Ghosts Don't Wear Glasses Read online

  We watched the red liquid slowly drop from seventy-eight down to seventy-four and then seventy. A cool breeze prickled the hairs on the back of my neck.

  “It’s a draft, guys,” I said, sweeping my flashlight around.

  “How can there be a draft?” said Roger. “The whole place is shut up.”

  “See, when even a little cool air enters through a window or a door, objects lose heat in an attempt to equalize room temperature. The process is called convection, and because hot air rises—”

  All of a sudden, my flashlight went out.

  “Jeepo!” said T. J.

  I jiggled my flashlight, but it wouldn’t go back on.

  “The entity sucked up all the charge,” said T. J.

  “What’s that mean?” said Roger, his voice quavering.

  “It’s trying to . . . manifest,” whispered T. J. “You know, turn into a gh-gh-ghost.”

  We blinked in the sudden dimness, waiting for our eyes to adjust. I was about to pop out the batteries to switch them around when a floating light appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “It’s an orb!”

  BANG! A door slammed somewhere nearby.

  “It’s a poltergeist!”

  A shadowy form appeared where the light had been.

  “It’s a shadow being!”

  The shadow started moving toward the stairs with a THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  “It’s the ghost of the one-legged whaler!”

  “It’s coming!”

  1-555-GOS-TBGN

  We ran out of the house so fast, we didn’t stop till we were all the way back down the driveway and had reached the safety of our bikes. We’d gotten scratched up from the thorns and prickers, and Roger had ripped his shorts, but nobody said a word, not till we were safely off Raven Hill Road and on Main Street.

  T. J. didn’t say I told you so. Roger did, but I knew there had to be a scientific explanation for what had happened. I was still thinking about it even after I finished mowing the lawn.

  “I have something important to tell you,” said Feenie as soon as I walked into the kitchen. Her blond pigtails bounced up by her ears, but her blue eyes were serious.

  “What?” I said, taking a long gulp of cold water. I wiped my sweaty forehead with the bottom of my T-shirt. Mowing was hard work, especially when you used an old-fashioned lawn mower. It was the kind you push that doesn’t have a motor. My mom takes being green to a whole new level.

  “Two hundred raisins on a hill—AH-CHOO!—April Day,” she said.

  “Huh?” I said, taking another drink of water. “What kind of riddle is that?”

  I was only half listening. I knew the ghost had to be an optical illusion, like magicians create when they pull a coin out of someone’s ear. That’s what I had told the guys. Because we had ghosts on our minds, our brains tricked us into thinking random shadows were a ghost. What T. J. said was an orb was just a trick of the light shining through a window and reflecting off the chandelier. The banging sounds weren’t made by a poltergeist, but just a loose shutter flapping in the wind or a door slamming in the breeze from a broken window. It was harder to explain the shadow being and the thumping sounds, but I knew there had to be a logical explanation for that, too.

  “It’s not a riddle, silly,” said Feenie. “It’s a message.”

  “From who?”

  “From whom,” corrected my mom, waving her wooden spoon.

  “The Captain,” said Feenie.

  “What? The Captain called me?”

  The Captain is like another grandpa to me. He lives by Whale Rock, where we dock our boat, the Fireball, which used to belong to him before he gave it to me. He was in the Navy for lots of years. Sometimes he shoots off flares and talks in Navy slang. He knows just about everything about boats.

  Feenie nodded importantly. “The phone rang, so I went over to the wall right over here.” She walked to the phone hanging on the wall by the kitchen table. “And I picked it up.” She picked up the receiver. “And I said—”

  “Forget what you said. What did the Captain say?”

  Feenie frowned. “Stop ’trupting me. I said, ‘Hello, Finelli residence, Fiona Finelli speaking.’ ”

  “Very good, Feenie,” said my mom, smiling as she stirred a big pot of gravy. That’s what we call tomato sauce in our family.

  “Why do you let her answer the phone?” I asked.

  “It’s good practice,” said my mom.

  “But that message makes no sense,” I said. “Tell me again, Feenie.”

  Feenie scrunched up her nose. “He sneezed and said AH-CHOO!—and then he said two hundred raisins on a hill. April Day.”

