Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

I ran a questioning hand over my moustache, which always perks up at moments like this. It was October, and Moose County likes to celebrate Halloween for the entire month. Already there were pumpkins on every front porch and ghostly white sheets hanging from trees. The pranksters might be getting an early start - perhaps some kids from the nearby town of Chipmunk, which is noted for its rowdies. "You should call the police," I advised her calmly. "Tell them you suspect prowlers."

"I called them the night before last," she said, "and everything was quiet when the sheriff got here. It was embarassing."

"How long has this been going on? I mean, when did you first hear mysterious sounds?"

"About two weeks ago. At first it was just knocking - now and then - not very loud."

Her voice was more controlled now, and I thought the best course was to keep her on the line. She might talk herself out of her fears. "Have you mentioned the situation to anyone around there?" I asked.

"Well... yes. I told the people who live at the end of the lane, but they didn't take it seriously."

"How about reporting it to Larry or Mr. Tibbitt?"

"Somehow I didn't want to do that."

"Why not?"

"Well... in the daylight, Mr. Q, when the sun is shining and everything, I feel foolish talking about it. I don't want them to think I'm cracking up."

That was understandable. "I suppose you keep the floodlights turned on in the yard after dark."

"Oh, yes, always! And I keep peeking outside, but there's nothing there. It seems to be coming from inside the house."

"I agree it's a puzzling situation, Mrs. Cobb," I said, trying to appear interested and helpful but not apprehensive. "Why don't you jump in your car and drive over to Indian Village and spend the night with Susan? Then we'll investigate in the morning. There's sure to be some logical explanation."

"Oh, I couldn't!" she said with a faltering cry. "My car's in the barn, and I'm afraid to go out there. Oh, Mr. Q, I don't know what to do!... Oh, my God! There it goes again!" Her words ended with a shriek that made my flesh creep. "There's something outside the window!"

"Get hold of yourself, Mrs. Cobb," I said firmly. "I'll pick you up and take you to Indian Village. Call Susan and tell her you'll be there. Pack a bag. I'll see you in twenty minutes. And drink some warm milk, Mrs. Cobb."

I pulled on pants and a sweater over my pajamas, grabbed the car keys and a jacket, and bolted out of the apartment, half stumbling over a cat who happened to be in the way. Mrs. Cobb had a health problem, and the noises might very well be imaginary, the result of taking medication, but that made them no less terrifying.

The farmhouse in North Middle Hummock was thirty minutes away, but I made it in twenty. Fortunately there was no traffic. This was late Sunday night, and all of Moose County was at home, asleep in front of the TV.

The old paving stones of Main Street, wet from a recent shower, glistened like a night scene in a suspense movie, and I barreled through the three blocks of downtown Pickax at sixty-five and ran the town's one-and-only red light. At the city limits the streetlights ended. There was no moon, and it was hellishly dark on the country roads. This had been a mining region in the nineteenth century. Now the highway is bordered with abandoned mineshafts, rotting shafthouses, and red Danger signs, but on this moonless night they were obliterated by the darkness.

I drove with my country-brights, following the yellow line and watching for the Dimsdale Diner, a lonely landmark that stays open all night. Its lights glimmered faintly through dirty windows, identifying the intersection where I had to turn onto Ittibittiwassee Road. There the highway was straight and smooth. I pushed up to eighty-five.

Beyond the Old Plank Bridge the route became winding and hilly, and I slowed to a cautious sixty-five, thinking about this woman who was depending on me tonight. Poor Mrs. Cobb had survived more than her share of tragedies. A few years ago, when I lived Down Below and wrote for the Daily Fluxion, she was my landlady. I rented a furnished room over her antique shop in a blighted part of the city. After the murder of her husband she sold the shop and moved to Pickax, where she applied her expertise to museum work. Now she was resident manager of the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum, living in one wing of the historic building.

It was not surprising that she phoned me in her desperation. We were good friends, although in a formal sort of way, always addressing each other as "Mrs. Cobb" and "Mr. Q." I suspected that she would like a closer relationship, but she was not my type. I admired her as a businesswoman and an expert on antiques, but she played the clinging vine where men were concerned, and it could be cloying. She also played the witch in the kitchen. I'll admit to being a pushover for her pot roast and coconut cake, and the Siamese would commit murder for her meatloaf.