Ghosts Don't Wear Glasses Page 6

  “Nope,” said T. J., coming up behind him “It’s got a reel, which means it’s a fishing pole.”

  “Hey, there’s a rusty anchor,” said Roger. “And a typewriter and one of those old phones you dial and tons more stuff.”

  Admiral Royce sure wasn’t a very good housekeeper. It would take a while to dig through everything.

  I noticed another door in the wall opposite the fireplace. I hadn’t seen it at first because it was flush with the paneling and it had a very small knob. I turned the knob, figuring the door led to another closet. It didn’t.

  I walked through it, and with a soft PHOOMPH! the door shut behind me. I shined my light around. This room was longer and L-shaped. I walked in farther. The door at the opposite end that led out to the hall was open. So I was in the room next door. For a brief second I wondered if I should tell Roger and T. J. where I was, but then my flashlight found bookcases on three walls and a fireplace on the fourth wall.

  The study. Just the room I was looking for.

  Sheet-covered furniture filled this room, too, and more nautical memorabilia. An old compass under glass. Another ship in a bottle. There were books stuffed onto every shelf of the bookcases. There was a giant map of the Arctic and another map of the South Seas.

  All of a sudden, I spotted something long and cylindrical, made of metal, propped in a corner between the fireplace and the window. Something sharp and pointed jutted from the end.

  A harpoon!

  But as I got closer, I realized it wasn’t a harpoon at all. It was an extremely long fireplace poker. Darn!

  In my hurry to put it back, I knocked into the wall of books behind me. And a narrow door in the bookcase swung open.

  WHOA! A secret passage.

  I bet Hannibal Royce really was an abolitionist. I mean, what better place to hide runaway slaves than in a secret passage? Once the Fugitive Slave Act was passed in 1850, making it a crime for anyone to harbor runaway slaves, he would have had to be extra careful. I stepped in and trained my light around the tiny room. It was empty except for a flight of stairs leading down into the darkness.

  CLICK!

  The door behind me closed. I shined my light, looking for the knob so I could open it. There wasn’t one. I pushed against the wall with my shoulder where the door had to be. It didn’t budge.

  I rammed into it again. Nothing.

  And again. Nothing.

  “Roger! T. J.!” I banged on the wall.

  No answer.

  “Guys! Help!”

  This was no time to panic. I felt around for my pocketknife. Maybe I could pry open the door with the spoon or the scissors. I jammed my scissors into the wood where I thought the seams of the door should be. No luck. It was as if the door had disappeared. That meant one thing—I couldn’t get out the way I got in.

  I had two options: Plan A—I could keep banging and yelling and hope Roger and T. J. would hear me, or Plan B—I could go down the stairs and try to find another way out.

  BEEP! BEEP!

  It was 8:30. It looked like I had no choice. Plan B.

  I shined my light onto layers of dust and cobwebs that covered the stairs leading down to the basement. The basement where the one-legged whaler took his victims after he stabbed them with his bloody harpoon.

  I put one foot down. And then another. The steps were steep and narrow, but they held my weight. I went down another step and then another. So far, so good. I came to a turn in the stairs. There was a rustling sound. In the beam of my flashlight, I caught a glimpse of a long gray tail.

  Just a mouse.

  I turned the corner. There was another, longer flight that led to the basement. It seemed even darker down there. I gulped, but I kept going.

  The air was cool and damp. Goose bumps crawled over my skin. I remembered what T. J. had said about cold spots and entities sucking the heat energy out of the atmosphere so they could manifest.

  As I went down another step into that inky-black darkness, I felt the EMF meter in my pocket bump against my leg. I started talking to myself, like I do when I’m worrying about stuff and can’t sleep.

  “The electromagnetic spectrum is a continuum of electromagnetic waves organized according to wavelength and frequency.”

  I took another step.

  “The longest wavelengths with the lowest frequencies are radio waves.”

  I went down another two steps.

  “Next come microwaves.”

  Another step.

  “After that is infrared light and visible light.”

  Another step. Halfway there.

