The Headless Ghost Read online

  “I am not!” I screamed. “Come on. Let’s go to Hill House. Right now. I’ll show you.”

  A grin spread over Stephanie’s face. She tossed back her head and let out a long howl. A victory howl. “This is going to be the coolest thing the Twin Terrors have ever done!” she cried, slapping me a high five that made my hand sting.

  She dragged me up Hill Street. The whole way there, I didn’t say one word. Was I afraid?

  Maybe a little.

  We climbed the steep, weed-choked hill and stood before the front steps of Hill House. The old house looked even bigger at night. Three stories tall. With turrets and balconies and dozens of windows, all dark and shuttered.

  All the houses in our neighborhood are brick or clapboard. Hill House is the only one made out of stone slabs. Dark gray slabs.

  I always have to hold my breath when I stand close to Hill House. The stone is covered with a blanket of thick green moss. Two hundred years of it. Putrid, moldy moss that doesn’t exactly smell like a flower garden.

  I peered up. Up at the round turret that stretched to the purple sky. A gargoyle, carved in stone, perched at the very top. It grinned down at us, as if challenging us to go inside.

  My knees suddenly felt weak.

  The house stood in total darkness, except for a single candle over the front doorway. But the tours were still going on. The last tour left at ten-thirty every night. The guides said the late tours were the best — the best time to see a ghost.

  I read the sign etched in stone beside the door. ENTER HILL HOUSE — AND YOUR LIFE WILL BE CHANGED. FOREVER.

  I’d read that sign a hundred times. I always thought it was funny — in a corny sort of way.

  But tonight it gave me the creeps.

  Tonight was going to be different.

  “Come on,” Stephanie said, pulling me by the hand. “We’re just in time for the next tour.”

  The candle flickered. The heavy wooden door swung open. By itself. I don’t know how, but it always does that.

  “Well, are you coming or not?” Stephanie demanded, stepping into the dark entryway.

  “Coming,” I gulped.

  Otto met us as we stepped inside the door. Otto always reminds me of an enormous dolphin. He has a big, smooth bald head. And he’s sort of shaped like a dolphin. He must weigh about three hundred pounds!

  Otto was dressed entirely in black, as always. Black shirt. Black pants. Black socks. Black shoes. And gloves — you guessed it — black. It’s the uniform that all the tour guides wear.

  “Look who’s here!” he called. “Stephanie and Duane!” He broke out into a wide grin. His tiny eyes flashed in the candlelight.

  “Our favorite guide!” Stephanie greeted him. “Are we in time for the next tour?”

  We pushed through the turnstile without paying. We’re such regulars at Hill House that they don’t even charge us anymore.

  “About five minutes, guys,” Otto told us. “You two are out late tonight, huh?”

  “Yeah … well,” Stephanie hesitated. “It’s more fun to take the tour at night. Isn’t it, Duane?” She jabbed my side.

  “You can say that again,” I mumbled.

  We moved into the front hall with some others who were waiting for the tour to begin. Teenagers mostly, out on dates.

  The front hall is bigger than my living room and dining room put together. And except for the winding staircase in the center, it’s completely bare. No furniture at all.

  Shadows tossed across the floor. I gazed around the room. No electric lights. Small torches were hung from the peeling, cracked walls. The orange torchlight flickered and bent.

  In the dancing light, I counted the people around me. Nine of them. Stephanie and I were the only kids.

  Otto lighted a lantern and crossed to the front of the hall. He held it up high and cleared his throat.

  Stephanie and I grinned at each other. Otto always starts the tour the same way. He thinks the lantern adds atmosphere.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed. “Welcome to Hill House. We hope you will survive your tour tonight.” Then he gave a low, evil laugh.

  Stephanie and I mouthed Otto’s next words along with him:

  “In 1795, a prosperous sea captain, William P. Bell, built himself a home on the highest hill in Wheeler Falls. It was the finest home ever built here at the time — three stories high, nine fireplaces, and over thirty rooms.