  “That can’t be right,” I said.

  “Is so,” said Feenie. “It’s what he said. I heard it with my very own ears.”

  “Your very own ears must have heard wrong. Mom, see what I mean? You shouldn’t let her answer the phone if she can’t get the message right.”

  “Fish, don’t say that. She’s trying.”

  “It is so right,” said Feenie again. “Call the Captain if you don’t believe me. Now I have to go to Fairy Headquarters for a meeting with the FQ. That’s the Fairy Queen, in case you didn’t know.” Her pink sparkly fairy wings flapped as she ran out the door.

  I headed for the phone Feenie had just hung up. Shrimp, my dog, got up from where he was sleeping under the table. He stretched his front and back legs—I swear he’s so big, his paws almost reached from one end of the kitchen to the other. He’s part Saint Bernard, which I didn’t know when I named him. As I dialed the Captain’s number, Shrimp licked my hand with his long, slobbery tongue. He does that when he thinks I’m upset. I patted him on the head, listening as the phone rang and rang.

  No one answered so I called again, but it just kept on ringing. . . .

  Tonight was the night—the night of the full moon. The night of the dare. I wanted to bike down to Whale Rock to ask the Captain some questions about Hannibal Royce and his harpoon collection. But before I could go, my dad needed help cleaning out the garage. Then I had to give Shrimp a bath because he had rolled in deer poop. It took a while, not because Shrimp doesn’t like baths, but because there is just so much of him to scrub. I let him run through the sprinkler to rinse off, and Feenie wanted to run through, too. I had to watch her while my parents went to the store. Then I was so hot, I decided to get wet myself.

  It was late in the afternoon when Roger vaulted over the hedge between our houses. Before he even said hello, he started taking off his button-down shirt and at the same time kicking off his loafers.

  “How was Summer’s play?”

  “I don’t know,” said Roger.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “It was in French, Great Brain, remember? I don’t speak French.”

  “How was Summer?”

  “Happy ’cause she got to do a scene with Beck. They were both wearing berets and waving loaves of French bread around.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “How was Beck?”

  “He did this great save when Summer tripped in her high heels. Personally, I thought he should have let her fall. He made wearing a beret look kind of okay. He sure is cool compared to his brother, Darth Billings.”

  The dare was less than six hours away. The sun was long past the halfway point and would soon be heading for the trees. Even though I didn’t believe in ghosts, my stomach was in free fall, like when I’m swimming in the ocean and there is a massive wave heading my way that I have to dive under.

  “Guys! Guys!”

  We turned as T. J. came biking fast down my driveway, red-faced and sweating.

  “You have to come right now.”

  “What?” I said.

  T. J. glanced nervously over his shoulder. “Cell phone.”

  “Cell phone what?”

  “Is this one of those weird word associations? Like, you say ‘cell phone’ and I say ‘surfboard’?” asked Roger.

  “What does a surfboard
have to do with a cell phone?”

  “Both things I want that my mom says no way to.”

  “I got a cell phone,” T. J. said in a whisper.

  “Your parents got you a cell phone?” said Roger. “No way, dude!”

  “Shh!” said T. J., his eyes darting all over the place. “It’s not mine.”

  “You stole a cell phone?”

  “No! We need to go to the upstairs bathroom right now.”

  “What? Why?” I said.

  “Is this a new way to play hide-and-seek?” said Roger.

  T. J. shook his head. “He’s at batting practice and he’ll be back in twenty minutes, twenty-five tops. Come on, guys. We have to hurry.”

  “Who?”

  “Mickey,” said T. J. “It’s his cell phone. I found it in the bathroom.”

  Roger and I exchanged uneasy glances. Mickey, T. J.’s older brother, wasn’t known as a slugger just because he could pound out the home runs.

  “Why do we need Mickey’s cell phone?” I asked.

  “To call Dr. Ghost B. Gone,” said T. J. “It costs two-ninety-five per minute, so we can’t use our parents’ phones or they’ll know.”

  “That’s crazy!” I said.

  “Mickey will kill you when he finds out!” said Roger.

