7 Never Haunt a Historian by Edie Claire

response had been nonchalant: he’d heard leaves crackling, but saw nothing, so figured the sound came from a squirrel or a bird. Leigh had bitten her lip and stayed silent. No way was she ending such a day by making wild accusations about headless trespassers. Her rationality got questioned enough as it was, thank you very much, and although she did not, repeat not, believe in ghosts, anything one step away from a corpse was something worth avoiding.
    She hadn’t seen a thing.
    She parked the wagon behind the tool shed and pulled opened the cellar doors. The sound of happy squeals drifted up loud and clear, and she smiled. “Guess Mom’s milk has a little more punch to it this morning, eh?” She carried the bag down the stairs and set it on the floor. The mother dog did not growl, but watched her descent with an intent, hopeful look. As Leigh opened the top of the bag and scooped a heaping helping into the empty bowl, the dog’s thin white tail gave one shy, appreciative thump. “Progress,” Leigh said with a grin. “I bet you’re a very nice girl when you’re not defending your offspring with your life. But take some advice—stay away from the Wileys of the world. Men like that never commit.”
    Leigh knew that the charming canine Casanova was, even as she spoke, unhappily being confined by Lester, who was worried that the hound might take off in search of his missing master. But she doubted that the new mother gave a hoot about Wiley, or any other handsome face. The dog had eyes only for her food.
    “There you go. Breakfast! I’ll bring you some fresh water now, all right?” Leigh cajoled, rising to her feet.
    The light in the basement went suddenly dim; a figure blocked the head of the staircase.
    “Whatcha doing?” an overloud, taunting voice demanded.
    Leigh tensed. Scotty O’Malley was quite possibly the last person in the world she would choose to have discovered the hidden den… headless ghosts included.
    “Stay where you are,” she ordered. “This is—”
    “Cool!!! Puppies!!!”
    Scotty launched down the stairs three a time, coming to land at Leigh’s feet with a plop that send a cloud of dust into the air. “Can I have one? How big are they going to get?”
    “Stop!” Leigh demanded, making a grab for him. “Don’t go any closer! She’s—”
    But the boy paid no attention. Eluding her outstretched hand with ease, he barreled straight for the dog and litter, mouth open and fingers grasping.
    He did not make it to the puppies. The mother dog was on her feet in an instant. Standing over her offspring with a wide-spaced stance, she snarled viciously and snapped her teeth in the air.
    Scotty screamed at the top of his lungs, pitched back with his arms wheeling, and fell flat on his bottom. He let out a string of profanity (laced with liberal use of a certain four letter word which—in Leigh’s humble opinion—no eleven-year-old should be allowed to speak), clawed to his feet again and made a rush for the exit. He scrambled up the stone steps in double time, his high voice reverberating with each jerky motion until he disappeared through the hole above.
    Leigh didn’t move. Despite herself, she was impressed. She couldn’t remember ever having heard anyone (standup comedians included) make such creative and frequent use of that particular word in such a short span of time. And the boy had been in motion, too.
    Predictably, his absence lasted exactly five seconds. Then his pale face poked over the entryway again.
    “You should watch your language,” Leigh chastised. “There are children present.”
    “She’s a wild dog!” he accused, his voice still shaky.
    “She’s only protecting her puppies,” Leigh defended. “See, she’s fine now.”
    The mother dog had indeed lain down again, though she continued a low warning growl with an occasional lift of her lip in Scotty’s direction.
    “You’ll have to stay out of here,” Leigh continued, not altogether anxious to disabuse