The Final Nightmare by Rodman Philbrick Page A

there was a connection. Bobby’s ghost wanted me to figure it out, that’s why he’d urged me to look in the trunk.
    And that worried me. Bobby was just a little kid. He expected older people to understand what he meant. When they didn’t he was likely to have a tantrum.
    And Bobby’s ghostly tantrums were the most terrifying things I’d ever seen.

23
    That night I asked for a glass of warm milk before I went to bed, just as a precaution.
    â€œI hope you’re not staying up too late, reading those scary books of yours,” Mom said as she handed me the milk.
    â€œNot a chance,” I said. “Tonight I’m going straight to sleep.”
    â€œGood,” Mom said with a smile. “That’s exactly what you need. You’ve been exhausted lately, overdoing it. And you know what happens when you overdo it.”
    â€œRight,” I said. “My imagination gets out of control.”
    She was wrong about my imagination getting out of control, but I’d given up trying to convince her the house was haunted. The ghosts didn’t show themselves to adults, so adults thought they didn’t exist.
    A pretty neat trick, if you happened to be a ghost.
    The warm milk trick seemed to work. As soon as my head hit the pillow I started to doze off. Dreaming about baseball, and swimming, and how I couldn’t wait to get back to our own house …
    I woke up with a jolt, every nerve tingling. I gripped the sides of the bed, my eyes wide.
    There was some kind of vibration in the air.
    BONNNG!
    The grandfather clock! It must have already chimed at least once and woke me up. I lay rigid, waiting for it to strike again.
    The broken grandfather clock in the hall only chimed when a haunting was about to happen.
    Dread sat on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I hated the waiting. I hated lying helpless, straining my ears for the first sound of a little kid’s scared footsteps. I knew what was coming—and I knew there was nothing I could do to stop it.
    The haunting had started.
    Outside my bedroom door Bobby’s ghost was crying. Then I heard his small feet hitting the floor as he ran.
    He was running in fear. Crying so hard he was hiccuping.
    Running and running, the thud of heavier footsteps chasing him, getting louder and louder as the sound of his crying went higher and higher.
    Then I heard the witch’s voice screaming at him.
    â€œ Come back here, you little brat! Give me that jewel! ”
    The little boy kept running. His feet went right by my door. Followed a heartbeat later by the thudding of the witch-thing, screaming, “ It’s mine! Mine! ”
    I tensed up, waiting. Because I knew what was going to happen. It was always the same, whenever the haunting started.
    The little boy kept running. The witch-thing kept chasing him.
    And then—
    CRUNCH!
    The little boy smashed through the railing at the end of the hallway and fell to the floor below.
    â€œ Heellllllllllllpppp meeeeeeeeee! ”
    His awful, falling scream cut through me like a knife.
    If I lived here fifty years—which I wouldn’t—I would never get used to that terrible sound.
    The house fell silent. Sometimes that was the end of the haunting and after a while I could turn over and go back to sleep.
    But sometimes it was just the beginning of something even more terrifying.
    I lay with my hands at my sides staring straight up into the darkness, Bobby’s dying cry banging around inside my head.
    No way had Bobby died in a fall from the cherry tree, like it said in the paper. He died the way I heard him die night after night. Hurtling over the stairway while someone chased him!
    It had to be the nanny, Alice Everett. Bobby’s nanny was the witch-thing, the old lady who’d stayed on in the empty house until she died. The old witch whose body had never been found.
    She was the one who had moved Bobby’s body from the house to under the cherry tree, so no one