Dear Bully by Megan Kelley Hall

scrambled onto the bus. Later, I took my thermos out of the lunch box, and it made a jingly sound. The glass inside had broken into chunks.
    The war had begun.
    Pete and his buddies never did anything to me at school. I was safe there because they didn’t want to get in trouble.
    After school was when they made my life miserable. I took the bus home every afternoon. It was about a fifteen-minute ride. And every afternoon when I got off the bus, the three of them were waiting for me.
    At first, they just chased me. My house was two blocks from the bus stop. They chased after me, waving their fists and calling me “Chicken” and other names. I never ran so fast in my life.
    After a while, they got bored with just chasing me. So they started chasing me and then knocking me down. They’d shove me to the ground and run off laughing.
    Getting knocked down every day was no fun. But I didn’t tell my parents. I knew my parents would call their parents. Or call the school. And then Pete, Ronnie, and McKay would become even bigger enemies.
    Soon, they began to chase me, punch me a few times, then knock me down. It was getting bad. I had such a terrible feeling of total panic every afternoon.
    Of course, at the age of nine, I had no way of knowing how much that dreadful feeling of panic would help me in later life. These days, when I sit down to write a scary book, I can think back . . . remember that feeling of terror . . . and use that feeling in my stories.
    I felt helpless. I couldn’t tell my parents. And I couldn’t fight back. I was outnumbered three to one, and they were tougher than me.
    It had to end sometime. And it did on a gray, chilly October evening.
    I came home late on the bus after band practice. I prayed that Pete and his pals wouldn’t still be waiting. But there they were, leaning against a hedge across from the bus stop.
    This time, they didn’t chase me. Ronnie and McKay grabbed me and started to pull me down the block. Pete led the way. They didn’t say a word.
    “Where are we going, guys?” I said. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
    We crossed the street. Ronnie and McKay gripped me so tightly, my shoulders ached. My heart began to pound.
    “Let’s talk this over,” I said. “I’ll use small words so you can understand.”
    My jokes weren’t going over. Big surprise.
    They dragged me up a gravel driveway. The tall, gray house at the top of the drive was nearly hidden in the shadows of trees. But I recognized it.
    Mr. Hartman’s house.
    Mr. Hartman was an old man who had died two weeks before. But neighbors said they could still hear him screaming. They said they heard frightening howls and shrieks coming from his house late at night.
    Everyone knew the house was haunted. It was even written up in the newspaper. The police warned people to stay away until they figured out where those horrible cries were coming from.
    Even the lawn cutters refused to mow his lawn. The grass was halfway up to my knees.
    Low clouds covered the sun. It grew dark as night. The front windows of the house were solid black.
    Pete and Ronnie gave me a hard push onto the front stoop. “Wh-what do you want?” I stammered. “Why did you bring me here?”
    “Go inside,” Pete growled. “Go say hi to Mr. Hartman.”
    “He’s waiting for you in there,” Ronnie added.
    I felt my throat tighten. I started to choke. “No, please—” I started.
    They shoved me to the door. “You really think the house is haunted?” McKay asked.
    I nodded. For once, I didn’t make a joke. “Yes. Everyone knows Mr. Hartman’s ghost is in there.”
    “Well, go shake hands with him,” Pete said. “Ask him why he screams every night.”
    “How long do I have to stay in there?” I asked in a trembling voice.
    “All night,” Pete said. “We’ll come get you in the morning.”
    “No. Please—” I begged.
    Ronnie pushed open the front door, and they shoved me inside. I staggered a few steps. The front door slammed hard behind