Read the First Chapter

The Players.

Squid Flower Pants, leader of the gang
Finch, Squid's best friend
Wags, Squid's friend
Swags, Squid's friend
Vivian (otherwise known as Amanda, the Southern Belle), Squid's sister
Scarlet, Amanda's best friend
Buck, befriended boy



The First Hint, a Talk with Dad

Finch said she’d be here an hour ago. She’s always a little late, but not this late. I started to get bored and just a tad creeped out sittin’ there on the forest floor waitin’ for her. I wondered if she got scared and chickened out. She’d never left me hangin’ like this before, so I was sure there was a pretty good reason she wasn’t here yet.

The Indian Mounds were just up the path. I thought about goin’ up there myself without her, but we’d agreed to go together. There were all kinds of stories from older kids about those Mounds—rumors of human sacrifices, massacres, bleedin’ rocks, and ghosts. One kid said he heard his dad’s friend say he’d heard a story about how the trees that grew on the Mounds were part-alive—like sleepin’ giants that woke whenever somebody disrupted their peace, and then they’d yank up their roots from the ground and walk for real—they’d chase you all the way to Zanesville, and that was if they didn’t catch you. Finch heard some of the same stories as I did and I’m not sayin’ I’m any braver than her, but let’s just say she has more flight than fight in her. Thinkin’ of those trees did make me awful curious. I had my slingshot in my backpack—so even if the trees did come after me I’d have a halfway decent chance of fendin’ ’em off till I got home, and then dad’d probably saw ’em down with his chainsaw. But I sort of felt bad about the possibility of havin’ all that fun and hoardin’ it to myself. Just about every bit of high adventure I’ve ever had has been with Finch by my side. Naw, I figured I better wait for her. It’d be like goin’ to the movies by yourself, and who the heck would wanna do that?

I was halfway between the old rickety bridge over Raccoon Creek and the Indian Mounds, and so I decided to start walkin’ back. I went along the path there that parallels the canal and didn’t really think about hoppin’ over to see it, but I figured why not since I was in the neighborhood, so to speak, and I cut across on the skinny path that was barely more than a deer trail. There was nobody there at the old lock, and if there was I’d have been surprised. I stood at the lock there with my bare feet peekin’ over the mossy edge lookin’ down into its murky depths, and I can’t really say what I was lookin’ for or at, just as I usually can’t, but all the damp greenness sure was pretty, and I did enjoy the coolness waftin’ up to bathe my sun-fried and leathery skin, and there was a pleasant scent ridin’ that coolness—maybe mint, maybe spawnin’ ferns, or maybe just mud alive with tadpoles, newts, and pale dead worms. I decided to sit down for a while and see if Finch came by. She wouldn’t have come by right there along the canal itself, but along the main path where I’d cut off from. Still, she isn’t exactly a naturally quiet walker, so there was no chance I’d miss her sittin’ on the cold stone edge of the lock.

Well, wouldn’t you know it but I laid my head back and boy did that spongy moss feel good. In fact, it felt about as good as anything I’d ever felt in my whole entire life. I don’t think a down pillow stuffed with marshmallows would’ve felt as good. I closed my eyes and my head seemed to be spinnin’ and swirlin’ down a drain at the same time and before I knew it I was sound asleep, snorin’ like dad on Sunday mornin’. When I woke up I knew a fair amount of time’d passed by cuz the sun was shinin’ down into the woods at a different angle than before. I sat up scratchin’ my head allowin’ my brain to unfizz like a just-opened can of pop. I peered over the edge of the lock again and the urge to jump off sure was powerful—so powerful it scared me and I had to back away from it. I don’t know why I always get that funny urge to jump off places—I don’t even like heights.

I figured I’d head back before I couldn’t control myself, but when I started walkin’ back on the path I noticed this trail of popcorn. It sure did seem funny to see it out in the middle of nowhere—especially seein’ as how I didn’t notice it before on the walk out. The really odd thing was, it started right where I was and went towards the Indian Mounds—but there was nothin’ goin’ towards the way back home. I’m sure you can appreciate the temptation and how it was too much to pass by, and so like any red-blooded American vagabond-wannabe I started followin’ the popcorn. It was mighty tasty too—slathered in hot butter with just a dab of salt—sort of like dad’s when he makes it for us Saturday nights, only a little staler. Through the muddy bottoms, along the edge of the twin ponds with their squeakin’ door bull frogs and sunbathin’ turtles, and up the gradual hillcrest that flattened out to the clearin’ there full of new daisies and dandelions—I followed that trail till I came to the tunnel.

