R. L. Stine_Mostly Ghostly 03 (7 page)

A snowblower stood at the back of the house next to a shovel. I stepped around them and crept toward the kitchen window.

Anyone in there? The sun covered the window with yellow light. I couldn’t see a thing.

I’ll try the kitchen door, I thought. If I can get through the kitchen, it’ll be an easy run to the front stairs, then up to Traci's room.

I heard the TV. Maybe the parents and her little brother were all in the den. I’d only been in Traci's house once, for a birthday party when we were five or six. But I remembered a wood-paneled den with a big TV at the back of the house.

I crossed my gloved fingers for luck.

Just let me grab those metal things and get out of here without being seen.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped up to the back stoop. My boot slipped on a patch of ice and I fell forward. My head banged the kitchen door.

I froze. Did anyone hear that? Was someone coming?

Hunched over, I waited, not moving or breathing. After a few seconds, I pulled myself up. Okay. No problem. Easy does it, here.

I reached for the doorknob—and the door swung open.

I gasped and staggered back. “Hi,” I choked out. “I … I’m a friend of Traci's.”

Mrs. Wayne gasped too. “I didn’t see you back here. You startled me.”

She wore a bulky red ski sweater over black leggings and had a red wool cap pulled down over her blond hair. She looked like Traci's twin, only older. She pulled a pair of skis out of the house.

“I’m meeting some friends,” she said, stepping onto the stoop. “We’re doing some cross-country.”
She squinted at me. “What are you doing back here?”

“Uh … looking for Traci,” I said. “I have to ask her something … about school.”

Mrs. Wayne started toward her SUV. “Traci is at Miller Hill,” she said. “Didn’t you pass her? She's sledding with a whole bunch of kids from your class.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll go back and find her.”

But I didn’t do that. I headed to the sidewalk and trudged slowly toward Miller Hill. But as soon as Mrs. Wayne backed down the drive and pulled away, I turned and hurried back to the house.

Again I listened at the kitchen door. The TV was going in the den. I grabbed the knob, pushed open the door, and sneaked into the kitchen.

It was warm inside. The house smelled like hot chocolate. I saw three empty cups on the sink. I could hear the TV in the next room. A SpongeBob cartoon. Traci's little brother was probably in there. But where was her father?

I crept as silently as I could toward the front of the house. I saw that my boots were leaving dirty puddles of water on the kitchen floor. But what could I do?

I found the front stairs and started to climb. The wooden steps creaked beneath me. Could anyone hear? My skin tingled. I was alert to every sound.

I reached the top of the stairs. The hall lights were on. I saw four bedrooms, a bathroom, and some closets. If Mr. Wayne was up here, I’d be totally busted.

Holding my breath, I tiptoed down the hall. It didn’t take long to find Traci's room. I crept inside and carefully closed the door behind me.

I glanced around as I waited to catch my breath. Traci had two framed posters of ballerinas on the wall over her bed. I kinda remembered she was into dance.

The room was a cluttered mess. Books and papers and CDs and DVDs tossed everywhere. A big brown basket on the floor overflowed with magazines.

The bed wasn’t made. Dirty clothes were strewn over it. Stuffed animals, schoolbooks, backpacks, a boom box, jeans and T-shirts, empty shopping bags—all on the floor.

Wow. A whole new hidden
messy
side of Traci!

But where were the six life pods?

Her desk was just as messy as the rest of the room. The computer was on, a screen saver of fish floating across the monitor.

She had a photo of Buddy, her old dog, next to a photo of herself in a ballerina costume at age seven or so.

I pulled off my gloves and started pushing things around on her desk. I examined a big cup full of
pens and pencils. I pulled open the desk drawers, all crammed with stuff, and poked through everything.

No. No sign of the pendants.

My legs trembled.

I jumped at every sound.

I knew that Morgo would come at any second. If I couldn’t find the pendants and return them to him, he’d melt me—and Traci, too.

I moved to her makeup table, cluttered with bottles and tubes and soaps and eye pencils and sponges and stuff. But no pendants.

I was about to turn away when I glimpsed a red box on the corner of her dresser. A jewelry box. Yes! She must have dropped the six pendants into her jewelry box.

