team?” I raised my eyebrows.

  “Yes. Our paranormal investigation team needs a technical expert and an interviewer.”

  “Interviewer?” Roger’s brown eyes twinkled.

  “Uh-huh. Someone has to make contact with the entity and get it to tell us what it wants and why it’s haunting the house in the—”

  “That’s me,” said Roger. “I can talk to anyone. My mom says I would even talk to a blinking light.”

  “Good,” said T. J. “So, you want to be the technical specialist, Fish? The tech guy always carries the EMF meter on the show. Think your dad has one? I looked around, but my dad doesn’t. I guess you don’t need EMF meters in waste management.”

  EMF meters detect fluctuations in the electromagnetic field on the electromagnetic spectrum. My dad and Uncle Norman use one sometimes to measure the electromagnetic field at a job site to make sure the wiring is safely installed when they’re plumbing new pipes.

  “Dr. Ghost B. Gone says if the readings go up and down a lot, it means there’s a ghost—I mean an entity—present,” said T. J.

  “My dad has a meter, but it doesn’t matter, because there is no ghost at the one-legged whaler’s house, because there are no such things as ghosts.”

  “That’s what the EMF meter will tell us,” said T. J.

  I shook my head and sighed.

  “Do you think the ghost would prefer I speak very proper and say something like ‘Salutations on this fine morning, Your Honorable Manifestation’? Or would it feel more comfortable with a casual tone like, ‘Yo! Wassup, spirit dude?’ ” said Roger.

  “Guys, you know there’s a scientific explanation for anything we might find,” I said.

  “Dr. Ghost B. Gone says ghosts exist outside the realm of science—” T. J. began again.

  “I’d like to tell Dr. Ghost B. Gone a few things,” I muttered.

  “You can call him,” said T. J. “He says at the end of every show: ‘Got a haunting going on? Call 1-555-GOS-TBGN . . .’”

  FA-BOO-LOUS!!!

  “Let’s go, guys,” I said, checking my digital diver’s watch. “It’s almost two and I have to be home by four to mow the lawn.”

  As if she had supersonic hearing, my mom called out the kitchen window, “Fish, don’t forget to mow the lawn!”

  “I won’t, Mom! Be back soon.”

  Roger, T. J., and I headed down the driveway before my mom could ask where we were going. It wasn’t as if we weren’t allowed to go to Raven Hill Road, but if my mom asked why, it would be hard to explain, since I couldn’t tell her about the dare.

  “Are you sure you really need the princess recorder?” I asked T. J. as the shopping bag on his handlebars clanked his tire spokes with each turn of the wheel. This made the pink plastic recorder with pictures of princesses all over it pop up and the pink microphone peek out of the bag, so T. J. had to keep pushing it back down. It belonged to Mmm, T. J.’s little sister, who is princess-crazy, like my four-year-old sister, Feenie.

  “It’s for Roger’s interview.”

  Roger bowed and somehow popped a wheelie at the same time. “How about: ‘Roger Huckleton here, Paranormal Interviewer, to ask you a few SPOOKtacular questions. . . .’ ”

  “It’s also to record EVPs,” T. J. went on. “That’s noise that sounds like static, but if we play it back and run it through a computer the way Dr. Ghost B. Gone’s team does, we might hear a message from the entity.”

  “Sounds faBOOlous!” said Roger.

  “What do you need the detective kit for?” I asked.

  “We should take a sample of the blood on the door to analyze in our lab.”

  “What lab?”

  “Your lab. You have all that chemistry equipment and the microscope you got for your birthday last year.”

  “Dude, when are you going to get it through your head there are no such things as ghosts and bleeding doors?”

  “You’ll see, Fish,” said T. J. “The EMF meter will show us.”

  “It’s not going to tell us anything other than the level of electromagnetic radiation coming from the power lines and—”

  “Hey, Teej,” said Roger. “What are the types of ghosts again? I want to be prepared for my interview.”