  “Captain Bell spared no expense. Why? Because he hoped to retire here and finish his days in splendor with his young and beautiful wife. But it was not to be.”

  Otto cackled, and so did Stephanie and I. We knew every move Otto had.

  Otto went on. “Captain Bell died at sea in a terrible shipwreck — before he ever had a chance to live in his beautiful house. His young bride, Annabel, fled the house in horror and sorrow.”

  Now Otto’s voice dropped. “But soon after Annabel left, strange things began to happen in Hill House.”

  This was Otto’s cue to start walking toward the winding stairs. The old, wooden staircase is narrow and creaky. When Otto starts to climb, the stairs groan and grumble beneath him as if in pain.

  Keeping silent, we followed Otto up the stairs to the first floor. Stephanie and I love this part, because Otto doesn’t say a word the whole time. He just huffs along in the darkness while everyone tries to keep up with him.

  He starts talking again when he reaches Captain Bell’s bedroom. A big, wood-paneled room with a fireplace and a view of the river.

  “Soon after Captain Bell’s widow ran away,” Otto reported, “people in Wheeler Falls began reporting strange sightings. Sightings of a man who resembled Captain Bell. He was always seen here, standing by his window, holding his lantern aloft.”

  Otto moved to the window and raised his lantern. “On a windless night, if you listened carefully, you could sometimes hear him calling out her name in a low, mournful voice.”

  Otto took a deep breath, then called softly: “Annabel. Annabel. Annabel …”

  Otto swung the lantern back and forth for effect. By now, he had everyone’s complete attention.

  “But of course, there’s more,” he whispered.

  As we followed him through the upstairs rooms, Otto told us how Captain Bell haunted the house for about a hundred years. “People who moved into Hill House tried all kinds of ways to get rid of the ghost. But it was determined to stay.”

  Then Otto told everyone about the boy finding the ghost and getting his head pulled off. “The ghost of the sea captain vanished. The headless ghost of the boy continued to haunt the house. But that wasn’t the end of it.”

  Into the long, dark hallway now. Torches darting and flickering along the walls. “Tragedy continued to haunt Hill House,” Otto continued. “Shortly after young Andrew Craw’s death, his twelve-year-old sister Hannah went mad. Let’s go to her room next.”

  He led us down the hall to Hannah’s room.

  Stephanie loves Hannah’s room. Hannah collected porcelain dolls. And she had hundreds of them. All with the same long yellow hair, painted rosy cheeks, and blue-tinted eyelids.

  “After her brother was killed, Hannah went crazy,” Otto told us all in a hushed voice. “All day long, for eighty years, she sat in her rocking chair over there in the corner. And she played with her dolls. She never left her room. Ever.”

  He pointed to a worn rocking chair. “Hannah died there. An old lady surrounded by her dolls.”

  The floorboards creaked under him as Otto crossed the room. Setting the lantern down, he lowered his big body into the rocking chair.

  The chair made a cracking sound. I always think Otto is going to crush it! He started to rock. Slowly. The chair groaned with each move. We all watched him in silence.

  “Some people swear that poor Hannah is still here,” he said softly. “They say they’ve seen a young girl sitting in this chair, combing a doll’s hair.”

  He rocked slowly, letting the idea sink in. “And then we come to
the story of Hannah’s mother.”

  With a grunt, Otto pulled himself to his feet. He grabbed up the lantern and made his way to the top of the long, dark stairway at the end of the hall.

  “Soon after her son’s tragedy, the mother met her own terrible fate. She was on her way down these stairs one night when she tripped and fell to her death.”

  Otto gazed down the stairs and shook his head sadly.

  He does this every time. As I said, Stephanie and I know his every move.

  But we hadn’t come here tonight to watch Otto perform. I knew that sooner or later, Stephanie would want to get going. So I started glancing around. To see if it was a good time for us to sneak away from the others.

  And that’s when I saw the strange kid. Watching us.

  I didn’t see him when we first came in. In fact, I’m sure he wasn’t there when the tour started. I had counted nine people. No kids.

