Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER I - Puma Charge!
CHAPTER II - A Midnight Scare
CHAPTER III - An Eerie Trail
CHAPTER IV - The Windowless Cabin
CHAPTER V - A Reluctant Sheriff
CHAPTER VI - Unusual Bait
CHAPTER VII - The Hermit
CHAPTER VIII - Rock Barrage
CHAPTER IX - Setting a Trap
CHAPTER X - Sketch of a Thief
CHAPTER XI - The Tailor’s Clue
CHAPTER XII - Chet’s Ruse
CHAPTER XIII - Worrisome Watching
CHAPTER XIV - Flash Fire
CHAPTER XV - Ragged Footprints
CHAPTER XVI - The First Find
CHAPTER XVII - Help!
CHAPTER XVIII - A Harrowing Rescue
CHAPTER XIX - Prisoners!
CHAPTER XX - Triumphant Sleuths
THE CLUE OF THE SCREECHING OWL
When dogs and men suddenly disappear, and strange screams fill the night, fantastic stories of vengeful ghosts are almost believable. It is these strange happenings which bring Frank and Joe Hardy to the Pocono Mountains to help their father’s friend, a retired police captain, solve the mystery of Black Hollow.
But when the Hardy boys and Chet Morton arrive at Captain Thomas Maguire’s cabin on the edge of the hollow, he has disappeared. In the woods the boys find only a few slim clues: a flashlight bearing the initials T.M., a few scraps of bright plaid cloth, and two empty shotgun shells which had been fired recently.
Frank and Joe are determined to find the captain, despite Chet’s misgivings after a night of weird and terrifying screams. Neighbors of the missing man insist that the blood-curdling cries are those of a legendary witch who stalks Black Hollow seeking vengeance.
Strangely, it is a small puppy that helps the boys disclose a most unusual and surprising set of circumstances, involving a mute boy, an elusive hermit, and a fearless puma trainer.
Readers who relish the chill of suspense and the thrill of adventure will find plenty of both in this exciting story of mystery in the Pocono Mountains.
At that moment two venomous snakes slithered
out of the cave
Copyright © 1990, 1962 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset
Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.
THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.
eISBN : 978-1-101-07654-5
2007 Printing
http://us.penguingroup.com
CHAPTER I
Puma Charge!
“SUMMER vacation!” Chet Morton exclaimed.
“No more school until September.”
The stout, good-natured boy lounged half asleep between Frank and Joe Hardy in the front seat of a powerful yellow convertible. With a soft purr, the car moved swiftly past the carefully tilled fields of the Pennsylvania Dutch farmers.
Dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy was at the wheel. He kept his eyes upon the highway which would lead them to the green bulk of the Pocono Mountains later that sunny June afternoon.
Meanwhile, his blond-haired younger brother Joe said, “There used to be witches around here, Chet. See that sign? It’s to ward them off.”
He pointed to a brightly painted circular design on a huge red barn.
Chet Morton had opened an eye as the car moved past the barn. “What is it?” he asked.
“A hex sign,” Joe told him. “Supposed to keep off lightning and protect the farm against witches.”
“Witches!” The plump boy straightened up, looking worried. “Today?”
“Sure,” Joe Hardy went on teasingly. “If a witch puts a spell on your cow, she won’t give milk. Those circles keep off the curse.”
Nervously Chet looked at the next two barns, at the blue sky above him, and then once all around him.
“Aw, nobody believes in that kind of stuff any more. This is the twentieth century. Stop kidding me, will you, fellows? This is a vacation. All I’m going to do is sleep and eat. Let’s not have any mysteries!”
While their friend settled down and closed his eyes once more, Frank and Joe exchanged knowing grins. As sons of the internationally famous detective, Fenton Hardy, they had many times been drawn into baffling and dangerous mysteries, where their brilliant sleuthing had earned them fine reputations of their own. Easygoing Chet Morton, the Hardys’ best friend, always seemed to become involved.