Trains used to pass through here years ago, so the old people say, and they cut a truly spectacular tunnel right through the gut of the second hill. It’s cold and dark and wet and just filled with bats and who knows what else. Like the Indian Mounds themselves, I didn’t know if I should venture into the tunnel on my own without Finch. I wouldn’t have considered actually goin’ through it if that trail of popcorn hadn’t vanished into its dark depths like a string of lights into the fog. I don’t know what gave me the courage, but I just kept on marchin’ along till there was hardly any light and the popcorn disappeared. I turned to look back but the light was gone. I couldn’t see a thing.

You can imagine the thoughts racin’ through my head—I truly wanted to scream but I couldn’t, and I didn’t know why. Droppin’ to my hands and knees I tried to sniff for the popcorn figurin’ I could follow it by sense of smell and come out the other end, but no dice—all I could smell was the mud and maybe the dust from coal spilled off trains from a hundred years ago. . . And then I felt somethin’. The best way I can describe it, is it was slimy and furry at the same time. I pulled back my hand—gave a shout—and ran. I plowed right into the side of the tunnel and that was it—I was out cold. But here’s the kicker—it was just a dream, and instead of bein’ out cold, I woke up. There I was still lyin’ at the edge of the lock, buzzards circlin’ high above me like I was their next meal.


It was two miles on the dirt path, then onto County Road 41, which wasn’t a whole lot smoother. The sun was bright and hot and made me sweat. I rode sittin’ up without holdin’ the handlebars so I could get some wind on my face. The cornfields were deep green, about knee high even though it was way before the Fourth of July. Dragonflies swooped and hovered above the fledglin’ corn, as did some swallows. The asphalt bubbled from the heat and made that sticky sound ridin’ over it. Along the roadside, phlox of lavender and white splashed bright against the lush green background of grass risin’ and fallin’ with the breeze. I saw a few deer grazin’ casually back a bit along the edge of some woods. I felt like I wasn’t peddlin’ at all.

When I got to our driveway I stopped and checked for mail. The mailbox is on the blink, as dad says. It’s missin’ a screw on one side so when you pull it open it sort of hangs there like a loose tooth. He says it’s on his list of things to do. Mom says it’s a priority, to which dad just smirks and gives me a wink from behind his wire rim glasses. I stuffed the mail in my backpack and sat on my bike lookin’ at our house in the distance.

Our house is an old Victorian. Mom and dad bought it before I was born—real cheap, dad says. A once in a lifetime opportunity. A tremendous bargain. To which mom always gives a sigh and sad look from her pretty blue eyes. It’s a real butterball of a house, huge, ramblin’ in every direction with tons of rooms. From the outside it looks like it’s in shambles. But that’s only cuz dad hasn’t painted all of it yet. He’s waitin’ for the special lime green paint that’s bein’ shipped in from Brazil. Mom wants to get some white paint from Sears and be done with it, to which dad’ll give her a curious look, like she said some four-letter word or maybe sat on his hat.

I leaned my bike against the side of the house, hopped up on the porch that sinks and creaks when you walk over it, and went inside. I strolled into the kitchen where mom was at the sink washin’ lettuce. She didn’t hear me come in, so I pulled on the string at the back of her apron, playful-like, and I had her goin’ for a while before she caught on. She shooed my hand away without lookin’, like I was some fly, and then turned and smiled and kissed me on the head.

“Hi, honey,” she said. “How was your day?”

“Just dandy,” I said, pickin’ up a banana from the fruit bowl on the table. I didn’t wanna eat it. I just wanted to toss it from one hand to the other.

“Did you meet up with Finch?”

“She left me in the lurch,” I said.

“She didn’t show up?”

I shook my head no. “But I saw a turtle and I had a nice nap by the old lock.”

“That’s nice,” she said half-listenin’ and half-not the way moms do, shakin’ the colander full of lettuce.

“What’s for dinner?” I asked, eyein’ the big cast iron pot on the stove. It smelled good. I was hungrier than a bear in spring-time—I was sure the insides of my stomach were cannibalizin’ themselves.

“Take a guess,” she said.

“Roast beef?”

“Nope.”

“Chicken?”

“Nope.”