  The boy was about our age, with wavy blond hair and pale skin. Very pale skin. He was wearing black jeans and a black turtleneck that made his face look even whiter.

  I edged over to Stephanie. She was hanging back from the group.

  “You ready?” she whispered.

  Otto had started back down the stairs. If we were going to sneak away from the tour, now was the time.

  But I could see that weird kid still staring at us.

  Staring hard.

  He was giving me the creeps.

  “We can’t go. Someone’s watching us,” I whispered to Stephanie.

  “Who?”

  “That weird kid over there.” I motioned with my eyes.

  He was still staring at us. He didn’t even try to be polite and turn away when we caught him.

  Why was he watching us like that? What was his problem?

  Something told me we should wait. Something told me not to hide from the others just yet.

  But Stephanie had other ideas. “Forget him,” she said. “He’s nobody.” She grabbed my arm — and tugged. “Let’s go!”

  We pressed against the cold wall of the hallway and watched the others follow Otto down the stairs.

  I held my breath until I heard the last footsteps leave the stairway. We were alone now. Alone in the long, dark hall.

  I turned to Stephanie. I could barely see her face. “Now what?” I asked.

  “Now we do some exploring on our own!” Stephanie declared, rubbing her hands together. “This is so exciting!”

  I gazed down the long hallway. I didn’t feel real excited. I felt kind of scared.

  I heard a low groan from a room across the hall. The ceiling creaked above our heads. The wind rattled the windows in the room we had just come from.

  “Steph — are you sure — ?” I started.

  But she was already hurrying down the hall, walking on tiptoes to keep the floors from squeaking. “Come on, Duane. Let’s search for the ghost’s head,” she whispered back to me, her dark hair flying behind her. “Who knows? We might find it.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” I rolled my eyes.

  I didn’t think the chances were too good. How do you find a hundred-year-old head? And what if you do find it?

  Yuck!

  What would it look like? Just a skull?

  I followed Stephanie down the hall. But I really didn’t want to be there. I like haunting the neighborhood and scaring other people.

  I don’t like scaring myself!

  Stephanie led the way into a bedroom we had seen on other tours. It was called the Green Room. Because the wallpaper was decorated with green vines. Tangle after tangle of green vines. Up and down the walls and across the ceiling, too.

  How could anyone sleep in here? I wondered. It was like being trapped in a thick jungle.

  We both stopped inside the doorway and stared at the tangles of vines on all sides of us. Stephanie and I call the Green Room by another name. The Scratching Room.

  Otto once told us that something terrible happened here sixty years ago. The two guests who stayed in the room woke up with a disgusting purple rash.

  The rash started on their hands and arms. It spread to their faces. Then it spread over their entire bodies.

  Big purple sores that itched like crazy.

  Doctors from all around the world were called to study the rash. They couldn’t figure out what it was. And they couldn’t figure out how to cure it.

  Something in the Green Room caused the rash.

  But no one ever figured out what it was.

  That’s the story Otto and the other guides tell. It might be true. All the weird, scary stories Otto tells might be true. Who knows?

  “Come on, Duane!” Stephanie prodded. “Let’s look for the head. We don’t have much time before Otto sees that we’re missing.”

  She trotted across the room and dove under the bed.

  “Steph — please!” I started. I stepped carefully over to the low, wooden dresser in the corner.

  “We’re not going to find a ghost’s head in here. Let’s go,” I pleaded.

  She couldn’t hear me. She had climbed under the bed.

  “Steph — ?”

  After a few seconds, she backed out. As she turned toward me, I saw that her face was bright red.

  “Duane!” she cried. “I … I …”

  Her dark eyes bulged. Her mouth dropped open in horror. She grabbed the sides of her face.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” I cried, stumbling across the room toward her.

  “Ohhh, it itches! It itches so badly!” Stephanie wailed.

  I started to cry out. But my voice got caught in my throat.

  Stephanie began to rub her face. She frantically rubbed her cheeks, her forehead, her chin.