  “I can’t believe you’re taking this seriously,” I said as we biked over the railroad tracks into town. “There is absolutely no proof ghosts exist.”

  “Actually, there is,” said T. J. “But it’s like meteors.”

  “What in the heck do meteors have to do with ghosts?” I said.

  “They’re both out of this world,” said Roger.

  “See, scientists never used to believe that meteors existed, either, because they didn’t fall very often. Just like ghosts. They don’t appear all that often, and when they do, you can’t just make them appear again. Presto!”

  That was just about the most unscientific scientific explanation I had ever heard. I was about to say so when we passed the library and reached Town Pond.

  “Shortcut up Pudding Hill, or the long way along Harbor Road?”

  “Pudding Hill,” T. J. and I both said.

  Supposedly during the Revolutionary War, when a British officer came to the door of one house, the woman who lived there threw a pudding at him. That’s how the road got its name. It’s a steep hill, but it’s worth the climb.

  When we got to the top, it was just a few turns till we reached Raven Hill Road. It was quiet. It didn’t seem like there was anyone around.

  We pedaled slowly up to the one-legged whaler’s house, where Raven Hill ended.

  A dead end.

  It was a sunny afternoon, but the Hannibal Royce house sat in shadow, like the light got sucked up by all the overgrown trees and wild grass. The rusty, spiked, black wrought-iron fence looked like a mouth with teeth missing.

  The house was set back down a long, winding driveway. It was three stories, gray from the ancient, peeling paint, and an old bent weather vane stuck up at the top. There were two crumbling chimneys that looked like they might collapse at any minute.

  T. J. held his shopping bag as if it were a life preserver. Mi was right: If ghosts existed, this house was just the kind of creepy place where they would live.

  “Let’s leave our bikes here,” I said. “And evaluate the entrances and exits so we know what we’re doing tomorrow night.”

  I went first through the rusty fence, wading slowly through the tall grass. No one had lived here for a long, long time. Even when Admiral Thomas Royce—Hannibal Royce’s great-great-great-I-don’t-know-how-many-greats-grandson—was alive, no one came here. He was a recluse—you know, someone who doesn’t like to be around other people, even people he used to be friends with when he was a kid, like Great-Grandma Osborn.

  The only person I know who had ever been here was the Captain. I think they were friends on account of having both been in World War II. Admiral Royce died more than ten years ago, before I was born, and the house was just sitting here, left to rot.

  CRACK!

  Something crashed through the bushes ahead of us. We froze in our tracks.

  “What was that?” whispered Roger.

  We had reached a bend in the driveway where a giant weeping willow tree blocked the house from view. My heart rat-tat-tatted in my chest, but all I could see was a green curtain of leaves.

  WHOOSH!

  Something black darted through the leaves over our heads.

  A raven.

  We rounded the w
illow and saw the house in front of us. We spotted the ravens everywhere—by the front porch, by the side porch, up in the tree. They all looked at us at the same time with their beady black eyes.

  “What do ravens eat?” whispered T. J., so close to me I could feel his breath in my ear.

  “They’re carrion birds, so they eat things that are dead,” I said.

  At the word dead, the three of us looked at one another. A second later, the ravens flapped their big black wings and disappeared into the trees.

  “Guess it’s not called Raven Hill for nothing,” said Roger.

  The house had a wide front porch and a side porch that both had skinny versions of those columns with curlicues on the top. I think they are called Ionic. The wooden steps were rotted, and shutters were missing or hanging at weird angles off all the windows. I had to admit the place sure was creepy.

  “Let’s see if the front door is unlocked,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. “That will be the easiest way for us to get in on Saturday night.”

  I went first, then Roger, then T. J. There were dark brownish-reddish streaks running down the side of the door.

  “Holy cannoli!” said Roger.

  “Oh, jeepo!” said T. J. “The door really is bleeding.”

  I swallowed hard. “We . . . don’t know if that’s really . . . uh . . . blood.”

  “Take out the EMF meter,” said T. J. “To measure the level of paranormal activity.”

