Ghost Attack

by David Lubar

  “Was that … ?” Sarah said.

  “Did we really … ?” I said.

  “It couldn’t be … ” Sarah said.

  “It had to be … ” I said.

  “Maybe we didn’t see what we thought we saw,” Sarah said.

  “There’s a lot of stuff crammed in the attic,” I said. “Maybe it was a mannequin or a reflection in a mirror.”

  “Or a painting,” Sarah said.

  I knew neither of us sounded very convincing. But a tiny part of my brain was already doubting I’d really seen a ghost.

  “We need to go back, to make sure,” Sarah said.

  “No way,” I said. I checked my arms. The blotches had faded away. That was weird.

  “Come on. We’ll go up. We’ll turn on all the lights. We’ll look all around,” she said. “Maybe we’ll figure out what we really saw. Then we can stop worrying.”

  “Okay.” I definitely didn’t want to go back to the attic. But if she was brave enough to suggest we go do it, I had to be brave enough to go along with her. And she was right—if we found an explanation for what we’d seen, we could relax. It would be terrible to spend the week wondering what I’d run into every time I turned a corner or walked through a doorway.

  We went up the steps. I expected my arms to itch again, but they didn’t. We found the switches and turned on both ceiling lights. And we each grabbed a flashlight from a box marked EMERGENCY SUPPLIES. We checked every inch of the attic. There was nothing that could be mistaken for a ghost, even if your eyes were dusted with vanishing powder.

  “Maybe it was real,” Sarah said. “But why isn’t it still here?”

  “I think we scared it off,” I said.

  “You can’t scare a ghost,” she said.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  She opened her mouth. And then she shut it.

  “We don’t know anything about ghosts,” I said.

  “I guess you’re right.”

  I backed away from the attic. “Let’s go outside.” I wanted to be in a place where a ghost couldn’t sneak up on us.

  “Were you two wrestling?” Grandma asked as we walked past her on our way through the kitchen.

  “We were playing ghost tag,” I said.

  When we got outside, we walked across the field in back toward the little creek that cuts through the property. My arms started to itch a bit more.

  I thought about how they’d itched when I first went into the bedroom and into the attic. And later, they didn’t itch, even when I went back to the same spot. An idea—a crazy, unbelievable, amazing, astounding, ridiculous idea—trickled into my mind.

  “Sarah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is going to sound totally crazy, so promise you won’t laugh,” I said.

  “I might never laugh again,” she said. “What do you want to tell me?”

  “I think I might be allergic to ghosts,” I said.

  To my relief, Sarah didn’t laugh.

  “I think the ghost might have been in my bedroom when I went there the first time,” I said, “and then it wandered up to the attic when we all went to the bedroom. Maybe it doesn’t like crowds. I think it was giving me the rash.”

  “And you’re not itching at all now?” Sarah asked.

  “I wasn’t,” I said. “Until we got near the middle of the field. I think the itch is getting worse again.”

  As I stared at the small blotches that dotted my skin, Sarah said, “That’s it!”

  “What’s it?” I asked.

  “You’re like a tracker,” she said. “The itch is a signal. If we see where it gets weaker or stronger, maybe we can find the strongest spot and find the ghost and see if that’s what it really is.”

  At first, I was going to tell her that that was a ridiculous idea, but after I thought about it, I realized she was right. That still left one question: “Do we really want to find it?” I asked. I glanced back at the house. It did sort of look creepy and spooky. So did the woods off in the distance, far beyond the creek.

  “It could be something else you’re allergic to that moves around, like a bird or a mouse,” she said. “It would be good to find out for sure.”

  “But if it is a ghost, I don’t want to find it,” I said. “Especially if I’m allergic to it.”

  “Would you rather have it find us?” Sarah asked.

  “I’m not all that thrilled with either of those choices,” I said.

  She put a hand on my back and pushed me toward the creek. “Come on. It will be fun. Like a video game. Hold your arms up where I can see them. Wow, that really is an ugly rash.”