“Well, Chet,” Frank said, “you may as well know the truth. This isn’t just a camping trip. We have to look up Dad’s old friend, Captain Thomas Maguire. He’s living in a cabin at the edge of Black Hollow, somewhere in those mountains just ahead of us.”
“Captain Maguire?” repeated the stout boy suspiciously. “What kind of captain is he?”
“A police captain—that is, he was chief of police until five or six years ago. He’s retired now.”
“I knew it!” Chet exploded. “I just knew it! Another mystery! A fellow no sooner gets set to enjoy a nice, quiet vacation than the Hardys drag him into some detective work.
“When the police and the Hardys get together, it spells trouble. Trouble for old Chet especially. All right—I may as well hear the worst. What is it this time?”
“Well,” Frank answered, “there have been some funny goings-on around Black Hollow. Captain Maguire wrote Dad. He didn’t give any details, but asked him to come up and investigate.”
“Unfortunately, Dad couldn’t make it,” Joe took up the story. “He’s been working with the New Jersey State Police—not very far from here, in fact—on a new hijacking racket. Among other things, somebody has been stealing shipments of instruments that go into the nose cones of guided missiles. They’re taken while being trucked to the assembly station.”
“That’s important, all right,” Chet agreed.
“Dad heard about our camping trip and suggested we take it near Captain Maguire’s cabin,” Frank finished.
“Well, Chet—shall we turn back?” Joe needled. He and Frank knew that underneath his complaints, their friend had plenty of courage—and even more curiosity.
“I suppose we can’t call it off now,” Chet mumbled. “All our food would go to waste!”
It was midafternoon when the prosperous valley of the Pennsylvania Dutch, lush with the tender green of young crops, had been left behind. The road climbed and curved up a heavily wooded hill. Now and then the thick foliage on either side was broken by a smooth gray rock face.
“We’re really in the mountains,” Joe noted.
After topping a ridge, the road descended and then straightened out as it approached the next line of hills. Frank, looking ahead, could see the buildings of a town.
Suddenly the stillness was broken by the raucous sound of music and voices blaring over a loud-speaker. They strained their eyes to see where it came from.
“I see it!” Chet shouted.
Two Ferris wheels and a number of tents came into view. A bright, gay banner on top of one read:
KLATCH’S CARNIVAL
“Whoops!” Chet shouted eagerly. “Let’s go in, fellows. I can smell the popcorn from here!”
Laughing, Frank parked the convertible, and the three boys entered the midway. Now the din of the loud-speakers was overwhelming. Crowds of people moved in both directions. The rides—the “Whip,” the “Octopus,” and several others whirled madly. The people on them screamed shrilly. Barkers were shouting from side-show platforms.
Chet immedi
ately bought himself a carton of popcorn, a bag of peanuts, and a frothy cloud of pink cotton candy.
“Say, how about this?” Joe asked. He pointed to a sign:
COLONEL BILL THUNDER
Fearless Animal Trainer
The roar of some wild animal, coming from within the tent, was enough to convince the boys of the colonel’s courage. In a moment Frank, Joe, and Chet had entered and taken seats.
In the center of a large circular cage stood a man dressed in a white shirt, white riding breeches, and shining black boots. His thick, dark hair, mustache, heavy eyebrows, piercing eyes, and the black whip that he held coiled in one hand gave him a look of authority. He needed it, for seated on small stools at equal distances around the cage were four huge cats.
Two were tawny, two black. All four glared at the man, their long tails flicking nervously.
“Pumas,” Joe whispered to his companions. “Big ones, too.”
The black whip snapped. The trainer’s body rotated as he forced each powerful animal, in turn, to leave its stool and then mount it again.
“This fellow’s really good,” Frank declared.
“Notice how his back is fully exposed to one of the cats at all times.”
But even as Frank spoke, the snarling black animal upon which the trainer had just turned his back gathered itself and sprang!
