The Ghost of Popcorn Hill

by Betty Ren Wright

  “If we had a sheepdog, that ghost wouldn’t come around,” Peter said. “He’d be too scared to.”

  They had been wandering through the orchard for nearly an hour when suddenly the dog appeared. Once again he watched them for a moment, then ran away when they called to him. Martin and Peter chased him, but he was very fast.

  “Let’s start back,” Martin panted at last. “Maybe he’ll follow us.”

  To their delight, that was what happened. The sheepdog stayed about fifty feet behind them all the way to the top of the hill. Then Rosie began to bark inside the cabin. The big dog turned and ran back down the path.

  “That dumb Rosie!” Peter grumbled. “What good is she?”

  When they went inside, they found that their mother was angry with Rosie too. Rosie had pulled a library book off a chair and had chewed the cover.

  “If you’d take her outside with you, she wouldn’t have so much time to get into trouble,” Mrs. Tracy complained.

  The boys looked at each other. They were pretty sure that if Rosie tagged along, the sheepdog would stay out of sight.

  Every day after that the boys went down to the orchard. Twice the sheepdog came back, and each time he followed them up the hill before he ran away again.

  “What are we going to do if we get him all the way to the house?” Martin wondered one night after the boys had gone to bed. “Mom and Dad will never let us keep him.”

  “Yes they will.” Peter sounded sure. “When they see how nice he is, they’ll have to.”

  “I don’t think so …” Martin began sadly. Then he stopped.

  “Ho-ho-ho!” came a laugh out of the darkness.

  For a moment both boys were too startled to speak. Then Peter began to cry.

  “Martin!” he whimpered. But Martin couldn’t move. All he could do was cower under the covers as the laughter came again and again.

  “Ho-ho-ho!”

  Whoever it was, was right there in the bedroom.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Loneliest Feller

  “Martin, d-do something!” Peter’s voice sounded muffled, as if his hands were covering his face. “M-make it go away!”

  Martin took a deep breath. He stuck one foot out from under the covers and then the other. If he could just cross the room to the light switch … But before he could take a single step, a strange glow appeared in the corner. As he stared, the glow grew brighter and a tall, skinny figure began to take shape. Moonlight shone right through the mournful face, the raggedy trousers held up with red suspenders, and the tattered shirt. He looked like a ghostly scarecrow.

  “Martin!” Peter wailed and started to tumble out of bed.

  “Don’t fuss, boy,” the ghost said in a hollow voice that was almost a moan. “No need to be afraid of old Tom Buffle.”

  Martin clutched his pillow as if it were a rubber raft that would save him from drowning. “Who are you? Wh-what do you want?”

  The ghost shimmered and shook. “Tom Buffle’s the name,” he repeated. “Used to live in this cabin, I did. A long time ago. Right now I’m the loneliest feller you ever seed.”

  Peter scooted across the floor and dived into Martin’s bed. He pulled the sheet over his head. “Go away!” he begged.

  Tom Buffle’s face grew sadder. “I just came by for a little chat,” he moaned. “Thought we might be friends, like.”

  Martin shuddered. He couldn’t imagine having a friend he was able to see through.

  “Wh-why do you laugh like that?” he demanded. His voice shot up.

  Tom Buffle shimmered wildly. “Just tryin’ to be friendly,” he groaned. “That’s my way. Thought if I cheered you up, you’d let me come back every night.”

  At that, Peter started to cry so loudly that Martin was afraid his parents would hear.

  “You’d better go,” Martin said. “If my dad sees you, he’ll be mad.”

  “Can’t see me or hear me,” Tom Buffle said, but he started to fade as Peter’s sobs continued. “People and dogs can’t hear me or see me less’n I let ’em.” The last words came from a great distance. The corner was empty.

  “He’s gone,” Martin whispered. “Hush up, Peter.”

  “Can’t,” Peter sobbed. He pushed back the sheet and looked around fearfully. “I don’t want him to come back,” he sniffled. “Not ever!”