  We crossed the stream at a shallow spot, stepping on rocks so our sneakers wouldn’t get too wet. The rash grew larger and itchier. Sarah’s idea was working. Then after we’d walked a little farther, the rash started to fade. That was good, because I had a hard time keeping myself from scratching it.

  “We’re moving away from the ghost. Try going left,” Sarah said.

  I did. The rash faded more.

  “It has to be to the right,” she said.

  I turned and realized I was facing an old barn. Sure enough, as I walked closer, the rash grew larger and darker. And itchier. Please be a bird, I thought. Please be a bird, please be a bird, please be a bird …

  “He’s in there,” Sarah said when we reached the barn door.

  “No kidding.” My arms were well past tarantula again and on their way to bobcat. I gave both arms a couple small scratches.

  We went inside the barn. It was empty, except for an old tractor and some rusted hand tools. No ghost. I would be really happy to spot a mouse right now. Or anything else I couldn’t see through.

  Sarah pointed to a ladder that led to the hayloft. “We have to check up there.”

  “I guess.” I followed Sarah up the ladder.

  The ghost was there. He seemed even clearer now, though he still wasn’t solid. I could make out the small buttons on his shirt, the larger ones on the vest he wore over it, and the tufts of hair that were trapped by the strap of his visor.

  He drifted toward me.

  I shouted.

  Sarah screamed.

  The ghost fled over to the far wall. And then he paused, as if leaving the shelter of the barn scared him. A moment later, he went right through the wall.

  “Nice going,” Sarah said. “You scared him off.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe ghosts could be scared,” I said.

  “I changed my mind when I saw you scare it,” she said.

  “Me?” I said.

  “Yeah, you,” she said, “with that high-pitched scream of yours.”

  “I didn’t scream,” I said. “I shouted.”

  “You screamed,” she said.

  “No I didn’t. And your scream is a lot louder and higher than mine,” I said.

  “No it isn’t.”

  “Yes it is,” I said.

  “Is not,” she said.

  I was about to reply “Is, too,” when I noticed my rash was gone. Now there was no doubt in my mind—I was definitely allergic to ghosts. Or at least to this ghost. Unfortunately, I knew there was nothing in THE BOX for a ghost allergy. I took a closer look at my arms. They were still a bit blotchy. Maybe the ghost hadn’t gone far away.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “We need to think about this,” Sarah said.

  “But not here,” I said. Even though the ghost was gone, the barn was still dark and kind of creepy.

  “Let’s go to Gramps’s studio,” Sarah said. “I want to check it out, anyhow.”

  We walked to the garage, right next to the house. I watched my arms the whole time, but the faint blotches never changed. There was a room upstairs where Gramps did his drawing. It had all sorts of paintings and sketches on the walls and a suit of armor in one corner.

  I’d just picked up the latest copy of Little Grendella from a bookcase next to Gramps’s drawing table when my arms started to itch.


  The ghost came right through the wall. He moved toward me. A shout rushed from my lungs to my throat.

  A hand clamped over my lips.

  “Mmmmffff!” My cheeks almost exploded as my shout got trapped inside my mouth. But this time, the ghost didn’t flee.

  Instead, he reached out, like we were playing ghost tag—for real. Sarah screamed right in my ear. The ghost didn’t seem to be bothered by that.

  He put his finger on my arm. My skin felt like it was on fire. Sarah clamped her hand harder across my mouth.

  My arms were dark purple now. I was afraid my flesh would fall from my bones. I tried to pull free from Sarah so I could race away and stop the pain.

  “No!” Sarah said. “Wait! Look!”

  She unclamped my mouth and pointed at my arm. Her eyes grew wider in amazement.

  I looked, and my own eyes grew wide. And, naturally, I let out a shout. Or maybe it was a scream.

  Something was written on my left arm, as if part of the rash had been wiped away by the ghost’s finger.

  THISTLE

  I checked my other arm. There was a message on it, too.

  PLEASE HELP

  Both arms were bathed in an itch so fierce it felt like I’d tried to embrace a bonfire. I’d never felt anything even halfway as bad as this. And I’d had some legendary wipeouts on bikes, skates, and scooters.

