The Ghost of Ernie P. Read Free Page A

had almost reached the class when he saw the letters imprinted on the ball: T S P.
    He skidded to a stop. T S P. Thomason Sports Products. He’d seen that a million times before. It didn’t mean a thing. He knew it didn’t. So why was he shaking? What was the roaring in his ears?
    â€œKeppel!” The coach charged across the gym. “What’s wrong—you sick or something?”
    The ball slipped from Jeff’s hands. “I guess I don’t feel so good,” he admitted. His voice shook.
    â€œYou don’t look so good either,” the coach told him. “Sort of greenish.” Then he nodded, as if he’d just figured something out. “You’re upset about your buddy Barber,” he said. “It’s tough to lose a pal, right?” He rested a hand on Jeff’s shoulder and turned him toward the door to the locker room. “You go on home,” he said. “Take it easy for the rest of the day.”
    Jeff almost ran out of the gym. He knew his classmates were watching curiously, and by tomorrow morning everybody in Lakeview School would have heard that Jeff Keppel went home sick because he was mourning his friend Ernie Barber. Well, it didn’t matter what they thought. He just wanted to get away. There had to be someplace where the Top Secret Project couldn’t follow him.
    The house was quiet when he let himself in, and he remembered that today was his mother’s golf day at the club. She wouldn’t be home for another hour. Jeff stood in the front hall, listening. He hated to admit it, but he was afraid to be alone in the house. Ernie’s ghost could be lurking around any corner. Just the thought of it made him want to start running and never stop.
    Walking on tiptoe, looking over his shoulder at every other step, he went out to the kitchen. Maybe a nice, ordinary peanut-butter sandwich would help. He could take it out to the backyard and wait for his mother to come home. Later, he’d try to talk her into going to a nice, ordinary fast-food restaurant for supper.
    He had made the sandwich and was just pouring a glass of milk when he saw the note at the end of the counter.
    Jeff, dear , it said, t s p .
    It was in his mother’s nice, ordinary handwriting.

C HAPTER T HREE
    â€œWell, of course I wrote it, Jeffrey.” Mrs. Keppel stood in the kitchen doorway, her hands on her hips. “And I don’t like that accusing tone, young man. I hit four balls into the lagoon today, and I five-putted the ninth hole, and now I’ve come home to a son who acts as if I’m trying to poison him.”
    Jeff blinked. He hadn’t said anything about poison.
    â€œYou—you wrote t s p,” he said. “Why’d you write that?”
    â€œI wrote that because I care about you.” His mother spoke slowly, as if she were talking to a small child. “I wrote that because I wanted you to take a teaspoonful—that’s what tsp means, Jeff—a teaspoonful of vitamin concentrate. It’s in that large bottle that’s holding the note in place.” She shook her head. “You haven’t been yourself, ever since Ernie’s funeral. I thought maybe a dose of my concentrate might help.”
    Jeff looked at the end of the counter. The bottle was there. He just hadn’t noticed it. Seeing those three letters—again—had driven every sensible thought from his head.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t think.”
    â€œYou certainly didn’t.” Mrs. Keppel smiled at him forgivingly. “And now that that’s over, how about going out for hamburgers? I’m in no mood to cook.”
    By the time they returned home, Jeff had begun to relax. The day had been full of frightening coincidences, but maybe that was all they were. Tomorrow was Saturday, and with only two days of school next week, it was almost as if summer vacation had already begun. He decided he’d