  T. J. shrugged. “Going into that house tonight, whatever Dr. Ghost B. Gone can tell us could make the difference between life and death—plus it’ll take Mickey a while to figure it out.”

  Mickey didn’t get the hottest grades in school. He didn’t think it mattered, since he planned to get recruited and play in the majors right out of high school.

  “I still don’t see why we need to—”

  “Fish, please. We’ve got to call. Like you and Dr. Ghost B. Gone always say—”

  “It pays to be prepared,” said Roger.

  Clearly it was no use arguing. We hopped on our bikes and rode over to the Mahoneys’. I had Feenie sit on the handlebar in front of me, since I had to bring her. Let me tell you, it’s no fun biking with fairy wings hitting you in the head.

  “Quick!” said T. J., running up the stairs.

  Roger and I headed after him into the bathroom, while Feenie went straight to Mmm’s room. That was good, since the last thing we needed was her blabbing about our secret phone call.

  The phone was on the counter next to a squashed and oozing tube of Fruity Tooty toothpaste.

  “So, you gonna call, Teej, since you’re the lead paranormal investigator?” said Roger.

  T. J. looked like he was at the dentist about to get a bunch of cavities filled instead of making one measly phone call. OK, it was on a stolen phone to a celebrity ghost hunter, but still.

  “I’ll call, Teej,” I said. “Then we’ll put it on speakerphone.”

  “We have to be fast. Mickey will be back in like ten minutes.”

  “We can’t be on the phone that long anyway,” I said. “That would cost twenty-nine-ninety-five, and no way is whatever Dr. Ghost B. Gone gonna say worth that.” I picked up the phone. “What’s the number?”

  “1-555-GOS-TBGN,” said T. J. in a rush.

  I punched the buttons, set the phone to speaker, and put it down on the counter. We listened to it ring. All of a sudden, there was a click and then the show’s theme music began to play. “Got a haunting going on? Call 1-555-GHOST-BE-GONE!” Roger sang along.

  “Quit it, Rog!” I said.

  “You have reached the offices of Dr. Ghost B. Gone. To order the Dr. Ghost B. Gone Haunt-Free Special Collection, press one. If you have a billing question or a question about your order, press two. If you want to leave a message for Dr. Ghost B. Gone, press three. If you are experiencing a haunting emergency, press zero.”

  “We should press three,” I said as Roger and T. J. said, “Zero.”

  Before I could object, Roger had his finger on the zero. “Definitely a haunting emergency.”

  “Got a haunting going on?” said a deep, dramatic voice I could only assume belonged to Dr. Ghost B. Gone. “Don’t be scared. Most entities are simply confused spirits who need help and are coming to you for guidance. To find out, answer these three questions. One: Does the temperature drop in a certain part of your house?”

  “Yes!” shouted Roger.

  “Shh!” I said, nodding my head in the direction of Mmm’s room.

  “Two: Do lights appear and disappear that seem to be floating?”

  “Yes!” said Roger and T. J.

  “Three: Are there noises you can’t explain, particularly banging noises?”

  “Yes!” said Roger and T. J.

  “If you answered yes to any or all of these questions, then you’ve probably got an entity on your hands. Here’s what you need to do. Join hands and tell the entity that you live there now and it is time for the entity to leave and be free. If that doesn’t work, leave your phone number at the tone and I, or one of my paranormal investigators, will get back to you. Remember: Walk softly and carry a big flashlight. There is nothing to fear, unless your entity is an elemental, in which case leave the house right now.”

  The phone beeped.

  “Hi, Mr.—I mean, Dr. Ghost B. Gone. We’re . . . um, afraid there’s an elemental at the one-legged whaler’s house in Whooping Hollow,” said Roger.

  Then two things happened at the very same moment. The front door banged and Feenie blurted out 789-324-8899, our phone number.

  “What are you doing in here, Feenie?” I whipped around.

  “Timothy Junior, why are there footprints on my brand-new Barely Beige carpeting?” Mrs. Mahoney yelled up the stairs.

  There was another loud bang. “I’m home!” called Mickey.

  “Oh, jeepo!” gasped T. J.

  The four of us dashed out of the bathroom as footsteps pounded up the stairs.

