Selby getting up to nibble a dog biscuit,” Dr Trifle said.
Selby’s ears shot up like rockets.
“I’m not the one making the noises,” he thought. “At night I tiptoe around like a cat so I won’t wake the Trifles. But of course it can’t be a ghost because there aren’t any such things.”
“It can’t be Selby,” Mrs Trifle said. “He tiptoes around like a cat. No, I think it’s a ghost and I’m going to ring Myrene right now and see what she can do about it.”
Three days later Myrene Spleen raced down the Trifles’ driveway carrying a large box that said
Ghost Hunter’s Kit
on the top. “Spleen’s the name and spooks are my game,” she said, giving Mrs Trifle a bonecrushing handshake. “Take me to the spirit spot and I’ll get to the bottom of this, quick smart.”
“Whatever it is, it runs up and down the hall and makes a racket,” Mrs Trifle said.
“That’s spook-like behaviour all right,” Myrene said, snatching a bucket from the box. “And I can feel its presence.”
“You can feel a ghost?” Dr Trifle said, looking at his hands.
“I get all tingly when there’s a spook around,” Myrene said with a shiver. “By the way, I did some research before I came to Bogusville and it’s my guess you’re being haunted by none other than the ghost of Brumby Bill.”
“Brumby Bill?” Dr Trifle said. “But he built the first house in Bogusville. He’s been dead foryears,” he added, suddenly realising what he’d said.
“Precisely. He came to this area a hundred years ago with his dog to get away from the city. Gradually other people settled here and built houses,” Myrene said. “You don’t have to tell me about Brumby Bill, I know his story back to front.”
“But why would he want to haunt us?” Mrs Trifle asked, wondering why anyone would want to know a story back to front.
“My theory is that he hates what Bogusville has become.”
“But Bogusville hasn’t become anything,” Mrs Trifle said. “It’s just another country town.”
“It was peaceful bush when Brumby Bill lived here and now he thinks it’s ruined. And who better to haunt than you, the mayor,” Myrene said, pouring a tin of white paint in the bucket. “He thinks that if he can scare
you
away then the whole town will pack up and go. Would you like him exorcised?”
“Heavens no. He gets quite enough exercise dashing up and down the hall.”
“Not
exercise, exorcise.
Exorcism is just a fancy word for getting rid of a spirit. How about it?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” Mrs Trifle said, wondering why ghost hunters didn’t use simple words like everyone else.
“Won’t you need television cameras and electronic ghost sensors and super-sensitive, quadro-gyric, scintillating, movement-activated microphones?” asked Dr Trifle who liked fancy words as much as anyone.
“The best way to catch a spook is to splash him with a bucket of paint,” Myrene said. “It’s an old-fashioned method but it usually works.”
“Won’t the paint go right through him?” Mrs Trifle asked, wondering how she would ever clean the paint out of her carpets.
“Not if it catches him when he’s not looking. I’ll wait till I feel his presence with my psychic powers and then pull the rope that tips the bucket.
Glop, slop
— down comes the paint. Then I’ll snap the photo. Ghosts don’t like to be photographed. He won’t be back after that. And don’t worry about your carpets,” Myrene added. “This paint washes off in water.”
“I guess it’s worth a try,” Mrs Trifle said. “Anything to get a good night’s sleep.”
“That’s the spirit!” Myrene said, giggling after she said it. “Now lock that dog out so he won’t get in the way. And you and Dr Trifle can go to bed. I’ll do the rest.”
“Ghosts, schmosts,” Selby said as he lay under a bush in the front garden. “Locked out of my own house just because of a silly ghost hunt. If I don’t freeze out here, I’ll starve. I’m so
Selby’s ears shot up like rockets.
“I’m not the one making the noises,” he thought. “At night I tiptoe around like a cat so I won’t wake the Trifles. But of course it can’t be a ghost because there aren’t any such things.”
“It can’t be Selby,” Mrs Trifle said. “He tiptoes around like a cat. No, I think it’s a ghost and I’m going to ring Myrene right now and see what she can do about it.”
Three days later Myrene Spleen raced down the Trifles’ driveway carrying a large box that said
Ghost Hunter’s Kit
on the top. “Spleen’s the name and spooks are my game,” she said, giving Mrs Trifle a bonecrushing handshake. “Take me to the spirit spot and I’ll get to the bottom of this, quick smart.”
“Whatever it is, it runs up and down the hall and makes a racket,” Mrs Trifle said.
“That’s spook-like behaviour all right,” Myrene said, snatching a bucket from the box. “And I can feel its presence.”
“You can feel a ghost?” Dr Trifle said, looking at his hands.
“I get all tingly when there’s a spook around,” Myrene said with a shiver. “By the way, I did some research before I came to Bogusville and it’s my guess you’re being haunted by none other than the ghost of Brumby Bill.”
“Brumby Bill?” Dr Trifle said. “But he built the first house in Bogusville. He’s been dead foryears,” he added, suddenly realising what he’d said.
“Precisely. He came to this area a hundred years ago with his dog to get away from the city. Gradually other people settled here and built houses,” Myrene said. “You don’t have to tell me about Brumby Bill, I know his story back to front.”
“But why would he want to haunt us?” Mrs Trifle asked, wondering why anyone would want to know a story back to front.
“My theory is that he hates what Bogusville has become.”
“But Bogusville hasn’t become anything,” Mrs Trifle said. “It’s just another country town.”
“It was peaceful bush when Brumby Bill lived here and now he thinks it’s ruined. And who better to haunt than you, the mayor,” Myrene said, pouring a tin of white paint in the bucket. “He thinks that if he can scare
you
away then the whole town will pack up and go. Would you like him exorcised?”
“Heavens no. He gets quite enough exercise dashing up and down the hall.”
“Not
exercise, exorcise.
Exorcism is just a fancy word for getting rid of a spirit. How about it?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” Mrs Trifle said, wondering why ghost hunters didn’t use simple words like everyone else.
“Won’t you need television cameras and electronic ghost sensors and super-sensitive, quadro-gyric, scintillating, movement-activated microphones?” asked Dr Trifle who liked fancy words as much as anyone.
“The best way to catch a spook is to splash him with a bucket of paint,” Myrene said. “It’s an old-fashioned method but it usually works.”
“Won’t the paint go right through him?” Mrs Trifle asked, wondering how she would ever clean the paint out of her carpets.
“Not if it catches him when he’s not looking. I’ll wait till I feel his presence with my psychic powers and then pull the rope that tips the bucket.
Glop, slop
— down comes the paint. Then I’ll snap the photo. Ghosts don’t like to be photographed. He won’t be back after that. And don’t worry about your carpets,” Myrene added. “This paint washes off in water.”
“I guess it’s worth a try,” Mrs Trifle said. “Anything to get a good night’s sleep.”
“That’s the spirit!” Myrene said, giggling after she said it. “Now lock that dog out so he won’t get in the way. And you and Dr Trifle can go to bed. I’ll do the rest.”
“Ghosts, schmosts,” Selby said as he lay under a bush in the front garden. “Locked out of my own house just because of a silly ghost hunt. If I don’t freeze out here, I’ll starve. I’m so
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