Peeled Read Free

September.
    I’m here to tell you, I paid attention.

Chapter 2

    DATELINE: September 9. Banesville, New York.
    I fumbled for the ringing phone.
    “Hildy.” It was Darrell Jennings. “Look, I know it’s early.”
    It took a minute for my eyes to focus on the alarm clock: 5:23 A.M. “It’s extremely early, Darrell; it’s inappropriately early—”
    “Not when you hear what happened.”
    “What?” I pulled my comforter higher.
    “There was an attempted break-in at the Ludlow house, the guy’s in jail, and there’s another sign.”
    I was sitting up now, fumbling for the light.
    “I want you on this, Hildy. This is a big, emerging story. And need I mention how much
The Core
needs a big, emerging story…?”
    All last year
The Core
had been struggling for advertisers, struggling for readership.
    “You’re the best reporter,” Darrell half cooed.
    I sighed. Flattery has power.
    “The sheriff is at the Ludlow house,” he added. “Neighbors have gathered outside, and the house just made the top-ten list of most haunted places in Upstate New York.”
    “I heard about the list yesterday.” I was looking for my shoes. “How do you know about the break-in?” I asked, and then I remembered. Last week Darrell bought a police radio receiver on closeout, vowing that high school journalism at Banesville High would never be the same.
    “I called Tanisha, Hildy. She’s got her camera and is coming to pick you up.”
    “
When
is she coming?” I demanded.
    “In ten minutes.”
    “I can’t believe this!”
    “Ask tons of questions, Hildy, and be unendingly pushy. You’re great at that.”
    I know.
    A siren in the distance; a hand-scrawled sign.

    It hung from the torn screen door of the old Ludlow place. Dawn was just beginning. A tangerine glow inched across the dark sky. I wrote the message down on my notepad.
    Tanisha, a committed morning person, said, “Are we scared yet?”
    “Nervous, possibly.”
    She studied me. “You got dressed fast.”
    “Right.”
    “Really fast.” She pointed at my shoes. I was wearing one black and one tan sandal.
    I groaned as Tanisha snapped shots of the house. She always looked put together—her jeans fit perfectly, her red shirt slimmed at the waist, her boots weren’t scuffed.
    But a reporter can’t let bad footwear stop her.
    I marched to the rusty front gate.
    Details, I thought. Get the details.
    I wrote,
    garbage inside fence
    dilapidated porch swing creaking
    iron fence rusted, paint peeling, porch missing steps
    clusters of neighbors on street
    Sheriff Metcalf was putting up yellow tape around the fence that read, POLICE LINE — DO NOT CROSS . I walked over to him.
    “Hi, Sheriff.”
    “What are you doing here, Hildy?”
    Not everyone is glad to see you when you’re a reporter. “I’m covering this for
The Core.”
    “Good God,” he muttered.
    “I understand there was a break-in, Sheriff. Could you tell me—”
    “We’ll be issuing a statement.” He looked up and down the street and shouted, “Nothing to see here, folks. We’ve got everything under control.”
    “Were things out of control?” I asked him.
    “We’ll be issuing a statement.”
    I wrote,
“we’ll be issuing a statement” x 2—sheriff crabby.
    “If you ask me,” a man said behind me, “old man Ludlow’s ghost is making his presence known.”
    I turned to him. “Why do you say that, sir?”
    “You got two mysterious deaths that happened here thirty years ago. Everyone figures the old man did it, even though he was never convicted. The ghosts in this place aren’t happy, not one bit.”
    “Don’t forget poor little Sallie Miner,” a woman in a bathrobe added.
    Five years ago, Sallie Miner, a local girl, was riding her bike in front of this house. A tree branch crashed in front of her and hurled her into the street in front of an SUV that couldn’t stop in time. Sallie died three days later. But before she died, she told people what she’d seen when the tree branch