  “Hold on there, mister!” we heard Mrs. Mahoney yell. “Take those sneakers off before you put a foot on that carpet.”

  “Where’s my pink princess recorder?” yelled Mmm, her red pigtails bobbing angrily as she reached the top step. “I know you took it.”

  “They’re using it to catch a ghost,” said Feenie solemnly. “They just called a big ghosty guy on the phone in the bathroom.”

  I swear Feenie has a bright future ahead of her in undercover work. She’s not even five yet, and she doesn’t miss a thing.

  Mmm stopped being angry for a minute. “You used Mickey’s phone? You are so dead.”

  “Don’t tell, Mmm, please,” said T. J. “Here, have some gum. Have the whole pack.” He pulled a crumpled pack of Chiclets out of his pocket.

  “That’ll cost you a dollar,” said Mmm. “Plus the gum.”

  T. J. frowned. “Here’s a token from the arcade at the beach.”

  Mmm shook her head. “I want real money.”

  Mmm is a tough negotiator. She and Feenie make a crackerjack team.

  “Here,” said Roger, rooting around in his pocket. He handed Mmm a golden coin.

  “That’s not a dollar,” said Mmm.

  “It’s a dollar, all right,” said Roger.

  “Whoo!” said Feenie. “A golden dollar.”

  “Now super promise you won’t tell,” said T. J.

  “Super promise?” said Roger.

  T. J. nodded. “We’re not allowed to swear.”

  “I super promise I won’t tell,” said Mmm.

  “You too, Feenie,” I said. “Not a word about ghosts or phones to anybody.”

  She frowned. “What do I get?”

  “I won’t tell Mom you used her perfume on your dolls,” I said. “And that you made a hole in the screen door with your magic wand.”

  “How did you know?” Feenie’s eyes widened. “OK, I super promise.”

  Footsteps thundered up the stairs. It wasn’t Mrs. Mahoney, that was for sure.

  Mmm looked at T. J. “You’re lucky I’m not gonna tell or you would be D-E-D.” She made a slashing motion with her finger across her neck.

  Roger whistled the Dr. Gh
ost B. Gone theme song as T. J. gulped. He nudged T. J. with his shoulder. “Come on, sing along with me: ‘Got a haunting going on? Call 1-555-GHOST-BE-GONE!’ ”

  SPOOKY, KOOKY, AND OOKY

  “Fish! It’s almost time for dinner!” my mom called. “Roger, do you want to stay?”

  “Thanks, Mrs. F.,” Roger called back.

  We ate outside around the picnic table. Uncle Norman and his girlfriend, Venus, were there, too.

  “Please pass the meatballs,” said Roger for the third time.

  “You got a hollow leg, Roger?” asked my father.

  “Mrs. F. makes the best meatballs and gravy. They’re just so good and meaty.”

  “Why, thank you, Roger,” said my mom.

  “Meatballs are usually meaty since their main ingredient is meat,” I said.

  “Not when my mom makes them,” said Roger through a mouthful of meatball. “Then they’re tofurkey.”

  “Turkey, silly,” said Feenie. “There’s no such thing as a tofurkey.”

  “There is, but believe me, you will never see a tofurkey go gobble gobble,” said Roger just as the phone started ringing inside the house.

  “I’ll get it!” yelled Feenie, jumping up from the table and dashing across the backyard.

  “Oh, brother,” I said as the door slammed behind her.

  Feenie was back a minute later with a big, goofy smile on her face. She looked right at me. “It’s for you. It’s a giiirrrrrllllll!”

  “I wonder who it could be,” said Roger, wagging his eyebrows as my mom and dad exchanged glances.

  I blushed all the way to the roots of my hair, but luckily I had already hopped off the bench before anyone could see. I was pretty sure I knew who it was, which only made me blush even harder.

  I cleared my throat and picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Hi, Fish. It’s Clementine.”

  I felt my face turn even redder as I racked my brains trying to think of something clever to say. All I came up with was “Um . . . hi . . .”

  “I wanted to wish you good luck tonight,” she said. “And um . . .” Now she was saying “um.” Her voice trailed off.