  “Owwww. It itches! It really itches!” She started to scratch her scalp with both hands.

  I grabbed her arm and tried to pull her up from the floor. “The rash! Let’s get you home!” I cried. “Come on! Your parents will get the doctor! And … and …”

  I stopped when I saw that she was laughing.

  I dropped her arm and stepped back.

  She stood up, straightening her hair. “Duane, you jerk,” she muttered. “Are you going to fall for every dumb joke tonight?”

  “No way!” I replied angrily. “I just thought — ”

  She gave me a shove. “You’re too easy to scare. How could you fall for such a stupid joke?”

  I shoved her back. “Just don’t pull any more dumb jokes, okay?” I snarled. “I mean it, Stephanie. I don’t think it’s funny. I really don’t. I’m not going to fall for any more stupid jokes. So don’t even try.”

  She wasn’t listening to me. She was staring over my shoulder. Staring in open-mouthed shock.

  “Oh, I d-don’t believe it!” she stammered. “There it is! There’s the head!”

  I fell for it again.

  I couldn’t help myself.

  I let out a shrill scream.

  I spun around so hard, I nearly knocked myself over. I followed Stephanie’s finger. I squinted hard in the direction she pointed.

  She was pointing to a gray clump of dust.

  “Sucker! Sucker!” She slapped me on the back and started to giggle.

  I uttered a low growl and balled my hands into tight fists. But I didn’t say anything. I could feel my face burning. I knew that I was blushing.

  “You’re too easy to scare, Duane,” Stephanie teased again. “Admit it.”

  “Let’s just get back to the tour,” I grumbled.

  “No way, Duane. This is fun. Let’s try the next room. Come on.”

  When she saw that I wasn’t following her, she said, “I won’t scare you like that anymore. Promise.”

  I saw that her fingers were crossed. But I followed her anyway.

  What choice did I have?

  We crept through the narrow hall that connected us to the next room. And found ourselves in Andrew’s room. Poor, headless Andrew.

  It still had all his old stuff in it. Games and toys from a hundred years ag
o. An old-fashioned wooden bicycle leaning against one wall.

  Everything just the way it was. Before Andrew met up with the sea captain’s ghost.

  A lantern on the dresser cast blue shadows on the walls. I didn’t know if I believed the ghost story or not. But something told me that if Andrew’s head were anywhere, we’d find it here. In his room.

  Under his old-fashioned-looking canopy bed. Or hidden under his dusty, faded toys.

  Stephanie tiptoed over to the toys. She bent down and started to move things aside. Little wooden bowling pins. An old-fashioned board game, the colors all faded to brown. A set of metal toy soldiers.

  “Check around the bed, Duane,” she whispered.

  I started across the room. “Steph, we shouldn’t be touching this stuff. You know the tour guides never let us touch anything.”

  Stephanie set down an old wooden top. “Do you want to find the head or not?”

  “You really think there’s a ghost’s head hidden in this house?”

  “Duane, that’s what we’re here to find out — right?”

  I sighed and stepped over to the bed. I could see there was no use arguing with Stephanie tonight.

  I ducked my head under the purple canopy and studied the bed. A boy actually slept in this bed, I told myself.

  Andrew actually slept under this quilt. A hundred years ago.

  The thought gave me a chill.

  I tried to picture a boy about my age sleeping in this heavy, old bed.

  “Go ahead. Check out the bed,” Stephanie instructed from across the room.

  I leaned over and patted the gray and brown patchwork quilt. It felt cold and smooth.

  I punched the pillows. They felt soft and feathery. Nothing hidden inside the pillow cases.

  I was about to test the mattress when the quilt began to move.

  It rustled over the sheets. A soft, scratchy sound.

  Then, as I stared in horror, the gray and brown quilt began to slide down the bed.

  There was no one in the bed. No one!

  But someone was pushing the quilt down, down to the bottom of the bed.

  I swallowed a scream.

  “You’ve got to move faster, Duane,” Stephanie said.