  “Why are you whispering? I bet it’s only rust,” I said, but my heart thumped fast.

  I pulled out the EMF meter and flipped it on. T. J. and Roger crowded around to see. At first nothing happened, but then I moved it an inch closer to the door. The needle on the display jumped all the way from two hertz at the bottom to one hundred and twenty hertz at the top and then back down again. I moved it an inch closer and it did the same wild swing from top to bottom. An inch closer. This time the needle went to the top and stayed there.

  “So, Teej, that means there’s a gho—I mean an entity in the house, right?” said Roger.

  T. J. just nodded, his face so pale, all his freckles stood out.

  “It might not be an elementary thingy like the one you said was bad. It might be one of those friendlier ones that just lights up or bangs a door or floats around in a smoky mist, right?”

  Roger tends to talk a lot when he’s scared. It was up to me to stay calm. There are no such things as ghosts. . . . There are no such things as ghosts. . . .

  “I bet it’s just a power line that’s making the meter go crazy,” I said, which made sense now that I said it out loud. “Or some messed-up wiring. Let’s . . . um . . . see if the door is open.”

  Roger and T. J. took a step back as I reached for the doorknob. I pushed once before I lost my nerve. It didn’t budge. No spooky orb or streak or ghost lunged out to get us, either, so I tried again, leaning my shoulder into the door. No luck.

  “Guess we should try another door,” I said.

  I led the way around the side of the house. We had to push through a nasty tangle of dead rosebushes. They were all thorns and I pricked myself a bunch of times. The side porch steps were so rotten, the middle one had collapsed.

  “Watch your step,” I said, jumping over it.

  “There’s blood on this door, too,” whispered T. J., as he and Roger walked slowly up the steps behind me. “See it dripping over there?” He pointed to the line of brownish-reddish drip marks.

  “I bet it’s a combination of rust from the door hinges and sap from the trees. That’s why it’s on both doors.” With so many trees hanging over the house, it was possible.

  “Hmm,” said Roger, a relieved look on his face. “I think you’re dead right.”

  Now that Roger was back to making wisecracks and I had come up with a logical explanation, I wasn’t afraid to try the side door. I pushed hard on the knob, but this door didn’t budge, either.

  “I think it’s locked, too.” I wiggled the knob.

  “Be careful, Fish,” said T. J. “You don’t want to alarm the entity.”

  “For Pete’s sake,” I said, shoving the door with my shoulder to see what would happen. It creaked, and I felt it give. “There’s no ghost, T. J. Hey, this door is just stuck. Push it with me.”

  T. J. and I both pushed. With a loud creak, the door swung open. I caught a glimpse of a refrigerator, which meant this was probably the kitchen.

  “Should we go in and see if we can find the harpoon?” I said. “That way we’ll be prepared on Saturday night.”

  No one knew for sure if there really was a harpoon. The one-legged whaler stabbing his victims through the heart with it was just a story, after all. But Hannibal Royce had supposedly left behind a collection of whaling stuff from his days at sea. It had been passed down from generation to generation with the house. The Captain told me Hannibal Royce, besides being a whaler, was also an inventor who patented special harpoons and whale hoists to raise dead whales out of the sea.

  “I don’t know,” said T. J. “I think we should check the EMF meter first.”

  “T. J., please,” I said. “What do you think, Rog?”

  There was no answer.

  “Roger?” I said again.

  T. J. and I turned around. Roger was gone.

  “Roger!”

  No answer. A raven landed on the grass at the foot of the steps and cawed, its beady black eyes on us.

  “AAAHHH!” Roger’s scream echoed in the silence.

  T. J. gripped his shopping bag so tight, his knuckles turned white. “The ghost got him. . . .”

  IT’S AN ORB! IT’S A GHOST! IT’S COMING!

  Ashiver ran down my spine. T. J. stood frozen beside me, stiff as a Queen’s Guard at Buckingham Palace. All he needed was one of those furry black hats and a pair of shiny black boots.

