"On account of Mrs. Carter saying how there's no such thing as ghosts."

"Mrs. Carter, your teacher?"

He nodded. "She read us about the Headless Horseman so that's how ghosts came up."

"When was that?" Jeff asked.

"Wednesday."

"This Wednesday?"

He nodded. "So Mrs. Carter, she said there's no such thing as ghosts."

"So naturally," Mandy said, "you corrected her."

"Well, sure. She was wrong. Only then she said I was wrong, and how ghosts are nothing but fragments of the imagination, I said they're as real as she is, and then everyone laughed at me."

"Can't imagine that," Phyllis said.

At the foot of the long driveway, they walked through a glow of light and stepped into the middle of the road. This close to the dead-end, there was little need to worry about traffic.

The kids started across the road, heading toward the house at the far corner.

"Hang on," Jeff said. "Don't go traipsing off just yet."

They came back to him.

"So what possessed you to phone those two women?" he asked his son.

"Shannon and Laura," Bret said.

"Right. Them."

"It was 'cause they live in a haunted house." Phyllis snorted.

Bret glanced at her. He didn't look angry, though. He simply looked as if he knew more than she did, but chose not to hold it against her.

"What makes you think their house is haunted?" Mandy asked.

"You told me so."

Mandy's mouth fell open. "Huh?"

"Don't you remember? We came trick or treating and nobody was living in the house..."

"Gosh, that was years ago."

"I was four."

"Jeez!"

"And you said nobody lives in there 'cause of the ghosts."

"Huh?"

"You did. You said how old Mr. Witherspoon chopped his wife up into little pieces and ate her..."

"Mandy?" Jeff asked.

She grimaced at him. "Well, he did."

"And you had to tell Bret about it when he was four years old?"

"Neat play," Phyllis told her.

"Butt out," Mandy said.

Bret spoke up again. "And then how Mr. Witherspoon hung himself..."

"Hanged," Jeff corrected him.

"Mandy, she told me they were both haunting the house with their ghosts, and that's how come nobody wanted to live there. But then somebody moved in. Shannon and Laura. We saw them last year and the year before and I liked them. So I phoned them up to see if they'd seen the ghosts."

Smiling, Jeff shook his head. "You actually... interviewed them?"

"Well, we talked. They were real nice."

"How'd you get their number?" Mandy asked.

"The operator."

"You 're the operator," Phyllis said.

"So had they seen any ghosts?" Mandy asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Is that a yes?" Jeff asked.

"Uh-huh."

"They got a long-necked ghost. That's Mr. Witherspoon. And they got a ghost in pieces. That's Mrs. Witherspoon. They see Mr. Witherspoon walking around in the middle of the night sometimes and his neck is like about a foot long 'cause that's what happens when you get... hanged."

"Sure," Phyllis said.

"Laura said he was really scary at first, only later on they got use to him. Then he wasn't so scary anymore. But Mrs. Witherspoon, pieces of her keep showing up. Like in Shannon's cornflakes? And sometimes when Laura's making breakfast, the scrambled eggs suddenly get all bloody."

Mandy shook her head. "They said that?"

"Yes they did."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

"No hoping to die," Jeff threw in quickly.

"Anyway, they told me all sorts of neat stuff. Like how a burglar broke in once and almost got hanged by Mr. Witherspoon."

"By his ghost?" Mandy asked.

"Yeah!"

"Oh, sure," said Phyllis.

"So anyway I asked them if they'd come to school and talk to Mrs. Carter's class about it."

"They must've gone over big." Mandy said.

"Well, Laura wanted to do it. She makes paintings of ghosts and graves and stuff. She was gonna bring them in this week, only Mrs. Carter said no."

"What a stool," Mandy said, frowning.

Jeff tried not to smile. "Be nice."

"Well, she is. You know? I know there's no such thing as ghosts, but they're neat."

"Mrs. Carter was probably just afraid of getting into trouble," Jeff explained. "Teachers can't do much of anything these days without someone causing a stink."

"She's the one who stinks," Bret said.

"A cowardly stool," Mandy added.

Phyllis laughed.

"Heck," Mandy said, "I'd like to see those paintings."

"Me, too," Phyllis said.

"You oughta hear her ghost stories," Bret added.

In a suddenly chipper voice, Phyllis said, "Why don't we go back? Maybe she'll open the door this time."

Jeff shook his head. "I don't think so. We were just there. If they wanted company, they would've opened the door then. I don't think we should bother them again. Let's just keep going."

"But she might let us look at her paintings," Mandy said.

"Maybe we'll get to see the ghosts," said Bret.

Though they both sounded hopeful, Jeff shook his head. "Sorry. Maybe some other time."

"Oh, sure," Phyllis said. "Some overtime. That's a good one."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are." It was a woman's teasing, sing-song voice.

But not Laura's voice.

Not Shannon's.

It sounded very much like the voice of the woman who had picked up the phone a few minutes ago. And it sounded as if she might already be at the top of the stairs.

Was it the blonde with the sword or the brunette with the hatchet?

Though only one had just spoken, Hunter supposed that both might've come looking for him. Maybe the guy, too. Why not all three? No reason for any of them to stay downstairs, not if they'd killed Laura and Shannon.

And now they'll kill me.

If they can find me.

In search of a hiding place, Hunter had hurried past Shannon's bedroom, followed the hallway to the end of the stairwell railing, then cut across and entered a room that was utterly dark. Halting just inside, he 'd flicked on a light.

Not a bedroom. A studio?

Paintings everywhere. A couple on easels, many hanging on walls, others leaning against scattered furniture, and dozens propped against walls.

Graves, ghosts, dead people...

Leaning against a far comer of the room was a framed painting about four feet high. A happy-looking kid sitting on top of a tombstone, eating an ice cream cone.

After a glance at it, Hunter had switched off the light and made his way toward it in the darkness. He'd walked slowly, feeling his way, careful not to bump into easels or trip on artwork or furniture.

Finding the painting, he'd tilted it forward, stepped into the triangle of space behind it, then squatted down and eased it back into place.

"Where arrrrre you?" the woman called.

Go away!

She won't go away, Hunter knew. She'll find me and kill me.

"Come out, come out."