“Asparagus casserole with whipped cream on top?”

“Oh, Squid,” she said and flicked me with the hem of her apron.

“Okay, I give up,” I said.

She lifted the lid. Sittin’ in the pot lookin’ at me with a dull gray sneer, if that’s at all possible, was a cow’s tongue. Of all mom’s dishes tongue’s the only thing I absolutely, categorically detest with every fiber of my bein’. It sat there, lifeless, blob-like, its prickly-lookin’ taste buds lookin’ like they were smeared with scum.

“I’m making hash,” she said smilin’ at me, and put the lid back on the pot.

“Yum!” I said, liftin’ my eyes enthusiastically, fightin’ the horror I felt zig-zaggin’ up and down my throat.

“Your dad hasn’t had it in months. It’s his favorite, you know.”

“Yum!” I repeated. It was all I could do to keep from ballin’ my eyes out.

“He’s out in the work shop. Here,” she said. “Will you take this to him?” She handed me a glass of iced tea. I stood starin’ at her, stupefied. I couldn’t get the cow’s tongue outta my head. “Squid. . . Squid. . . Squid,” she kept on repeatin’.

“Huh?” I’d momentarily lost my sense of hearin’ on account of how horrified and depressed I was. I’d have to think of somethin’ awful good to get through the hash dinner.

“The tea. . . Your father. . .”

“Yeah, all right,” I said, snappin’ out of it.

“Will you help me with the potatoes later on, and grind the hash?” she said as I was leavin’ as fast as my feet could carry me—away from the nauseatin’ stench of slow-roastin’ tongue.

“Sure thing, mom!” I called to her, and was out the back door lickety-split.

Amanda, my little sister, was sittin’ under the big maple tree. Her real name is Vivian. Amanda’s this Southern girl who she pretends to be. We visited Charleston, South Carolina last summer and ever since she’s Amanda and dad’s her baby boy.

“Watcha up to?” I asked, sittin’ down beside her on the bench that goes all the way around the tree. She had her dolls lined up in a semi-circle, all of ’em facin’ somethin’ she had in a big plastic Zip-Lock bag.

“Nothin’,” she said. She had a strange, guilt-like expression on her face, like when she has to go to the bathroom.

“Playin’ with your dollies?” I asked. Most of my friends who have little sisters think they’re a pain in the rear. That’s cuz they don’t have a little sister like Amanda. She’s just about the funniest person I’ve ever met, and I’ve met quite a few comedians in my day. One time, she—

But my mind was stopped by the naggin’ question of what the strange ball of fuzz in the Zip-Lock bag was. I went to pick it up, but Amanda stepped in front of me.

“It’s nothin’,” she said.

“Come on—what is it?” I asked, curious as all get out.

I went to step around her but she moved again, right in front of me.

“It’s not anything,” she said weirdly. Now, I know my sister. She’s pretty straight most of the time and so her fibbin’ skills leave a lot to be desired.

“Well, it’s somethin’,” I said. I faked goin’ right, then went left and got around her. I bent down and peered at the bag.

“Squid,” she about squealed like a pig.

I snatched up the bag just before she nabbed it.

“That’s strange,” I said, takin’ a closer look. Best I could tell it was some sort of pillow, or maybe a ball of material she must’ve taken from mom’s sewin’ room. It was all matted and wiry-lookin’ like a bunch of Brillo Pads. But no, it wasn’t that either. I didn’t know what it was. It sure looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Then, it all came together like when you’re lookin’ at an ant down between your legs and you can’t seem to focus on it, but then you look away and look back again and boom—there it is plain as can be. “Vivian!” I screamed, drop-pin’ the glass of iced tea.

“I didn’t do it!” she blurted out like a blubberin’ fool. She backed up lookin’ like she was gonna tear across the county.

Fast as I could I unzipped the bag and pulled out Duke, our three-month-old kitten. Duke, who’s laid back even for a cat, didn’t make a sound. He just sat there on the bench gazin’ up at us wonderin’ what all the fuss was.

“Why’d you put Duke in a plastic bag?” I suppose I yelled at her.

She stammered. Her mouth went all haywire. Duke looked up at her. She looked down at him. I looked at both of ’em.

I shook my head and trudged back inside.

“What’s the matter, honey?” mom asked as I reached in the mud closet for the dustpan and broom.

