Authors: Betty Ren Wright

The Ghost of Popcorn Hill (5 page)

BOOK: The Ghost of Popcorn Hill

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“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 boysâ” 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.

“IâI don'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 heâwas heâyour 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 meâaren'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 millâif 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 scaredâmuch.”

“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.

Cover design by Connie Gabbert

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1341-3

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