  I turned toward the stairs. I knew the pain would vanish as soon as I moved away from the ghost. But before I even took a step, the itch had already started to fade.

  I looked back up at the ghost. It was fleeing again. And just like in the barn, it paused by the wall, as if it really didn’t want to leave the garage. But then it leaped through the wall and was gone.

  “You scared it off,” Sarah said. “You really need to learn to control that horrible scream of yours.”

  “It’s NOT a … ” I sighed and let it go. Maybe my shout was a little bit scream-ish. But not a whole lot. “Never mind. At least we have a message.”

  I watched the words disappear as the rash around them grew fainter. But the rash didn’t completely fade. It looked a bit redder and larger than when we’d entered the studio.

  “But what does the message mean?” Sarah asked.

  “It’s about the town,” I said. “I think we need to do something in Thistle’s Falls to help the ghost.”

  “If we want to help the ghost,” Sarah said.

  “We sort of have to,” I said. “Otherwise, it might keep showing up and making me itchy.”

  “So we don’t have to help the ghost,” Sarah said. “I’m not getting itchy.”

  I stared at her. She laughed. “I’m kidding. There’s no way I’d miss out on this.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I wonder what we have to do.”

  “We won’t know that until we figure out what the message means,” Sarah said. “Wait!” she grabbed my arm.

  “Ouch! Let go.”

  She let go. Then she told me her idea. “We don’t need to guess about the message. We can track the ghost down again and ask for more information.”

  “No!” I was absolutely not going to suffer through another round of rash writing. “We’ll go into town and figure this out.”

  “Sure. We’ll try that first.” Sarah looked at her watch. “It’s almost time for dinner. We can go into town tomorrow.”

  As if on cue, we heard a ding-a-ling-a-ling sound from outside. When we left the garage, I saw Gramps on the porch, ringing a triangle.

  “I found it in the kitchen,” he said. “In the old days, they used these to call the farmhands in for supper. There are lots of interesting old things all over the house.”

  “That’s for sure,” I said, letting out a quiet sigh.

  Sarah sniffed the air. “Something smells great.”

  That was sure true, too. Dinner was awesome. Our grandparents wanted to have a special “welcome to our new home” meal to celebrate the move. Grandma had cooked up a pot of her famous tomato soup. Gramps fried up a batch of his handmade pierogis, which are little pockets of pasta stuffed with mashed potatoes. I feel that any dinner where you get pasta and potatoes is a great dinner. There were plenty of vegetables, too. I usually don’t like broccoli, but Grandma had roasted it in the oven and it was delicious.

  In the middle of dinner, my arms started prickling, and I caught a flicker of motion by the doorway that led from the kitchen to the hall. The ghost was there. I looked at Sarah. She saw it. I watched Grandma and Gramps. Neither of them seemed to see it. I guess when you got vanishing powder in your eyes and also got it on something that was already vanished, strange things happened.

  The ghost drifted closer. The itching grew worse. It was time to test Sarah’s theory. I let out a scream.

  The ghost backed off. But he didn’t flee as quickly as before. I think he was getting used to my scream. Grandma and Gramps leaped from their chairs.

  “What’s wrong?” they both asked.

  “I saw a mouse!” I said. I pointed at the floor.

  “If mice make you scream, you’re going to lose your voice this week, and we’re going to lose our hearing,” Grandma said.

  “This is the country,” Gramps said. “You can’t not see mice. They’re everywhere.”

  “Sorry,” I said. I glanced toward the doorway. The ghost was gone. For now. I checked my arms. They were a little blotchy. I didn’t think my grandparents would notice, yet. But if the blotches got much worse, they’d see them for sure. And maybe tell Mom. Even worse—what if they saw the fully formed monster rashes? They would totally panic.

  I tried not to worry about all of this as I finished my food.

  “I can’t believe it,” I whispered to Sarah when we were clearing the table after dinner.

  “About the ghost?” she whispered back.

  “No. About the broccoli. It was great.” I’d even had a second helping. I mean, the ghost was hard to believe, but me liking broccoli was truly amazing.