“There’s a snake out there,” I said. I’m not apt to lie, but I didn’t wanna see my little sister grounded for the rest of the year, especially with summer just startin’.

“A snake?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It wiggled off to the garden. But I dropped the glass of iced tea.”

“Make sure you get all the pieces,” she said.

“I will,” I answered.

Outside, Amanda and Duke were sittin’ beside the dolls happy as clams. I wanted to be mad at her, but I couldn’t. I did fill her in on the potentially tragic consequences of plastic bags and live animals, however.

“You understand?” I said to her. “You understand that you can’t put little animals, you can’t put anything alive in a plastic bag? It’ll kill ’em for sure.”

She didn’t seem like she heard me at all and said, “Squid, did you know that three plus three is six!”

I shook my head, swept up the broken glass, and dragged myself back inside and poured dad another glass of iced tea. I came back out and strode past her, shakin’ my head again, givin’ Duke a weak, apologetic look.

Dad’s work shop is back underneath the trees with low-hangin’ branches wavin’ above the flat roof like broken arms. It’s where he does all his writin’, along with his side jobs of repair work. It’s where we can’t disturb ’em too much, says mom, but where he never complains if we do and in fact always seems glad to see us.

“There you are,” he said as I kicked open the rickety wooden door with my foot and entered his domain. The shop’s a universe of gears, gadgets, and tools—a step back in time—like some old-fashioned carnival fun house.

“Hey, pop,” I said. “I brought you some iced tea.”

“That’s nice of you,” he said holdin’ out his hand without lookin’, and I put the glass of iced tea in it.

“Watcha workin’ on?” I asked ’em, pushin’ my nose toward his work bench. He repairs anything people want ’em to fix. TV’s, dishwashers, computers, chairs, mattresses, hair dryers. You name it, he can fix it. But what he really likes to work on is old antiques. Chairs and tables mostly, but he’ll do the odd couch or lamp. The shop is full of things he ended up buyin’ cuz people didn’t want ’em anymore. Me and Amanda play house amongst all that clutter, much to mom’s distress.

“I’m tryin’ to repair this window,” he said, which should’ve been pretty obvious, since he had a solderin’ iron and some solder sittin’ on this really beautiful stained glass window right there in front of ’em. “It’s from the Presbyterian Church. A couple of the pieces in the middle are broken. . . See?” I bent down for a better look. The glass sure was pretty, all right. Some of it was clear, and some of it had waves in it just like at the ocean. I wondered how in the world you could put waves in a piece of glass.

“Huh,” I pretty much grunted. “How’d they get broken?”

“Oh,” he said in his calm, mellow voice, “I don’t know. Sometimes these things expand and contract. When they do, they’ll often break.”

He’d just begun removin’ the outside pieces of glass so he could get to the broken ones. It’d take ’em all day to fix the window. There were repairmen who could do it faster and cheaper. But whenever somebody wanted somethin’ fixed right, they came to dad.

“Dad,” I said. “You ever go out to the old Indian Mounds?”

“Not in a long time,” he answered.

“But you have been out there?”

“Sure,” he said. He was back on the window, but he paid careful attention to what I was sayin’. He can usually do two things at once. Three things might be a bit of a challenge, but two’s no problem. “But like I said, it’s been a while.”

“Do you believe all the stories they say about ’em?” I asked.
“That depends on which ones you mean,” he said. “I’m sure they’ve changed over the years.”

“It’s just that. . .” But I didn’t know what I wanted to ask ’em. I suppose I wanted ’em to tell me the stories were nothin’ but myths passed down through the years to scare kids like me. I wanted to be able to visit those Indian Mounds without worryin’ about gettin’ hacked by some ghost.

“You mean about ’em bein’ haunted?”

“Yeah,” I said weakly. I didn’t know if I wanted to hear what he was gonna say.

“Oh,” he said, “I’m not so sure about that. When I was your age, we heard that the Mounds dripped real blood, and cried real tears if someone in the world died that day. It was a big thing to spend the night out there. They said if you did, and you survived, you had ice in your veins and maybe were part Indian spirit.”

“Me and Finch were supposed to go out there today,” I said, bitin’ my lip, not knowin’ how he’d react.

“Is that so?” he answered rather calmly. “Did you see any ghosts?”

“We didn’t make it there,” I told ’em. “She left me in the lurch.”

“I see. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “She just never showed. I think she chickened out.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Finch I know,” Dad said. “You should give her a call. I’m sure somethin’ came up.”