They
had
to be here. I started toward the dresser. A loud creak made me stop. Morgo?

I spun to the windows. No. Not here—yet.

I grabbed Traci's jewelry box and lifted the top. Tiny earrings and a couple of silver chains. No. No pendants.

I lifted the top shelf of the jewelry box to look underneath.

And the bedroom door swung open.

“Oh!” I cried out. And dropped the shelf of earrings as Traci strode into the room.

“Max? Are you crazy?” she cried. “What are you doing in my room?”

“T-TRACI—” I SPUTTERED. “I—”

“How did you get up here?” she demanded. She had her parka on. Her cheeks were still red from the cold. Her hands were balled into tight fists. “Why are you going through my stuff?”

I was desperate to explain, but my tongue suddenly stuck to the roof of my mouth. The only sound I could make was “Hmmmmma hmmmma.”

Traci pulled off her parka and tossed it onto the floor. “I don’t get it,” she said, frowning at me. “Did my parents let you up here? Or did you sneak into my house?”

“I snuck in,” I said. I could finally talk. “Traci, it … it's hard to explain. But I need those silver pendants back. Right away.”

“I gave them to Phoebe Mullin,” she said. “We’re working together on the necklace.”

My mouth dropped open. “Phoebe has them?”

She nodded. “You can’t take them back. We need them.”

“You—you don’t understand!” I stammered. “They’re dangerous!”

I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t tell her that Morgo, a vicious ghost, was probably melting Phoebe into a puddle of wax right now.

“What's wrong with them?” Traci demanded. “What's so dangerous, Max?”

I didn’t answer. I slid past her and took off. I bolted down the stairs and out the front door. I could hear Traci's dad shouting behind me, “Who's there?” But I couldn’t stop to answer.

It's all my fault.

That's what I kept repeating in my mind.

Phoebe has probably been melted—
and it's all my fault!

My boots crunched over the snow as I started to run. I had been to Phoebe's house before. It was three or four blocks away. I knew I had to get there as fast as I could.

I was nearly at the curb when two figures stepped out from behind a tree. They jumped in front of me and grabbed me by the sleeves of my parka.

The Wilbur brothers!

“No time!” I gasped.

“What's up, Maxie?” Willy asked.

“How's it going?” Billy asked.

“Let go,” I said breathlessly. “I—I have to
hurry.” I twisted hard, trying to free myself. But those two guys are
big
—and totally strong.

“No snowmen around to help you this time,” Willy Wilbur said, glancing around the block. “But you’re really into snowmen, right?”

“No. No way,” I said. “Give me a break, guys. I really am in a hurry. I—”

They picked me up and heaved me into a tall snowdrift. Then they held me down and began piling snow over me.

“Let me up!” I tried to scramble to my feet. But I was buried in the high drift. And they were packing it tighter, making it impossible to escape.

“See? Max is really into snow,” Billy said.

“He's really
into
it,” Willy said.

That made them both giggle like idiots.

How funny are they?
Not!

Icy snow pressed against my face. I struggled to breathe. My teeth started to chatter.

Silence now. I waited and listened. Did they leave?

Lying on my back, I swung my shoulder hard, pushing snow away. The cold froze my cheeks. Icy snow dripped down my neck. I swung my shoulder again, making a little more room. Then I twisted my body—pushed and squirmed and twisted—until I was lying on my stomach.

I lowered my hands to the bottom of the snow and pushed up. Yes! Straining every muscle, I
hoisted myself up … and out of the snowdrift. My mouth fell open and I gasped for air, sucking in deep cold breaths.

My whole body shook. My jeans were soaked. My parka felt wet and stiff.

With a groan, I freed one leg, then the other, and stepped out of the drift. I shook myself hard, like a dog, sending snow spraying all around me.

Okay. Thank you, Wilbur brothers, for that special treat.

They thought they had played a funny joke on poor Max. They had no way of knowing they could have cost Phoebe Mullin her life.

I pictured her copper-colored ponytail, her freckled face, her red and blue braces that showed when she smiled, the yellow T-shirt she wore that said
BOYS STINK
in big black letters.

I remembered her swinging in a tire in her backyard. It was some kind of party, and we all climbed on with her and acted like chimpanzees, scratching and grunting and—

Whoa, Max. Get it together, dude.