  Martin’s hands were clammy. “What am I supposed to do about it?” he asked. “Besides, I feel kind of sorry for him. He says he’s lonesome. And if he wants to come to talk to us, who’s going to stop him?”

  Somehow, though, he knew they had to find a way. Popcorn Hill was the best place in the world, but he could never get used to having a ghost shimmering in their bedroom.

  The next morning Peter was white-faced and quiet. Martin wondered if he looked that scared himself. Surely someone would notice.

  But he needn’t have worried. Before they were dressed, there was a crash in the kitchen. They ran out to find Rosie hiding under the table and their mother looking at unbaked cookies scattered over the floor.

  “She jumped up and pulled the cookie sheet off the table!” Mrs. Tracy exclaimed. “What are we going to do about that dog?”

  Rosie stuck her nose out from under the table and nibbled a piece of cookie dough.

  “If you boys paid more attention to her, maybe she’d behave better,” Mrs. Tracy said crossly. “I don’t understand—you wanted a dog so much, and now you hardly play with her. If we didn’t need a watchdog, there’d be no reason to keep her.”

  Peter made a face, and Martin knew what he was thinking. Some watchdog!

  The freckled nose came out again. Martin pushed another piece of cookie dough to where she could reach it. He sighed. Rosie was one problem and Tom Buffle was another—a big one! The only good things happening these days were the visits of the sheepdog. That sheepdog was the greatest dog a boy could ever have.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lost!

  “See you in the morning, gang.” Mr. Tracy waved to the boys as the truck jolted down the hillside.

  “I wish Daddy didn’t have to go to work,” Peter said uneasily. “I wish he could stay home.”

  “Let’s look for the sheepdog,” Martin suggested. “It won’t be dark for a while.” And we won’t have to think about Tom Buffle.

  They had barely sat down on their favorite rock when the big dog ambled out of the orchard. He looked up at the boys and began to run in circles at the foot of the hill.

  “What’s he doing?” Peter wondered.

  Martin frowned. “I think he’s doing what sheepdogs do when they’re working,” he said. “They run in circles and round up the sheep. Only he doesn’t have any sheep.”

  “He could have us,” Peter said suddenly. “We could let him round us up, and maybe we’d get close enough to pet him.”

  They ran down the hill, but as soon as they reached the bottom, the sheepdog darted back into the orchard. He waited for them to follow, then dashed away again.

  “He doesn’t want to play roundup,” Peter said.

  “But he wants us to come with him,” Martin said. “And he’s letting us get closer. Let’s go!”

  They dashed back and forth through the orchard after the dog. Sometimes the sheepdog let them come quite close before he ran away. Then, without warning, he was gone, racing into the woods beyond the orchard.

  “He’ll be back,” Martin said. “He really wants us to catch him.”

  “What’s that?” Peter stopped short at the edge of a clearing. A building loomed in the half dark.

  “It’s the old mill,” Martin said. “Nobody’s lived there for a million years.” He grabbed Peter’s hand and pulled him back into the woods. The deserted mill was frightening, and besides, Martin was suddenly aware of how late it was. “We’d better go home,” he said.

  They started walking, first in one direction, then in another. Martin stumbled over a root and fell flat, dragging his little brother down beside him.

 
“I’m going to climb a tree and look for Popcorn Hill,” he said. “You stay right here.”

  Climbing was hard, especially in the dark. “There are lots of hills,” he told Peter when he came back down. “I can’t tell which one is ours. We’ll just have to wait. Mom will call Dad when we don’t come home, and they’ll find us.”

  “That’ll take a long time,” Peter sniffled. “I’m scared, Martin.”

  Martin was scared too, but he didn’t want to say so. They curled up with their backs against a tree trunk and waited. Something swooshed overhead.

  “Just a bat,” Martin said, trying to sound calm.

  “Look!” Peter shrieked a few minutes later. He pointed at a pair of yellow eyes gleaming in the dark. “There’s Tom Buffle!”

  “No, it’s not,” Martin said hoarsely. “That’s something little. A skunk maybe.”

  “Yuk!” Peter moved closer to Martin, but he stopped sniffling. A skunk wasn’t as bad as a ghost.

