Free The Poe Estate by Polly Shulman

on.” The phone clacked again, and I heard muffled voices, as if Andre were holding his hand over the mouthpiece. Soon he came back. “Hi, Sukie, sorry about the mix-up. Nevermind now, but maybe we could borrow you next time you come to the flea market?”
    â€œUm, sure,” I said.
    â€œAll right, well, sorry, thanks again,” he said. “See you Saturday, maybe.”
    â€œSee you,” I said.
    The phone went dead. I stared at it for a minute, then hung up. What on earth was that all about?

CHAPTER NINE
    A Bat and a Broomstick
    T hat night, I was awoken again. I’m going to kill that ghost, whoever it is, I thought. So what if it’s already dead?
    But it wasn’t a ghost this time. It was a bat.
    In theory, I love bats, ever since I did a report on them in sixth grade. They eat mosquitoes. They pollinate banana trees. They’re mammals just like us, but they have a whole extra sense—echolocation—and they can fly! Imagine being able to fly!
    Loving bats in theory is one thing; loving the one that woke me up at 3:09 a.m. with its frantic twittering is another.
    How did it get into the room, anyway, with the windows shut? Did it fly down the chimney? I jumped out of bed, pulling the bed curtains shut behind me, and hauled a window open with a shriek of rusty iron. The bat was flying around the room in irregular, darting circles, occasionally smashing into the wall.
    â€œThe window’s that way,” I said, pointing helpfully.
    The bat flew into one of the closed windows instead. It clicked and veered off toward the ceiling. At the very top of the wall it found a perch on the molding. It folded itself and hung shaking, like a tiny, miserable umbrella.
    â€œGreat. Are you just going to hang there all night?” Iconsidered leaving the window open and getting back in bed, hoping it would find its own way out, but the room was freezing. “Come on, bat!” I reached up with the broom, hoping to persuade the bat to climb on so I could carry it to the open window. Even standing on the desk, though, I couldn’t reach the bat.
    I put the chair on the desk and climbed up. Almost! “Come on, little guy, get up,” I said, leaning forward as far as I could and reaching out with the broom.
    The chair tipped and fell over.
    I yelled a curse. “Help! Help!” The chair crashed to the floor, but to my surprise, I didn’t. The broom seemed to have caught on something. I held on as tightly as I could, looking around wildly to see what was holding it up. Not just
holding
it—pulling it. The broom was rising to the ceiling.
    The bat, noticing an enormous person-and-broom combo heading its way, let go of the molding and started darting and flapping in circles again. The broom decided to follow it.
    â€œNo!” I screamed, hanging on for dear life, trailing behind the broom like a pair of overalls pinned to a laundry line in a hurricane.
    The bat chose that moment to discover the open window and fly out of it. The broom headed for the window, flapping me behind it. “No, broom!” I screamed. “STOP!”
    The broom stopped stock-still in midair. Inertia slammed my legs into the wall. “Ow!” I howled. I took a deep breath. “Go down now, please, broom. Slowly!”
    Gently as a dandelion seed, the broom floated down to the floor and set me on the hearth rug.
    My heart pounding, every muscle in my body trembling, I let go of the broom, collapsed on the floor, and rolled up into a little whimpering ball.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Mom heard me screaming and crashing from two floors away and came to see what was wrong. When I told her about the bat—I didn’t tell her about the broom, of course—she insisted on checking me all over for bites and scratches, in case the bat had rabies.
    â€œIt didn’t bite me! It didn’t get anywhere near me,” I protested. “And most bats don’t have rabies,