  “Next comes ultraviolet light.”

  Another step and another. Three more steps and I would be at the bottom.

  “Finally, there are X-rays, and then the waves with the shortest wavelength and highest frequency are—”

  OOMPH! I tripped and fell. Worse than that, a greeny-yellowy light appeared in the darkness.

  SNAP! An orb!

  Then a strange voice murmured two words: “Gamma rays!”

  My hand holding the flashlight shook. My heart was pounding so hard, it felt as if it would pop right out of my chest. That was when my flashlight went out.

  I was alone in the darkness with an entity that had sucked up all the charge from brand-new double-A batteries. According to T. J. and Dr. Ghost B. Gone, that meant one thing—the entity was going to manifest.

  It was the ghost of the one-legged whaler . . . and it was coming for me!

  GHOSTS WEAR GLASSES?!

  The green-yellow light crept closer.

  I tried to remember what Dr. Ghost B. Gone had said to do to get rid of an entity. Hold hands, that was it, and say it was time for the entity to leave and be free. I couldn’t hold anybody’s hand, so I clasped mine together around the flashlight.

  “It’s time for you to leave. . . .” The words came out in a squeaky rush.

  “Yeeeeeesssss,” said the voice. It seemed to echo in the silence.

  WHOA! Maybe there really was something to Dr. Ghost B. Gone’s wacky theories after all.

  “You . . . um . . . need to go free,” I said more firmly. “So . . . um . . . go.”

  “I know,” said the voice.

  All of a sudden, the light split into two. A white light floated just below the green-yellow light. OHMYGOSH! Was that supposed to happen? Wasn’t the entity supposed to disappear with a POOF, not turn into two separate entities?

  “Do you know the way out?” asked a voice that sounded almost the same as the first voice, except deeper.

  A shiver ran down my spine as the two lights approached. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I felt as if my feet had frozen to the floor.

  The seconds seemed like hours. I watched the lights come closer. The green-yellow one was like two oval empty eyes. What the heck?! It wasn’t eyes. It was glasses.

  The ghost was wearing glasses?!

  Before I could figure out what the first entity was doing, the white light floated from my toes to my head so we were eye level. I saw the white light was held by a shadowy hand. The hand of the ghost of the one-legged whaler?! Did that mean the bloody harpoon was in the other hand and I was about to be run through?!

  Wait a minute! My eyes focused on the hand, and I saw that it was connected to an arm. And on the arm were those rope bracelets that surfers wear. I didn’t think ghosts had solid arms, let alone surfed.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” said a familiar voice, the light shining so I could see the voice’s owner.

  “You’re not a ghost! You’re the archaeologist from the supermarket!” I said.

  “And you’re one of the recycling boys,” he said. “My name is Wallace W. Willis. I’m not an archaeologist, although I do love archaeology. It was my minor in college. My field of study is American history.”

  “I’m Fish. I knew you weren’t a ghost hunter.”

  Wallace Willis looked uncomfortable for a minute. “I’ve been searching for a way out since yesterday afterno
on,” he said, changing the subject. “Even with my night-vision goggles, I couldn’t find one. I was sure glad I left them in my backpack from my last camping trip, though, since it’s so dark down here.”

  That explained the greeny-yellow light and the ghostly glasses. But it didn’t explain why Wallace Willis was here. The one-legged whaler’s house was definitely not a campsite.

  “Luckily I had enough snacks in my pack so I didn’t starve. But I couldn’t call anyone because my phone has no signal.”

  THUMP! THUMP! We both looked up.

  “That’s got to be my friends, Roger and T. J.,” I said.

  Wallace led the way up the stairs since he was still wearing his night-vision goggles. I used his phone as a light so I wouldn’t trip.

  “Good evening, Your Entity,” I heard Roger say when we got to the top. “We’ve come to help you in whatever way we can. Give us a sign you’re here.”

  I banged on the wall.

  “I think it’s a poltergeist,” Roger said. “Poltergeists make all the noise, right?”

  “Do you think it got Fish?” T. J. said.