“He’ll be killed!” shrieked Chet, dropping popcorn, peanuts, and cotton candy to the ground.
Warned by the boy’s shout, Colonel Thunder whirled to face the charging beast. With a series of lightninglike whip snaps he drove the snarling cat back to its place.
“Terrific!” declared Chet to a man beside him. “He’s good all right,” the stranger agreed. “Had another cat that almost got him, though—big yellow devil. Had to get rid of him finally.”
Spellbound, the boys watched the rest of Colonel Thunder’s act, and then continued their journey.
At the end of the afternoon, two hours later, the yellow convertible climbed slowly up a steep dirt road with high, dark woods on either side.
“I think we’re going in the right direction, Frank said. ”But we’d better check. There’s a house.”
The bright-yellow car came to a stop before a weather-beaten clapboard building with a wooden picket fence in front. The place was silent.
“Seems deserted,” Joe commented, looking around.
As the three approached the gate, however, Frank suddenly pointed to a path among the trees at the side of the house.
“Here’s somebody!”
A thin, worried-looking woman emerged from the woods dragging a boy about seven years old by the hand. He was crying vigorously. When she saw the Hardys and Chet, she called out, “Hello there! I’m Mrs. Thompson. Can I help you?”
“Yes, thank you,” Frank answered. “Is this Rim Road? We’re looking for Captain Maguire’s place.”
The woman, who wore a faded but neat cotton dress, came closer and looked intently into the boys’ faces.
“Maguire? Straight up to the top of the road. He lives in the last house—right on the edge of Black Hollow.” As she answered, Mrs. Thompson gave the boys another searching look.
Chet had turned toward the child, who was still weeping. “Poor boy,” he said sympathetically. “Mind if I give him a candy bar, Mrs. Thompson?”
“Go ahead. Won’t do any good, though. His dog disappeared last night, and nothing anybody can do is goin’ to make him feel any better.”
“That’s a shame,” said Chet. “Maybe if we keep an eye out, we’ll see it, Mrs. Thompson. What kind of dog?”
“Little brown critter,” she answered. “He’s got one white ear, and a collar, and a tag with his name, Skippy, on it.”
“We’ll look for him.” As the boys turned to go, they heard the woman say sternly, “Bobby, you stop a-wailin’ and get on in the house, now.” Then she called to the boys:
“Wait!”
Surprised, the three turned back. Mrs. Thompson came to the gate and began to speak in a low, intense voice.
“You seem like such nice boys I just had to tell you something. Don’t go near Black Hollow!”
“But why not, Mrs. Thompson?” asked Frank.
“It’s haunted—by the hex. Witch, I s’pose you’d call her. Two hundred years ago there was a pretty young woman around here that got to be a hex. She put spells on the dogs, and they disappeared and died. Then, by and by, people started to sicken and die, too.”
“But couldn’t they do anything about her?” asked Chet with unbelieving eyes.
“They tried to. They caught her and thought she’d stop castin’ her spells. But she just stayed scornful and silent. One day she got away and vanished down in the hollow. But at night she used to come up and roam around, and dry up cows, and kill dogs, and at dawn folks would see her going back down into the hollow. Then one night came an awful, terrible screaming from the hollow. In the morning, when some brave men went down, there was a great scorched hole in the earth!”
“W-w-what happened?” asked Chet.
“Folks figured that Satan, the devil himself, came and got the witch and dragged her down to the center of the earth!
“Then,” added the woman, emphasizing her words, “a hundred years later, dogs started disappearin’ again. They heard the hex screamin’ at night in the hollow. Soon it all stopped again. But, now listen, boys. Another hundred years have gone by. The dogs are disappearin’ again. And at night we hear the witch screamin’ in Black Hollow!”
Peering at the trio closely, the woman saw that Chet Morton looked white. But in the eyes of Frank and Joe Hardy there was only a twinkle of amusement and disbelief.
