The Case of the Halloween Ghost. John R. Erickson

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      Slim had nibbled off half his sandwich, and now he stuffed the other half into his mouth, filled her plumb up until his cheeks puffed out. He paced the floor in front of us, chewing his supper and wiping his hands on his jeans.

      “Poborrow wul huff to cwee iss house up.”

      Drover and I stared at him, and twisted our heads at the same time.

      He chewed some more and swallered a lump of sandwich that was so big, it made his eyes bulge.

      “Tomorrow, we’ll have to clean this house up. My petunia’s coming over for Halloween supper, and I’d hate for her to think I live like this all the time.” He ran a toothpick around his teeth and scowled. “I don’t understand how this place gets in such a mess. I cleaned it up . . . July, I guess it was.”

      He shook his head, went back into the kitchen, and had a Twinkie for dessert.

      Drover turned to me. “What’s a petunia?”

      “A petunia is a variety of flower.”

      “He’s having a flower over for supper?”

      “That’s correct.”

      “I’ll be derned. What would you feed a flower?”

      “Water and flower food, I suppose.”

      “What would you talk about with a flower?”

      “You’d talk about . . . you heard what he said. He’s having a flower over for supper and he wants to clean up the house because he doesn’t want the flower to think he’s a slob.”

      “I didn’t know flowers could think.”

      I glared at the runt. “Flowers don’t think, and they don’t talk either. That’s part of their charm. You might try it yourself sometimes”

      “But I thought you said . . .”

      “Never mind what I said. It’s what I meant that matters. Now stop asking meaningless questions.”

      “Oh. You mean . . .”

      “Exactly. Dry up.”

      He dried up for a whole fifteen seconds. Then, “How do you reckon a petunia chews its . . .”

      “Drover!”

      “. . . food?”

      “Shhhh!”

      At last, silence. I curled up beside the fire and prepared myself for a nice, long, warm sleep in front of the stove. Not only did I not know how a petunia chewed its food, but I didn’t care.

      That was Slim’s problem. If he wanted to social­­ize with flowers . . . I just didn’t give a rip, is what I’m saying.

      I had just drifted off into a wonderful twitching dream about my one and only True Love, the fair and lovely Miss Beulah, when I heard . . . singing? Singing in the distance?

      I raised my head and glanced at Drover, who was curled up in a white furry ball and appeared to be fast asleep.

      “Was that you?”

      His head came up and one eye fell open. “Murgle skiffer.”

      “I said, was that you?”

      “When?”

      “Just a second ago.”

      “Well, I don’t know if it was me or not. What did I look like?”

      “No, you don’t understand. I thought I heard . . . listen!” We cocked our ears and listened. There it was again!

      Oh brethern ain’t you happy?

      Oh brethern ain’t you happy?

      Oh brethern ain’t you happy?

      Ye Followers of the Lamb.

      Yes, it was singing, and it appeared to be coming from outside the house.

      Suddenly the hair on my bris backled up . . . the hair on my back bristled up, I should say, and a growl came from deep inside my throat. I sprang to the north window, sniffed the curtains, and . . . sneezed. They were very dusty, don’t you see, but after sneezing twice, I barked.

      Slim came out of the bathroom, wearing a nightshirt that exposed his bony knees and skinny legs. He came over to the window, walking on crumpled-up toes because the floor was so cold.

      “What is it, Hank?”

      I barked again. Someone or something was out there in the night, prowling around and singing without permission.

      Slim narrowed his eyes and tugged on his chin whiskers and listened. “I don’t hear anything.”