The Ghost of Ernie P. Read Free

hoped she was right. But hanging around the house all through the long, dark afternoon didn’t help at all. He dozed off twice, and each time he awoke with a start, convinced that someone had whispered the letters T S P in his ear. That night he lay awake for hours listening to creaks and groans in the old house. Had they always been there? He wasn’t sure.
    During the night the clouds blew away, and in the morning the sun was shining. Jeff dressed and went outside. The front lawn glittered with dew, and a squirrel scolded him from the maple tree at the curb. Everything looked freshly washed, wonderfully normal. The craziness was over, he told himself. Yesterday and last night had been part of a bad dream.
    He bent down and picked up the Treverton Journal that lay rolled up at his feet. A headline leaped at him:
    T S P IN SERIOUS TROUBLE
    Jeff dropped the paper as if it had burned his fingers. Then he scooped it up again and dashed back into the house to read the front-page article. T S P referred to the Treverton Sanitation Plant.
    Worse moments lay ahead. Art Patterson was standing at the side door of the school when Jeff finished locking his bicycle and headed up the walk. Jeff yelled to him, eager to make up after yesterday’s testy telephone conversation. At first Art didn’t answer, but then he turned around, and Jeff saw, to his relief, that there was a grin on his narrow, brown face.
    â€œAbout time you got here,” Art teased.
    Jeff stared at him. His friend was wearing a new purple sweatshirt. There was a picture of a meteor streaking across the front, and above that appeared three letters. They were T S P .
    â€œWhere’d you get the shirt?” The words came out in a kind of squawk.
    Art’s smile faded. “Birthday present,” he said. “Why?”
    â€œWhat does—what does T S P stand for?” Jeff could hardly force himself to say the letters out loud.
    â€œThe Space Patrol,” Art said coolly. “Any more questions?”
    Jeff gulped. “I just think it’s dumb, that’s all,” he said. “Why do you want to wear a thing like that?”
    He knew he was being insulting, but he couldn’t help it. Seeing Art with T S P on his shirtfront made Jeff feel as if the whole world were determined to frighten him to death.
    Art shoved his fists into his pockets. “Man, you are sick! ” he snapped, and he stalked away.
    Jeff wanted to go after him, but he didn’t. What could he say?
    The last days of the semester usually went fast, but not this time. Jeff moved dazedly from one class to another. When his friends said Hi, he nodded, eyes down, and kept moving, afraid that he might see someone else with a T S P shirt. He opened his books cautiously, expecting T S P to pop up on every page.
    By the time he reached the gym for his last class he was exhausted. But here, at least, there were no books, and everyone wore the same dark blue shorts and lighter blue top. He could relax.
    â€œHey, Keppel,” Coach Peretti shouted, “go get a basketball.”
    Jeff nodded and headed for the storage closet at the far end of the gym. He opened the door and flicked the light switch. Nothing happened.
    Uneasiness gripped him. “The light’s burned out in here,” he shouted over his shoulder.
    â€œSo?” The coach sounded impatient. “You need a road map, Keppel? The balls are in back on the left, same as always. Step on it!”
    Jeff opened the door as far as it would go. The closet extended to his right, a sort of long, narrow cave lined with shelves of sports equipment. He could see almost to the back. Move , he told himself, aware that the class was waiting, and probably watching. Step on it, Keppel .
    He plunged into the shadows, stumbled over a hockey stick, caught himself on a shelf, grabbed a basketball, and bounded back to the door. Made it , he thought triumphantly and started dribbling across the floor.
    He