Free The Pike River Phantom by Betty Ren Wright Page A

question blew away Charlie’s thoughts about turning back.
    â€œWho said I don’t like him?” he retorted gruffly. “That’s a dumb thing to say.”
    â€œNo, it isn’t. You always look angry when he talks. And when he plays his guitar, too.”
    â€œI don’t!”
    â€œYou do. You don’t say anything to him either. I’d talk to my folks all day long if they were here instead of in Africa.”
    She would, too, Charlie thought. She never knew when to be quiet.
    â€œIs it because he was in prison? I like Uncle John. He’s fun. Like a big kid.”
    â€œYeah,” Charlie muttered, “like a big kid.” To his relief, a familiar mailbox appeared on the edge of the highway ahead of them. “There it is,” he pointed. “That’s where we turn in. Let’s eat the sandwiches first, okay?”
    They settled in the grass next to the mailbox and opened the brown paper bag filled with peanut-butter sandwiches and pears. Rachel didn’t say anything more about his father while they ate, or later while they walked through the woods, but she looked as if she were thinking hard. Charlie supposed she was lining up more nosy questions.
    â€œThere it is,” he said loudly as they stepped out into the sunlit clearing. “Spooky, huh?”
    â€œIt looks haunted,” Rachel commented. “It looks as if nobody could possibly be living there. I can’t see why you even bothered to knock on the door that first time. I wouldn’t have.”
    Charlie considered the dusty windows, the crooked shutters, the tangle of garden. She was right. What had made him approach the decaying old place? He didn’t remember that it had looked so uncared for that first time.
    â€œI guess I just thought I’d give it a try,” he said. “Or maybe the ghost wanted me to come in. Maybe she wanted to talk to somebody from Pike River.”
    Rachel nodded as if this were a reasonable explanation. She pushed open the gate, and they made their way through the garden and up the steps to the front door.
    Charlie lifted the bulldog knocker and let it drop. Then he put a hand on the doorknob. “If it’s locked, we leave,” he reminded her. “No breaking in.”
    â€œTurn it,” Rachel urged. “What are you waiting for?”
    When the door swung open at his touch, Charlie didn’t know whether he was glad or sorry. He led the way into the entrance hall and looked around, hoping the phantom wouldn’t make him search for her again, room by room.
    Rachel gripped his arm and pointed toward the back of the house. “The sun porch,” she mouthed. “Let’s go.” She was very pale in the dim light of the hall.
    A floorboard creaked sharply over their heads. Charlie whirled to face the stairs. “I’ve never heard that before,” he whispered. “I bet she’s up there.”
    â€œThen let’s go up. We want to find her, don’t we?”
    They climbed the stairs side by side, stopping at each step to listen. The floorboards creaked again. Then Charlie heard a faint humming—breathless, delicate, and as frightening as any sound would be in a supposedly deserted house.
    There’s nothing to be scared of , he told himself wryly. A ghost is humming, that’s all . He shot a sideways glance at Rachel.
    â€œI hear it,” she whispered, without taking her eyes away from the top of the stairs. “It’s weird—like an echo from someplace else.”
    That was exactly what the humming sounded like. Some other place, or some other time , Charlie thought. The sound made him feel as if he were drifting backward through endless years.
    They reached the upstairs hallway and faced a row of doors, all of them closed but one. That one was open just a crack; the opening was marked by a narrow band of sunlight across the hall floor.
    Rachel knelt at the crack to peer inside, and