  A long time passed. Then they heard something Martin couldn’t explain. It was a rustling sound, far off at first but getting closer fast.

  “A wolf’s coming to get us,” Peter wailed. “What’ll we do?”

  “It’s not a wolf,” Martin quavered. “It’s nothing.” But the next moment he gave a yelp of terror. The “nothing” was right there in the clearing, panting in his ear and jumping all over him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Ghost Again!

  “It’s Rosie!”

  Martin couldn’t see the nose full of freckles or the long red tongue that was licking his face, but he knew. Rosie had come to rescue them.

  “Is it really?” Peter quivered. A feathery tail swept across his face. “Hey, it is!”

  “Take us home, Rosie,” Martin ordered. He scrambled to his feet and waited anxiously. Rosie had found them, but would she know the way back? She had never been this far from the cabin before.

  Rosie knew. She set off at once, stopping every few feet to make sure the boys were following. At first it was hard to keep track of her in the dark, but after a few minutes of stumbling and bumping into Peter, Martin discovered they were walking between long rows of trees in the apple orchard.

  “Good dog!” Martin shouted.

  “Martin! Peter!”

  “It’s Mom!” Martin grabbed Peter’s hand and pulled him along. “Look, there’s our hill.”

  They raced up the path, never stopping till they reached the top of Popcorn Hill, where their mother was waiting.

  “Thank goodness!” she exclaimed. She hugged them both, while Rosie danced around them. “Whatever made you wander off like that?” she scolded. “I couldn’t think what to do but let Rosie out to see if she could find you.”

  “We didn’t notice how dark it was getting,” Martin said. He hadn’t answered his mother’s question, but he hoped she wouldn’t ask it again. He hated to admit they’d been chasing a dog, when they had Rosie waiting for them at home.

  “You should have told Mom about the sheepdog,” Peter said later, when they were in bed. “She would feel sorry for him out there all by himself. Maybe she’d tell Daddy we need two dogs.”

  “I don’t think so,” Martin said. “We’re lucky to have one. Besides, the sheepdog ran off and left us, and Rosie brought us home. Rosie is a pretty neat dog.”

  Peter sighed. “Just the same,” he said, “I wish—”

  “Ho-ho-ho!” There was a glimmering in the corner, and a touch of red that could have been suspenders.

  “No, no!” Peter gasped. “Go away!”

  “Just came for a chat,” said the hollow voice. “Thought we could talk about things, friendly like.”

  Martin gulped. He knew Tom Buffle was lonely, but he also knew Peter was getting ready to cry. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “We can’t talk now. We’re—we’re sort of tired.” It was the only excuse he could think of, and he realized it sounded made-up.

  Tom Buffle sighed. “Everyone can use a friendly chat once in a while,” he moaned. “Especially me.” But his voice faded away to nothing as he spoke, and then the corner of the room was dark once more.

  Martin felt terrible.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “It Can’t Happen”

  “You’re both grounded for a week,” Mr. Tracy announced the next morning. “You know you gave your mother a bad scare last night.”

  Martin stared in dismay. Peter’s lower lip trembled. “Daddy—”

  “No whining,” their father said firmly. “There’s plenty of room to play up here on the hill.”

  Peter ran outside. Martin followed more slowly, with Rosie at his heels. They sat on the rock at the end of the lot while Rosie wandered around, exploring.

  “Now we’ll never catch the sheepdog,” Peter said mournfully. “And he was starting to let us get close!”

  Just then the big dog trotted out of the orchard and looked up.

  “If we don’t go down, he’ll run away and find some other kids to live with,” Peter said. “What’re we going to do, Martin?”

  “We can’t do anything,” Martin said. “We’re stuck.”

  For the next week they went regularly to look down at the orchard. Sometimes the sheepdog was waiting for them. Sometimes he didn’t appear at all.

  “He’s going to give up,” Peter said gloomily. “He’s going to go away, and we’ll never see him again.”

  Martin wished he could make his brother feel better. “At least Tom Buffle hasn’t come around for a while,” he reminded Peter.

