The House of Dies Drear Read Free Page B

haunted?” Thomas had asked. “Did you hear the noises and see the flashing lights?”
    “I thought I told you to stay out of my study!” his father had fumed. “I didn’t give you permission to read that report. Besides, there are no such things as haunts.”
    “But is it true no one has lived in the house for more than three months in the last hundred years?” Thomas had asked.
    “It’s true,” his father had to admit. “The house hasn’t been lived in for very long at any time.”
    “Well, if the house isn’t haunted,” Thomas said, “who or what was it caused people to run away? And why would two slave ghosts stay in that house with the ghost of the man they had murdered!”
    Thomas’ father had become furious. His voice had been quiet, but filled with rage. “People are so full of superstition, they aren’t able to see the truth when it practically stares them in the face!” he had said. “Quit talking about ghosts. Don’t ask so many fool questions. All old houses have ghost legends, and they are all poppycock!” He had retreated to his study, slamming the door behind him.
    Mr. Small made a second trip to Ohio, still not sure if he would rent the house of Dies Drear. This time he was gone five days. When he returned, he had the lease in his hand. He was in high spirits. He hoped someday to buy the house, he told Thomas and Mrs. Small. At last he made them a full account of his trip, the house and all its history.
    “No,” whispered Thomas. No, his father hadn’t mentioned the legend.
    Now why didn’t he tell the legend to Mama? he wondered. Or does she know about it, and he didn’t mention it in front of me, hoping I’d forget about it?
    Thomas stared out at the steady rain and the mountains, which were no longer familiar. Again he smiled to himself. His father had to be hiding something.
    There’s something in the legend I’ve missed, Thomas told himself. At least there’s something more to the story of the two slaves killed by bounty hunters, and Dies Drear’s murder. Papa meant to hide it from me by not letting me get at that report. But I know I remember most of what there was in it. It must be that whatever Papa means to hide from me isn’t written down. It’s something you would have to put together from what is written down. When he got mad at me and slammed the door, I must have been close to finding out. I just didn’t ask the right question.
    “Papa,” Thomas said. “Papa.” He propped his brothers one against the other behind him as he once again leaned forward on the front seat. “Tell again about Mr. Pluto, Papa,” he said.
    Thomas was interrupted by Mrs. Small awaking and stretching. “Where are we now?” she asked.
    “Getting closer,” Mr. Small said. “Outside of Bluefield.”
    “You mean Bluefield, West Virginia?” Thomas asked. “How many more hours until we reach the Ohio River?”
    “Just be patient,” Mr. Small told him. “You’ll see the Ohio River in about three hours if we don’t stop too long.”
    In Bluefield they stopped twenty-five minutes for lunch. Once they were on their way again, Thomas leaned forward to talk to his father.
    “We were going to talk about Mr. Pluto,” he said.
    “Now, Thomas, he’s told you enough about him,” said his mother.
    Mrs. Small didn’t like hearing about Mr. Pluto. No matter how often Thomas and his father kidded her, she really didn’t like hearing about anything that had to do with the house of Dies Drear.
    She won’t like it, Thomas thought. She hasn’t seen it, but she doesn’t like it at all.
    “I want to be sure I know what Mr. Pluto looks like before I run into him,” Thomas said. He had tried making up a picture of Mr. Pluto from what his father had told him. But that was hard; never had Thomas heard about anyone quite like Pluto.
    Thomas’ shoulders jerked nervously; he cocked his head to one side as he did always when he was about to listen hard. “Please, Papa,” he said, “tell