  “Let me ask,” said Roger. “I think it likes me. Do you have Fish with you?”

  “I see a light,” said T. J. “Maybe it’s an orb, not a poltergeist.”

  “Let us out!” I yelled, as Wallace and I both banged on the door.

  “Oh, no! I think it’s an elemental,” said T. J. “Only an elemental has enough power to bang like that. Poor Fish!”

  “Think he’s a goner?” said Roger.

  “It’s not an elemental!” I yelled. “It’s me!”

  “Fish!!! Where are you?”

  “In here.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the ghost?” said Roger. “Is it . . . with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Holy haunting!” said Roger.

  “Quit talking and let us out. See the fireplace?”

  “Yup!”

  “Lean on the bookcase next to it.”

  “Fish, are you sure you’re okay? Did the ghost maybe suck out your great brain along with the rest of your electromagnetic energy, because a bookcase is not a—”

  PHOOMPH!

  “AAAAHHHH!”

  The secret bookcase door swung open. Roger knocked into us. He would have fallen if Wallace hadn’t caught him.

  “Say hello to the ghost,” I said.

  “What?!” said Roger and T. J., jumping back in surprise, their flashlights in our faces.

  “Quit shining the light in my eyes,” I said.

  “We were looking for you for . . .” Roger’s voice trailed off when he got a look at Wallace. “I didn’t know ghosts wore glasses.”

  “He’s not really a ghost,” I said.

  “You’re the ghost hunter from the supermarket,” said T. J. “I told you so, Fish. What kind of entity do you think is haunting this house? Is it an elemental? We called 1-555-GOS-TBGN to ask Dr. Ghost B. Gone, but he didn’t answer.”

  Wallace burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” I said.

  “Dr. Ghost B. Gone doesn’t answer the phone,” said Wallace.

  “How do you—”

  “I have a confession to make,” said Wallace. “I’m not a ghost hunter, but I work for ghost hunters.”

  Then it hit me why he looked so uncomfortable. “You work for Dr. Ghost B. Gone?!”

  Wallace nodded. “I’m not supposed to say anything about the show, because I signed a contract saying that I wouldn’t. That’s why I acted so strange.”

  “You know Dr. Ghost B. Gone?” T. J.’s eyes were round as Frisbees.

  “Holy haunting!” said Roger.

  “You’re actually part of Dr. Ghost B. Gone’s paranormal investigating team?” T. J. went on. “That’s why you’re here? To find out if the house is really haunted? Wow!”

  “Actually, I’m not here for Dr. Ghost B. Gone. I work for him to pay for graduate school by researching the history of old houses that people say are haunted. I don’t do any paranormal investigating. Sometimes I get him coffee.”

  “Half-caff mocha latte with soy milk and three sugars,” said T. J. Like I said, he watches that show way too much.

  “So, why are you here, then?” I asked.

  “Well, for two reasons,” Wallace said. “One, because when I was researching the history of American whaling for my dissertation—that’s this big paper you have to write to get your PhD—I came across some information about Hannibal Royce that made me think I might be related to him. Which leads me to reason two.”

  He reached into his backpack and pulled out a plastic folder. He opened it and carefully took out a crumbling piece of yellowed paper. He shined the light from his phone on it so we could see.

  It was an advertisement from an old newspaper that read:

  WHALEMAN’S SHIPPING LIST

  Patent Rocket Harpoons and Guns fasten to and kill instantly whales of every species. With proper lines and boats such as were used by the officers of the Superior in 1860. Two months’ notice required to fill an order for the season of 1862. Contact Hannibal W. Royce, Captain of the Superior.

  Below that was a picture of a boat with a guy standing in it, shooting a harpoon at a whale. So Hannibal Royce really was an inventor, just like the Captain said.

  “This piece of paper is all I know about my father’s family, since he died before I was born. It was in an envelope that read ‘Wallace W. Willis, Sr.—family tree.’”

  “So, the one-legged whaler—I mean Hannibal Royce—was your great-great-great-great-I-don’t-know-how-many-greats-grandfather, or something?”