Abruptly the woman shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” With that, she turned and went into the house.
CHAPTER II
A Midnight Scare
“BOY, that woman gave me the creeps.” Chet shuddered, as the car ground up the hill in low gear.
“Relax,” Joe told him. “You said yourself that people don’t believe in that hex stuff any more.”
“I don’t know—around here they might,” Chet continued in a worried voice. “All these thick woods, and hardly any houses. Do you suppose she’s just making it up? After all, somebody—or something—must have taken Bobby’s dog!”
Joe chuckled. “That’s how these stories get started,” he explained unconcernedly. “Something mysterious happens, and instead of looking for a sensible explanation, superstitious people think of spells and witches right away.”
“I don’t know,” Frank put in thoughtfully.
“There’s the screaming, Joe. Mrs. Thompson wouldn’t have told us about that if she hadn’t heard it herself.”
A freshly painted R. F. D. mailbox, with the name T. MAGUIRE carefully printed on it, was the first thing the boys saw when they reached the top of the hill.
Beyond was a small grassy clearing. Both sides were bordered by woods made up of thickly leaved hardwoods and darker hemlock and spruce trees. A neat rustic cabin, built of stripped logs chinked with white mortar, stood to their right. The polished headlights and radiator of an old-model automobile peeped from behind the little building.
“That’s Captain Maguire’s car, all right.” Joe laughed. “It’s fifteen years old, but he keeps it looking like new—just the way I saw it last.”
The Hardys and Chet found, to their astonishment, that just beyond the rear of the house the ground dropped off into space. The lush grass gave way to smooth gray rock that fell steeply and disappeared in the tangled woods of a deep, cup-shaped valley below. For miles, the lip of rock curved around in a huge circle like the rim of a great bowl, broken here and there by a strip of green indicating a trail into the valley.
“This must be Black Hollow,” Frank said quietly. “Funny, even the trees down there look black, though it’s still daylight.”
“Well, what do you say we get settled?” Joe suggested cheerfully. “Strange that Captain Maguire
hasn’t come out to meet us. Oh, Captain Maguire!” he shouted toward the cabin. “It’s Frank and Joe Hardy! We’ve arrived!”
But the trim little house and the woods around it remained silent. Since they had written the captain to say they were coming, the boys were surprised. They mounted the porch and knocked at the cabin door.
“No answer,” said Joe, perplexed. “May as well try the door.”
It was unlocked, so the visitors entered. They found themselves in a small, but neat and comfortable room, with a narrow bunk on one side. There was no sign of the captain. Chet Morton, venturing into the little kitchen beyond, suddenly called out.
“Whoops! A fellow could go swimming in here!”
Frank and Joe raced in. Their friend was standing in a large pool of water on the floor. Otherwise, the kitchen was spick and span: the pots on the walls gleamed; the curtains were spotless. Everything was in its proper place.
Joe could not help chuckling. “Water on the floor? That’s surprising. Captain Maguire’s a tidier housekeeper than some women.”
“Well, there’s a leak in his plumbing somewhere,” Chet complained ruefully. “My brand-new moccasins will be soaked! And this water’s cold.”
“That’s because it’s ice water, Chet.” Frank stooped down before an old-fashioned icebox in one corner. He drew from underneath it a basin so full that the water was constantly overflowing to add to the pool on the floor.
Chet grinned. “An old-time refrigerator,” Frank explained briefly. “The cake of ice inside melts, and the water has to go some place. Well, I’d drill a hole through the floor.”
Joe frowned. “I wonder why Captain Maguire didn’t empty this!” He picked up the basin and poured the water in the sink.
Frank nodded. “It’s strange. The captain hates a mess. He’d be sure to come back and empty the icebox’s pan—unless something unexpected detained him!”
“The bunk’s unmade, too,” Joe observed thoughtfully. “That’s not like him, either.”
The Clue of the Screeching Owl Page 1
