Ghost Stories by Franklin W. Dixon

yes.” Joe hesitated. “Meet you here in half an hour?”
    Frank nodded and walked to the right. Joe took the left, feeling much less brave than his brother, but not wanting to admit it. He went through several houses, finding what seemed to be the usual for Flaming Rock. Fires in the stoves. Food still on tables. Apparently, whatever had happened here had happened at dinnertime, he thought wryly.
    Then he came to the schoolhouse. It was the most eerie of all the buildings. There were little desks in neat rows. On top lay open books, inkwells, andquill pens. As the boy gazed around the room, a breeze ruffled some of the pages.
    There was chalk and an eraser on the blackboard and the teacher’s last message was written on it: “Tuesday, September 23rd. Vocabulary drill.” Underneath were the words assigned for that day. One of them was “ghost.” Very appropriate, considering what happened to the town, Joe thought.
    When he left the school, he passed several more houses and then decided to investigate a bigger building which was the general store. Perhaps something in there would give him a clue as to Flaming Rock’s fate!
    As he pushed open the door, which squeaked on its hinges, something told him to pull back. But he did not yield to his intuition. The next thing he felt was a hard blow and he crashed to the floor.
    Everything went black in front of Joe’s eyes. When he came to, his head hurt. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. He sat up and rubbed his forehead. Suddenly he had the feeling that he was not alone in the room.
    His heart beat wildly. He felt a bump swelling on the back of his head, covered with something sticky in one spot. Blood, no doubt.
    Joe lay back again and closed his eyes. He still sensed another presence. Was it the man who had struck him down? Was his assailant approaching him, ready to finish him off if he showed any signs of life?
    Joe was frightened, but finally his curiosity won out. He opened one eye. His flashlight, which he haddropped on the floor, was still on and cast a dim light across the room. Joe’s eye swiveled across a row of merchandise stacked neatly along the wall, but with a layer of dust on top. Then he saw him.
    He was standing near the great glass candy case. He was an Indian warrior, almost naked except for a loincloth and several strands of beads around his neck. He held a tomahawk in his hand, but it was not raised. Then he began to heft it playfully.
    Oh, let this be a dream, Joe moaned inwardly. Please, let it be a dream!
    The Indian was dark and had a strong and handsome face. Around his forehead he wore a headband studded with turquoise. Actually, he was a grand sight. But Joe was too frightened to realize that there was nothing hostile in the man’s expression.
    He stared at the loosely held tomahawk in the Indian’s hand and kept silently praying that the brave would put it down far away from him. He also tried to convince himself that the Indian was nothing but a symptom of his own overactive imagination.
    Just then the Indian began to speak. His voice was very deep and controlled, yet there was something ghostly about it.
    â€œYou are trespassing on sacred ground!” the apparition intoned. “Ever since the land was stolen, it has been cursed for as long as the grass grows. Because of the atrocities committed against my tribe by the drunken miners, the people of Flaming Rock are doomed to wander, homeless, for all eternity!”
    Joe sat up and stared at the man, who seemed realand unreal at the same time. “Wh-what happened?” he managed to mumble.
    The Indian paid no attention to his question, but went on in the same, even tone.
    â€œYou and your brother will be spared. But only if you go back and tell what you have seen. Now, leave this place at once!”
    Joe shivered. If you only knew how much I want to leave, he thought. But he said nothing.
    The Indian took off his headband and