“Yeah, I will,” I said. I stood there, strummin’ my fingers along his bench, just waitin’.

Boy, that purple wavy stained glass sure was somethin’. I pushed out my finger and felt it. It looked like a purple sucker and I had the urge to lick it, but that would’ve been embarrassin’ with dad sittin’ right there.

“You wanna ask me somethin’ else, Squid?” he said.

“Like what?”

“You tell me.”

“No, I’m fine,” I said, back to strummin’ my fingers on his bench, givin’ ’em a big watermelon slice smile. I gave up the strummin’ and put my hair in my mouth instead. I stood there starin’ at ’em like a goon.

“There’s nothin’ you wanna ask?”

“Well, since you’re practically pryin’ it outta me,” I said. I spit out the hair ’cuz it was awful hard to talk with it in there. “I was just wonderin’, you know, I mean it just crossed my mind for no apparent reason.”

“Squid,” he said. “Quit beatin’ around that bush—you’re stirrin’ up a lot of dust.”

“Right. Sure. Okay. Well, I was sort of—”

“Squid,” he said.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

He stopped workin’. Dad almost never stops workin’ when he’s talkin’ to you, but he did this time. He put the solderin’ iron down and lifted his head so his big eyes were lookin’ right at me. He sat there without sayin’ anything and it made me uneasy. I didn’t know if he was waitin’ for me to say somethin’, but I sure as heck wasn’t about to.

“I’ll tell you about somethin’ that happened to your mom and me, and you can make whatever you want of it—okay?” he said.

“Sure,” I nodded.

He sat back in his squeaky chair and took a sip from the iced tea. Then he folded his arms and put one leg over the other the way men do.

“We took a trip to Pennsylvania,” he began. “This was before you girls were born. It was around Christmastime. We wanted to spend a few days in the mountains hikin’ through the snow, maybe do a little skiin’. Well, we were stayin’ at this old inn. It was so old George Washington himself once stayed there, or so they said. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but the place looked like he could’ve. We did our skiin’—just had a good old time for a few days. On the last night we went to bed as usual, but for some reason I didn’t lock the door. Funny, but I knew I hadn’t locked the door and I still left it unlocked. I laid there and mom laid there and she went to sleep and then eventually I went to sleep. But then I woke up. Our room was at the end of the hall on the second story of this place. There was a room right across from ours and I knew there was a couple stayin’ there—I’d seen ’em down in the tavern. So, I heard these footsteps. Real heavy sort of footsteps like somebody was walkin’ slow but hard on the wooden floors. The footsteps came right up to our door and stopped. Squid, I was layin’ there just about as petrified as can be—my eyes were glued to the door-knob waitin’ for it to open.”

“Well, did it?” I asked ’em, about half jumpin’ outta my skin.

“No,” he said, “it didn’t. I waited and waited and the door-knob didn’t turn. I stayed up almost the whole night and I never heard whoever was out there walk back down the hall. It’s like they just disappeared.” Dad rubbed his forehead and thought a while. “The next mornin’ mom and I went downstairs to breakfast. We were leavin’ after we ate. I happened to notice the couple whose room was across the hall sittin’ a few tables over. I’d already told mom about the night before and I wanted to see if that couple heard anything. So I went over to the couple and introduced myself. They’d seen us as well and we chatted a while, and then I went ahead and asked ’em if they’d heard anything unusual last night. They said no, but then the woman said she’d had this strange dream. She said she dreamed somebody came into her room and stood there starin’ at her for the longest time. When she said that I about froze for a minute. As we were checkin’ outta the inn I got to talkin’ to the girl there and she told us how the place was haunted, how there was this old colonel who used to own the place and he wandered the grounds at night searchin’ for his bride, who’d died on their weddin’ night. . . Before that night I laughed at people who talked about havin’ such experiences. And I’m not sayin’ I believe what came to our door that night was a ghost. But ever since then I’ve sort of widened my mind to where I’ve accepted the possibility of their existence.”

When dad was done talkin’ I was glad I’d asked ’em, even though the answer he gave didn’t exactly squash the notion of the Indian Mounds bein’ haunted. I figured I’d give myself quite some time to mull things over before headin’ out there. I had the whole entire summer waitin’ like a pile of presents to be opened, and I sure didn’t wanna spoil it by havin’ the first one be a box of ghosts.