  Wallace shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he was an uncle or a distant cousin. I know I’m not related to Admiral Royce. I looked up his family tree. It’s a real mystery.”

  “Wow!” I said, the dare forgotten as I realized what this meant. “If you are the heir, the house won’t get knocked down.”

  “I was planning to go to the local library today to find out more about a Frenchwoman named Matilda who might have been Hannibal Royce’s first wife. If she was married to Hannibal Royce and they had a son or daughter, that’s who I think I might be descended from. All I know is that she was from a small town in France called Bayonne. It’s where the bayonet was invented. Anyway, it’s the same town my dad’s family was from. I never made it to the library, though. I’ve been stuck here since yesterday afternoon.”

  “See, I told you there was no ghost.”

  “I went into the study and happened upon the same door Fish did. I thought I heard a noise, so I stepped inside and the next thing I knew, I was locked in. Thanks for letting me out. I’m just glad I got to see this place, even if I’ll never know what the connection is between my father and Hannibal Royce.”

  Wallace looked sad for a moment. I figured he was missing his dad. I tried to imagine what it would be like to never know your father and one whole side of your family. I couldn’t. Wallace had to find out if he was related to Hannibal Royce. If he was, it would almost be like finding his father.

  “The library’s open tomorrow, you know,” I said. “There’s this great librarian called Ms. Valen, who—”

  Wallace held up his hand. “I wish I could, but I have to get back to school. Remember that big paper I told you about? Well, I have to defend it this week. That means I have to answer lots of questions from some big-deal American history professors who will decide if I get my PhD or not.”

  “Snap!” said Roger. “The real estate king is going to buy the house when it goes out of probate on Friday. That’s less than a week away. You’ve got to get the proof before then, or—”

  “I know! We’ll find out for you,” I said. “We’ll go to the library and do the research.”

  Wallace smiled. “Thanks a lot, guys. Here’s my cell phone number. Let me know what you turn up. But don’t worry if you don’t find anything. I think it’s a real long shot.”

  BEEP!
BEEP!

  “Guys, it’s eight-forty-five,” I said. “We’ve got to get going.”

  “But we don’t have the harpoon,” said Roger. “You didn’t happen to see a harpoon down there, did you?”

  Wallace shook his head. We explained about the dare and the crowd of kids outside. He agreed to wait till we left before he went on his way. He wanted to spend a little more time in the house anyway.

  “We’ll let you know as soon as we find anything out,” I said.

  “Say hello to Dr. Ghost B. Gone from me,” said T. J. “Tell him I’m his number-one fan!”

  “Oh, brother,” I said.

  My mind was spinning with thoughts about Wallace, the one-legged whaler, and how we could save the house. The dare wasn’t the last thing on my mind, but it wasn’t the first when we got to the end of the driveway. There were fewer kids than before, but Mi and Si were still there. They whooped when they saw us. Bryce was sitting on his scooter. The bright yellow gleamed in the silvery moonlight.

  “Fish!” Clementine ran up to me. “You’re okay?” She leaned over like she was about to hug me and then stepped back quickly.

  “Hi, Clementine. I’m—”

  “So, where’s the harpoon, losers?” said Bryce.

  T. J., Roger, and I exchanged glances.

  “Looks like I win,” said Bryce with a nasty grin.

  “No, you don’t,” I said.

  Roger raised one eyebrow. T. J. looked at me in surprise.

  “We didn’t find the harpoon,” I said. “Because we were too busy finding something way more important.”

  All eyes were on me as the crowd moved closer. Bryce sneered. “Like what?”

  “The heir, that’s what.”

  “No way!” said Trippy and True, but they sure looked surprised.

  “What?!” said Bryce as the kids crowded even closer.

  “We met someone we’re pretty sure is the heir,” I said. “And we’re going to . . .”

  “What? Where is he? You’re lying, Finelli.”

  Trippy and True shook their heads.

  “He’s in the one-legged whaler’s house right now,” I said. “His name is Wallace, and—”