Farming Fear
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Chapter 1:
Trouble on the Old Homestead
Chapter 3:
Shadows in the Darkness
Chapter 10:
The Long, Hot Winter
Chapter 11:
Stranded in the Snow
“We’re worried about our grandparents,” Iola Morton said as she sat next to Joe Hardy on the big couch in the Hardys’ living room.
Her brother, Chet, sitting in a lounger near the TV, nodded in agreement. “They’re having trouble with the family farm,” he said. “Iola and I aren’t really sure what to do.”
“What kind of trouble?” Joe Hardy asked, putting his arm around Iola’s shoulder.
Iola looked anxiously from her boyfriend to his brother, Frank, who was seated on the opposite end of the couch. “Well, a lot of the farm’s equipment has broken down very recently,” she began. “The animals are acting spooked, and shadowy
figures have been lurking around the woods at the edge of the property.”
“Not only that,” Chet continued, “but stuff has been disappearing. Small tools and things, mostly—right out in the barn!”
“You’re thinking theft?” Joe said.
Chet nodded. “Our grandparents have contacted the police, but . . .”
“But what?” Frank asked.
“You know how the cops can be,” Chet said. “They think our grandparents are just farmers worrying about winter and becoming forgetful in their old age.”
“That’s not true, though,” Iola interjected. “Our grandparents are just as sharp as they ever were.”
“Yeah,” Chet agreed. “You don’t ever want to play my granddad at chess.”
“I did once,” Joe said, “that summer we went to your family picnic, four years ago. Your grandpa Dave cleaned my clock!”
“And Grandma Marge is a wiz at Chinese checkers, not to mention crossword puzzles,” Iola added, “so we know they’re not losing their marbles.”
“What do your parents think about all this?” Frank asked, his brown eyes gleaming. “Have they seen any of these intruders on the farm?”
“Our folks are away on a cruise,” Iola said. “They won’t be back for weeks.”
Frank slapped his forehead. “I’d forgotten that,”
he said. The dark-haired eighteen-year-old glanced at his younger brother. Joe nodded back. They knew they had to help their friends.
“Our parents are lounging on some secluded Caribbean island,” Chet said. “It’s the first vacation they’ve had in years.”
“Grandpa and Grandma don’t want us to get involved,” Iola added. “They insist they can handle this themselves, but . . .”
“But you’re not so sure,” Joe said.
Iola nodded.
“So you want our help,” Frank concluded.
“Sure,” Chet said. “You guys have solved piles of cases before the police even stumbled out of their squad cars.”
“Con Riley or Officer Sullivan might dispute that,” Frank noted, chuckling.
Iola took a deep breath. “The farm has been in our family for over five generations,” she said. “Even the barn dates back to 1927. Our grandparents have lived in their house since Bayport was a tiny seaside village. They love that farm. It would break their hearts to give it up! But they can’t handle this trouble on their own, and they’re too proud to ask for help.”
“So Iola and I were planning on spending our winter break there, helping out,” Chet said.
“Most of their workers go south when it gets cold,” Iola explained. “Chet and I have already asked if you two could come and stay with us over
vacation, and our grandparents said yes—assuming you want to.”
“Of course we’ll help,” Joe said. He gave his girlfriend a reassuring hug.
“We asked Callie, too,” Chet said, “but she’s gone skiing with her family.”
“Yeah, I know,” Frank said, a little sadly. Callie Shaw was Frank’s girlfriend, and she often joined the group on adventures like this. “How soon do we leave?” Frank asked.
“Just as soon as you’re packed,” Chet replied.
• • •
An hour and a half later, the Hardys’ van rolled down the long driveway of the Morton Farm. The farm lay northwest of Bayport, beyond the interstate. Strip malls, subdivisions, and other developments crept farther west every year, but they hadn’t reached this part of town yet. It was still very quiet. The gently rolling landscape made the Morton farm especially beautiful in the winter. Snowfall from recent storms covered the property in a blanket of pure white. Sunlight glistened off low drifts and ice-covered tree branches.
The Morton’s driveway approached the white farmhouse from the south. A big red barn and several wooden sheds stood in the back yard. A huge pasture stretched from behind the barn to a thick evergreen forest on the north property line. High-power
electrical transmission lines towered over the woods. Another white farmhouse sat on top of a forested hill beyond the metal-ribbed titans.
To the west, the Mortons’ fields stretched all the way out to Kendall Ridge Road. A line of bare, snow-covered trees separated the property from the street. The road wound up the hill to the adjoining farmlands beyond.
To the east, the tilled fields gave way to wild pasture dotted with slender evergreens. The Hardys remembered horses and cows grazing in that part of the farm during the summer. A wide stand of tall pine trees, which joined the forest on the north, sprang up at the far eastern edge of the pasture.
The Morton farmhouse was a proud structure, dating back to the beginning of the twentieth century. It stood two stories tall with a huge central chimney and several pointed roofs. Shuttered windows peeked out from beneath the roof’s icy brows. A wide, covered veranda ran around the front of the house. A shoveled walk stretched from the porch to the driveway.