  TAP. TAP. TAP. Footsteps echoed from inside.

  TAP. TAP. TAP. They were heading this way.

  “It’s the ghost!” T. J. said, jumping off the porch.

  CRRREEEAAAKKK!!! The kitchen door creaked farther open. T. J. was right. The house really was haunted.

  CRRREEEAAAKKK!!!

  I leapt off the porch, landing in a heap beside T. J. “We have to find Roger.”

  “AAAAHHHH!” We heard another scream.

  “We have to help him,” I said, getting to my feet. “We’ll talk to the ghost just like you said, and uh . . . get it to . . . uh . . . let Roger go.”

  “BOO!”

  The sound echoed in the silence as Roger burst through the kitchen door. “Scared you!”

  “Roger!”

  “I wasn’t scared,” I said.

  “Were too,” said Roger. “You looked as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  “Ha. Ha. How’d you get in, anyway?”

  “There’s a window on the other side of the porch that was boarded up, and one of the boards was loose,” said Roger. “Easy peasy.”

  “I’ll lemon squeezy you,” I said, grabbing Roger around the neck.

  “I got you guys,” said Roger, his eyes twinkling. “Come on. Admit it.”

  I shook my head and changed the subject. “So, T. J., since you’re the lead investigator, shouldn’t you go first?”

  T. J. nodded, still pale. “I think you should turn on the EMF detector, Fish.”

  “I’m telling you, the only ghost around here is Roger, and he doesn’t look very ghostly to me.”

  T. J., still unconvinced, led the way through the doorway, holding his shopping bag like a shield. It was kind of dim, so I pulled out my pocket flashlight. I trained the narrow light on an old wooden table, old cane-back chairs seated around it, cabinets, and a stove. The sink was the old-fashioned kind with those enamel-topped faucets, one for hot and one for cold, that my dad and Uncle Norman complain need new washers all the time on account of the iron content in the well water eroding the metal. A thick layer of dust and cobwebs covered everything.

  PLINK! PLINK!

  “What was th
at?” asked T. J.

  “The faucet,” I said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  We walked through a swinging door into another room with a longer wooden table and more chairs.

  “Dining room,” said Roger.

  “No harpoon here,” said Roger, coughing from the dust.

  “No ghost, either,” I said. “See, T. J.?”

  The next door led us into a wide hallway. To our right was the front door. Opposite was a sweeping set of stairs leading to the upper floors. Across from us were two doors that were closed.

  There was a grandfather clock in one corner and a few small tables and chairs covered in sheets on top of a faded, worn-out Oriental rug. The ceiling was high, made of dark wood paneling, and a chandelier hung from the very top, covered in cobwebs. The way it tilted to one side, I sure hoped it wouldn’t fall.

  “No harpoon here,” said Roger. “Man, these are the biggest dust bunnies ever. AAHH-CHOO!”

  “Maybe we should try one of the rooms over there.” I shined the flashlight on the two closed doors. The longer we stayed in the house, the more confident I felt.

  “Guys . . . ,” said T. J. “I feel a cold spot. Watch out, because a cold spot means the entity is sucking up all the heat and electricity and stuff so it can manifest. If it’s a really powerful ghost, it can suck out all the charge in electronic devices, like your flashlight or phone.”

  “T. J., I’m telling you there is no such thing as ghosts.”

  “I feel it, too, Fish,” said Roger, dropping his jokey tone. “T. J.’s right. It is colder here.”

  I walked over and the three of us stood in a huddle at the foot of the staircase. T. J. pulled a white thermometer out of his bag. I bet he got it out of the Jacuzzi tub in his garage, where his dad keeps all the stuff he picks up on carting jobs that he thinks might be useful one day but that his mom doesn’t want around.

  “Shine the light on this, Fish.”

  “Seventy-eight degrees,” I said. “That’s not cold.”

  “Look!” said Roger. “It’s dropping.”

  “I’m telling you, this is a cold spot.” T. J.’s hands shook as he held the thermometer.