Free Wrath of the Grinning Ghost by John Bellairs Page A

Johnny felt as if he had just climbed out of a hot swimming pool, but the breeze did help a little.
    They drove for a long time, and finally they saw a sign that read "Alachamokee 15." An arrow pointed to the right, and the professor steered the Pontiac onto a narrow, rough road that needed repaying. As they jounced and bounced, Johnny, who was sitting on the right, nudged Fergie and pointed through the window. Fergie leaned over to look. The Gulf of Mexico could be seen through gaps in the roadside palm trees. From the glimpses they got, the water looked as flat and shiny as a sheet of scuffed aluminum. Fergie started to hum, and then he burst into song. "By the sea, by the sea, by the bee-yoo-tiful sea," howled Fergie in an ear-splitting tone, missing the tune by a mile.
    "Ouch!" said the professor, wincing with his whole body. He turned around and glared over his shoulder. "Mister Byron Q. Ferguson, if you don't want to walk the last twelve miles, kindly pipe down!"
    "Aye, aye, Captain," answered Fergie with a broad smirk. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "C'mon, John baby," he said. "We'll fix up your old man. All we have to do is find the witchy woman, right? She'll know what to do."
    "I hope so," said Johnny, although what he felt was more despair than hope.
    They rolled into the sleepy town of Alachamokee just after four o'clock. The professor drove up and down the narrow main street until he found Gator Gus's Boating and Fishing, a little sun-baked cinderblock building with a badly faded sign above its door. It had been painted white at one time—Fergie suggested that had been shortly before the Civil War—but now the hot sun and the salt air had blistered and peeled most of the paint off, so the gray concrete blocks showed through, splattered with splotches of green mossy lichen.
    "Here's where we're supposed to leave the car," grunted the professor, edging the Pontiac into a cramped alley. "And then the ferry is supposed to be a short walk away. Judging by the accuracy of the information I've gotten so far, I suppose that means it's not quite as long a walk as it would be to Omaha, Nebraska!"
    Behind the store was a parking lot with three slots marked "Rentals Park Here." All of these were empty, and the professor pulled into the middle one. The three of them climbed out into the sweltering afternoon and got their suitcases from the trunk. Looking around, Johnny got his bearings and said, "The water taxi is this way."
    He led them about a block west, where the alley dead-ended into a highway. On the far side of this road was the Gulf of Mexico—or at least the Alachamokee Bay part of it. Dozens of sailboats and powerboats were tied up at piers along the shore. There wasn't any traffic on the highway, so the three sauntered across and found the booth where they bought tickets for the ride over to Live Oak Key. As they walked down the pier to the bright yellow speedboat, Johnny pointed out the tall white spire of the lighthouse. "I saw Brewster right there," he said. "I thought he was a real bird."
    "He's a real pain in the behumpus," griped the professor. "If I'd known he'd shilly and shally the way he's been doing, I would have told Mr. Townsend to drop him down a nice, deep well in Egypt."
    "Aw, Prof, I kind of liked old Brewster," teased Fergie. "Even if he was a worse singer than me."
    "Fergie," Johnny said, "no one is a worse singer than you."
    The professor looked surprised, but then he barked a short laugh. "Congratulations, John," he said. "That is the first faint trace of a joke I've heard from you in ages. Keep your spirits up! Now, let's climb into this disreputable craft and pray that it doesn't sink before we reach the distant shore."
    They roared across the mile of water separating the mainland from Live Oak Key. "Man, this is better!" announced Fergie, holding on to his baseball cap as the cool bay breezes whipped his shirt. "I could go for this kinda life. If I lived in Florida, I'd have a