The drive curved around to the house’s rear and looped around. The barn stood on the far side of the driveway about twenty yards away from the Mortons’ back door. Both the barn and the house looked as though they could use a good coat of paint, as did the doghouse sitting near the back
path. Beside the barn stood several old wooden sheds and an insulated, metal water tower. The rusty tower, which was nearly as tall as the barn, rested on four stout, wooden posts. A circular, wooden, pointed roof crowned its top, and a spigot, electric pump system, and big storage box occupied the space beneath.
Joe parked the van near the drive that led up to the back door. All four teens piled out and got their luggage.
“I really love this place,” Iola said, sighing wistfully.
“We have a lot of great memories here,” Chet agreed.
“Who owns the house at the top of that hill?” Frank asked.
“J. J. Zuis,” Chet replied, “an old family friend.”
“Zeus?” Frank asked. “Like the Greek god?”
“
Z-U-I-S
,” Iola said, spelling it out. “It’s pronounced ‘zoo-iss.’ A Lithuanian name, I think.”
“So,” Joe said looking around, “Mr. Zuis is an old family friend—and are there any old family enemies?”
Chet and Iola glanced at each other and chimed, “The Costellos.”
“What’s the problem with the Costellos?” Frank asked.
“The old man’s not very neighborly,” Chet replied.
“And the son is a creep!” Iola added.
“Now, now,” said a gruff voice, “I won’t have you kids badmouthin’ the neighbors.”
Dave Morton, dressed in overalls, a blue parka, and a red knit hat, sauntered out the back door to meet them. White clouds of frost bloomed from Grandpa Morton’s mouth as he spoke. The wind tugged at his white hair where it slipped out from under his cap, and his gray eyes twinkled. “You kids may not think much of the Costellos, and maybe I don’t either,” he said, “but Grandma and I still have to live next to ’em.”
He smiled and threw open his arms. “Come give your old gramps a big hug.” Chet and Iola ran up to him. “You must be Frank and Joe,” he said, shaking hands with the brothers. “You’ve gotten big since I last saw you!”
“Good to see you,” Frank said.
“Come inside before you freeze,” Grandpa replied. He motioned them all through the back door. They took their winter gear off in the mudroom, then they went into the kitchen. The smell of fresh-baked cookies greeted them as they entered. A broad grin broke over Chet’s round face.
“She knew you were coming,” Grandpa Morton noted wryly.
A short, stout woman with white hair turned from the old-fashioned gas stove to face the group. Her gray eyes narrowed playfully behind her wire-rim
glasses. “Now, Pa, I won’t have either you or Chet snatching any of these cookies off the rack while they’re cooling.”
“Your grandmother knows you like a book, Chet,” Frank said.
Grandpa Morton chuckled. “Marge, you remember the Hardy boys—Frank and Joe?”
“Joe’s the blond, right?” Grandma Morton asked. She gazed appraisingly at the seventeen-year-old. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you, young man.”
“All of it good, I hope,” Joe replied, his blue eyes twinkling.
Grandma shrugged and smiled back. “Sure, some of it,” she said with a laugh. “We’ve got all your rooms ready. Joe and Frank, you’ll be sharin’ one on the second floor. I hope you don’t mind bunks. Chet’s in the room next to yours, and Iola is in the guest bed on the main level.”
“Those are the rooms we usually stay in during the summer,” Iola explained.
“Bunk beds are fine by us,” Frank said.
“Dibs on the top!” Joe said.
“You can throw your things in your rooms and then join us for some milk and cookies,” Mrs. Morton said.
It took about fifteen minutes for the teenagers to get their unpacking squared away, then another twenty to enjoy Grandma’s fresh-baked cookies
with milk. While the teens ate, the Morton grandparents quickly got back to their chores.
“Do your grandparents know we’re here to find the cause of the . . . trouble?” Frank asked.
Chet and Iola shook their heads. “No,” Iola said.
“We thought about telling them,” Chet added, “but then they might not have agreed to let you come.”
Frank nodded. “I understand them not wanting outside help, but if the police won’t step in—”
“If we’re going to crack this case,” Joe interrupted, “I think we should probably start with a tour of the farm.” He and the others bused their dishes to the sink, and then bundled up and went outside again.
The sky had clouded over since their arrival, and snow flurries punctuated the chilly air.
“Let’s start with the barn,” Chet said, leading them toward the big, red, wooden structure. “There’s a storage and work area in the front of the barn; the horse stalls and cow pens are kept in a separate, heated extension in the back.”
“I didn’t think your grandparents did any dairy work,” Joe said.
“They have a couple of cows for fresh milk,” Iola replied. “It may not make economic sense, but it’s kind of a tradition.”
“They have the horses for tradition, too,” Chet
said. “The animals connect them to their youth, before farm work became so mechanized.”
“And it’s nice that us grandkids can go riding when we visit,” Iola finished.
As the teens talked, Chet slid back the bolt and opened the barn’s tall double doors. As the portal swung open, a gray-and-white blur flashed out at them. A huge English sheepdog landed on Chet’s chest, knocking him onto his back.
“Down, Bernie! Down!” Chet said as the dog licked his face. “We’re glad to see you, too.”
Bernie bounded off of Chet and circled Iola and the Hardys, kicking up small clouds of powdery snow in his wake and barking happily.
The brothers laughed and patted the dog on the head.
“You’ve got to watch out for Bernie,” Iola warned. “Sometimes his enthusiasm gets out of hand. Bernie, heel!” The big, shaggy dog stopped circling and sat beside her.