I shook myself hard again, shaking away the memories. And I started to run over the snow. Shivering, my teeth chattering, I ran in a total panic. The houses, the trees and bushes, the cars that rolled by—I didn’t see any of them. I saw the white snow ahead of me, my breath puffing up against the sky, and a blur of colors and sounds.

By the time I reached Phoebe's block, I was panting hard, my chest aching. My nose and ears were frozen numb, and my cheeks burned from the cold.

Did I get to Phoebe before Morgo?

I stopped across the street from Phoebe's house. Blinked once. Blinked twice.

And stared at the pile of blue trash in the driveway. Why would Phoebe's parents leave that in front of the house?

I crossed the street, and it came into clearer focus. I saw part of a shiny bumper … a bent and twisted license plate.

“Oh nooooo.” A low wail escaped my throat.

It wasn’t a pile of trash. It was the Mullins’ car.

Melted in the driveway.

Was Phoebe inside it?

FRANTICALLY, I TRIED TO
search for Phoebe inside the car. But it was a big solid puddle—there
was
no inside!

Heart pounding, I spun away from it, ran up the walk—and burst into the house. I didn’t even ring the bell.

“Who's there?” Mr. Mullin jumped up from his armchair in the den. His newspaper fell out of his hands.

He is tall and very thin, with a face like a field mouse—long nose and tiny gray eyes that always look as if they’re squinting. “What on earth—?” he cried.

“Sorry to break in,” I said breathlessly, gazing around. “Where's Phoebe?”

“She's gone,” he said. “I don’t understand—”

“Gone? What do you mean
gone
?” I cried.

“Gone to school. She's rehearsing a play.” He bent to pick up his newspaper. “You’re Max Doyle, right? Listen, Max, you can’t just barge into someone's house and—”

“Can I search her room?” I asked.

He narrowed his little gray eyes at me again. “Excuse me? Search her room? Of course not. Are you crazy?”

“No, I’m not crazy. But I can’t explain,” I said. “Does Phoebe have a bunch of pendants that look like this?” I reached under my sweatshirt, pulled off the silver pendant I always wear, and handed it to Mr. Mullin.

He held it away from him, as if I’d just handed him a bomb. “How should I know, Max? I don’t keep track of her jewelry.”

I glanced around the room in a panic. What should I do? Morgo had definitely been here. Did Morgo find the pendants in Phoebe's room? Or did Phoebe take them to school with her? I had to find out.

“Does she have a cell phone?” I asked Mr. Mullin. “I really have to talk to her.”

He stood tensely, newspaper in one hand, frowning at me. “No. No cell phone.” He pointed to the front door. “Maybe you could come back, Max. Why don’t you come back later? I’m going to pick her up in an hour.”

“Pick her up?” I cried. “Have you
looked
at your car?”

“My car? What about my car?”

I guess he hadn’t looked out the front window.
No way
did I want to stay around and
explain. “Sorry to bother you,” I said, and I took off.

I had to run to school and hope to get to Phoebe in time. The melted blue car in the Mullins’ driveway made my stomach churn.

I’d never run so much in my life.
My legs ached—everything ached—and my cold, wet clothes stuck to my skin.

Slipping and sliding, I turned onto Powell Avenue and continued to jog. Finally, the school came into view.

At the top of the flagpole, the flag flapped hard in the wind. Jefferson Elementary is a kind of old-fashioned-looking three-story brick building.

Snow clung to the roof, and long, fat icicles dripped down from the gutters. Someone had tossed snowballs at the front wall, which was dotted with circles of snow.

I took a deep breath, started to run up the front walk—and stopped.

I stared at the narrow path beside the front walk. A trail of melted snow. The snow had melted completely away, and the green grass showed.

Melted snow … and the path led right to the front door of the school.

Morgo was here!

Oh no. Poor Phoebe.

I pulled open the front door and slipped inside. My legs trembled as I made my way down the long hall to the auditorium. My mouth suddenly felt so dry, I couldn’t swallow. I could barely breathe.

Morgo was here. Morgo got here first.

I turned the corner and stopped. Oh no … oh no. Heaped on the floor at the end of the hall—a dark melted puddle.

Phoebe?