  After dessert—did I mention there were two kinds of pie?—we played board games until everyone started to get sleepy.

  “Guess I’ll go watch a little television,” Sarah said after we’d put away the games. “Actually, I think I’ll watch a big television.” She flashed me a grin.

  “It’s not hooked up,” Grandma said. “No cable. No satellite. No broadcast. Sorry.”

  It was my turn to flash Sarah a grin. Though I knew, no matter how much she might tease me, if the TV worked, she’d share. She might like to make me suffer a bit, or a lot, but she wasn’t selfish.

  “At least I brought my phone,” she said.

  “No signal for that, either,” Gramps said. “We do have a landline if you want to call your folks later.”

  Sarah and I looked at each other. No TV. No Internet. Where were we?

  Both grandparents pointed to a bookcase. “There’s your entertainment,” Gramps said.

  I went over and studied my choices. There were lots of books about monsters. No thanks. I’d had enough supernatural creatures for one day. There was a thick book about ghosts. Sarah grabbed that.

  “Try this one,” Gramps said, handing me a book called Treasure Island. “I loved that story when I was your age. Still do.”

  “Thanks.” The cover looked pretty cool, with promises of pirates. I took the book upstairs and got ready for bed. Then I started reading.

  Gramps was right. Treasure Island was an exciting story. But after a long car ride, a day spent running around outside, and a belly full of a little too much dinner and a lot too much pie, I was half-asleep before the end of chapter one.

  As I put the book on the desk and turned off the lamp, I felt the last thing I’d want to feel alone, upstairs, in the dark.

  My arms started to itch.

  I didn’t need to turn on my light. The ghost was lit with a soft glow. No. That’s not right. No light spread from him. But I could see him as if the lights were on. I guess the ghost wasn’t the only one who was getting used to things
that frightened him. I was still sort of scared, but I wasn’t terrified.

  He reached out a hand. Was he going to leave another message on my arms?

  “Your messages hurt me. They hurt a lot,” I said, scrunching away from him.

  He paused, but he didn’t back off. Then he started to reach out again.

  “I’m only a kid,” I said. “It’s bedtime. I can’t go running around right now, trying to help you. I’d get stopped by the first adult who saw me. If you want Sarah and me to help, wait until morning. Okay?”

  This time, the ghost backed away. I guess he understood me. Great, I thought as he passed through the wall. Now I’ll never get to sleep.

  But to my surprise, the next thing I knew, it was morning. I checked my arms. The blotches had faded a lot, but they were hard to miss.

  My grandparents let me help make breakfast. I like to cook, and I especially love making French toast. The only tricky part was that I kept having to shift and turn as we moved around the kitchen so they wouldn’t notice my arms. I would have put on a long-sleeve shirt, but I didn’t bring any.

  Right after we started eating, I felt that too-familiar itch. I looked past Sarah, at the bottom of the steps. The ghost was there, moving toward me. The rash started to blossom.

  “I’ll help!” I shouted at it. “I already said I would!”

  Oops.

  Everyone turned toward me. I felt my face flush as I stared down at my plate. Afraid to look up, I searched my mind for a way to explain my outburst.

  “Thanks,” Sarah said to me. “I knew I could count on you.” She turned toward our grandparents. “I need to do research on local ghosts. Our newspaper back home publishes stories kids write about their vacations. I asked Alex for help, and he told me he needed to think about it. I guess he made up his mind.”

  Grandma and Gramps exchanged glances and then shrugged. I was happy Sarah had explained my shout. And I was happy the ghost had backed off.

  “Yeah, it will be fun to go into town,” I said. “Who knows what we’ll discover?”

  So, right after breakfast, Sarah and I got our bikes and pedaled down the road toward Thistle’s Falls. From what I’d seen online before I left home, the main part of town was about five blocks long, filled with shops of all sorts. There were also some businesses on the side streets. I’d planned to visit the ice cream shop, the toy store—which had a lot of board games—and the kite shop. But all of that would have to wait until I solved my itchy problem.