  “He has too,” Peter argued. “He started to come night before last—I saw his suspenders and a little bit of his shirt. If I hadn’t cried, he would have been ho-ho-hoing all over the place.”

  Martin was sorry he’d brought up Tom Buffle. He felt bad every time he thought about the poor, lonely ghost.

  “Well, at least Rosie isn’t chewing stuff anymore,” he said, to change the subject. During the days they’d been grounded, he had taught Rosie to roll over and to sit up and beg.

  Peter was silent. He didn’t care what Rosie did.

  When the last night of the grounding finally came, the boys couldn’t sleep. Tomorrow they would be able to go down to the orchard again.

  Suddenly Peter sat up in bed. “What’s that noise?” he asked, looking around uneasily.

  Martin heard it too—a soft scritch-scratch at the screen. He slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the window. Peter followed him. They stared into the moonlit yard, not daring to believe their eyes.

  “It’s him!” Peter exclaimed joyfully. “He came to find us.”

  The sheepdog stood just outside the window, looking at them. Trembling with excitement, Martin opened the screen and stepped back.

  “Come, boy,” he whispered. And the sheepdog came, leaping through the window. He ambled around the bedroom, sniffing the beds and poking his huge head into corners.

  “I’m going to pet him,” Peter whispered. “Watch.”

  He took a step forward and stopped. “Martin?” His voice rose in a wail.

  Martin felt a lurch in the pit of his stomach. He blinked and looked again to see if the sheepdog was really glimmering and shimmering.

  It was true. The moonlight was shining right through him!

  “It can’t happen,” Peter sobbed. “A dog can’t be a ghost!”

  Martin was as disappointed as he was frightened. “This one is,” he said grimly. “We just never got close enough to notice before.”

  The sheepdog looked from one of them to the other, as if he were wondering what the fuss was about. Then he leaped up and floated across the room and out the window.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Good Girl!”

  “I suppose you two will be off and running this morning,” Mr. Tracy said at breakfast. “Has it been a long week?”

  “Sort of,” Martin said. Until last night it had seemed like the longest week of his life. Now it didn’t matter. Now he knew the sheepdog could never join their family.
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  “What do you say, Peter?” their father asked curiously.

  “Nothing.” Peter didn’t look up. He made a hole in the middle of his oatmeal and watched it fill with milk.

  Mr. Tracy leaned over and gave Rosie a pat. “Couple of grumps we have here this morning,” he said. “You keep an eye on them today, Rosie. Don’t let them get lost.”

  “Are you coming home for lunch, or do you want to take some sandwiches with you?” their mother asked.

  “Sandwiches,” Martin said. He caught his father’s eye and added, “Please.” For the first time since they’d moved there, he was eager to get away from Popcorn Hill for a while.

  Without even discussing it, the boys headed down the road in front of the cabin and away from the orchard. Rosie romped around them, chasing butterflies and sassing the squirrels that chattered in the trees.

  “She’s silly,” Peter said. He kicked a stone into the brush at the side of the road.

  “She’s happy,” Martin said. But Rosie’s cheerful mood was getting on his nerves. In spite of the shining day, all he could think about was ghosts. Now there were two of them haunting Popcorn Hill, and one of them was the dog he and Peter had dreamed of owning.

  “Want to go to the creek?” Martin asked.

  Peter shrugged. “Okay. I guess.”

  By the time they reached the creek, they were tired and hot. The water was only about a foot deep, but it ran swiftly over the rocky bottom, making a cool plish-plash. The boys sat on the bank and took off their sneakers. Rosie barked at the ripples.

  “She’s never seen a creek before,” Martin said. “Wonder what she thinks it’s for.”

  A moment later Rosie showed them she knew. With a happy bark she leaped into the middle of the stream. Back and forth she splashed, sometimes jumping, sometimes swimming. When she spotted a big stone halfway across, she scrambled up onto it and barked at the boys.

  “She looks funny,” Peter said, almost smiling. Rosie’s coat was plastered to her thin body, and her feathery tail whipped the air like a wet rope.