Read Online The Old Willis Place by Mary Downing Hahn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Downing Hahn
Tags: Fiction, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Brothers and sisters, Ghost Stories, Horror & Ghost Stories, Haunted Houses, Siblings, Ghosts, Friendship
Ads: Link
will of my own, I allowed Lissa to lead me back to the trailer. What was done was done. I might as well enjoy having a friend as long as possible.
Chapter 8
Mr. Morrison seated us at the picnic table and went inside to fix lemonade. I told him I wasn't thirsty, but he set a frosty glass down in front of me anyway.
"Where do you live, Diana?" he asked again in a friendly way.
"Oh, not very far." I stirred the lemonade with a straw. The ice cubes bumped against each other.
"In that group of houses across the highway from the farm gates?"
I glanced at Lissa and nodded. The ice cubes were miniature icebergs, the kind that sink ships in the Arctic Ocean. Clinkety, clinkety, clunk.
"Lissa's bike was stolen the night we moved in," Mr. Morrison went on. "A brand-new blue mountain bike, too expensive to replace, unfortunately. The police thought teenagers from your neighborhood might have taken it. Apparently theft is a problem on the farm."
"I don't know anything about that, sir." I made a special effort to remember my manners, but I didn't dare look at Lissa. What if she told her father who stole the bike?
"Georgie and I only play here in the daytime," I went on lying, praying Lissa would say nothing. "I know it's private property, but we love the woods."
Mr. Morrison shrugged. "As long as you don't go into the old house, it's fine with me."
Keeping my head down, I ran my finger over the initials Georgie had carved into the tabletop. "I'm not allowed to go in there," I said, telling the truth at last.
"That's good." Mr. Morrison paused to light his pipe. "It's not safe. The floors are in bad shape, and the cellar's full of snakes. Copperheads, someone told me."
"And it's haunted," Lissa put in. "The old lady who used to own it died in the house. I'd love to see her ghost. Wouldn't you?"
Mr. Morrison laughed, but I didn't see anything funny about Lissa's question. If Miss Lilian chose to show herself, I doubted my new friend would enjoy the experience.
"Don't look so solemn, Diana," Mr. Morrison said. "Trust me, there's no ghost in that house. Snakes and spiders and mice. Squirrels. Bats. But no ghost—I guarantee it."
Lissa leaned toward her father. "One of those policemen thought—"
Mr. Morrison shook his head in exasperation. "Oh, for goodness sake, Lissa, only ignorant people believe in ghosts."
Lissa gave him a look I remembered giving my father from time to time. "You don't know everything, Dad."
If I'd dared, I'd have agreed with her. Mr. Morrison definitely didn't know everything. But neither did Lissa.
Mr. Morrison smiled and fidgeted with his pipe, which must be one reason people smoke—it gives them something to do while they think of what to say next.
Changing the subject completely, he turned his attention to me. "Why aren't you and your brother in school today?"
The question took me by surprise. For a moment, I was speechless. "We don't go—" I started to say, and then checked myself. "We're homeschooled. We finished early today."
"Just like me," Lissa said with a smile, not realizing that she herself had given me the idea. Before I'd heard her and Mr. Morrison talking about her lessons, I'd never known of such a thing.
Well, that launched a slew of questions from Mr. Morrison that I could answer only in the vaguest way. But he didn't seem to suspect anything. He smiled and puffed on his pipe, blowing a smoke ring or two to entertain us. We ended up talking about books we loved— Oliver Twist and Treasure Island, Great Expectations and Kidnapped, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, The Call of the Wild, The Jungle Books, and, of course, Lassie Come-Home. I was the only one, however, who'd read Clematis, so I promised to lend it to Lissa—who'd never even heard of it.
"It must be an old book," Mr. Morrison said. "Probably out of print."
"Yes," I said. "It was written a long time ago, but it's a good story."
At last, Mr. Morrison went inside to work on his own book—a mystery, he said, which he
Chapter 8
Mr. Morrison seated us at the picnic table and went inside to fix lemonade. I told him I wasn't thirsty, but he set a frosty glass down in front of me anyway.
"Where do you live, Diana?" he asked again in a friendly way.
"Oh, not very far." I stirred the lemonade with a straw. The ice cubes bumped against each other.
"In that group of houses across the highway from the farm gates?"
I glanced at Lissa and nodded. The ice cubes were miniature icebergs, the kind that sink ships in the Arctic Ocean. Clinkety, clinkety, clunk.
"Lissa's bike was stolen the night we moved in," Mr. Morrison went on. "A brand-new blue mountain bike, too expensive to replace, unfortunately. The police thought teenagers from your neighborhood might have taken it. Apparently theft is a problem on the farm."
"I don't know anything about that, sir." I made a special effort to remember my manners, but I didn't dare look at Lissa. What if she told her father who stole the bike?
"Georgie and I only play here in the daytime," I went on lying, praying Lissa would say nothing. "I know it's private property, but we love the woods."
Mr. Morrison shrugged. "As long as you don't go into the old house, it's fine with me."
Keeping my head down, I ran my finger over the initials Georgie had carved into the tabletop. "I'm not allowed to go in there," I said, telling the truth at last.
"That's good." Mr. Morrison paused to light his pipe. "It's not safe. The floors are in bad shape, and the cellar's full of snakes. Copperheads, someone told me."
"And it's haunted," Lissa put in. "The old lady who used to own it died in the house. I'd love to see her ghost. Wouldn't you?"
Mr. Morrison laughed, but I didn't see anything funny about Lissa's question. If Miss Lilian chose to show herself, I doubted my new friend would enjoy the experience.
"Don't look so solemn, Diana," Mr. Morrison said. "Trust me, there's no ghost in that house. Snakes and spiders and mice. Squirrels. Bats. But no ghost—I guarantee it."
Lissa leaned toward her father. "One of those policemen thought—"
Mr. Morrison shook his head in exasperation. "Oh, for goodness sake, Lissa, only ignorant people believe in ghosts."
Lissa gave him a look I remembered giving my father from time to time. "You don't know everything, Dad."
If I'd dared, I'd have agreed with her. Mr. Morrison definitely didn't know everything. But neither did Lissa.
Mr. Morrison smiled and fidgeted with his pipe, which must be one reason people smoke—it gives them something to do while they think of what to say next.
Changing the subject completely, he turned his attention to me. "Why aren't you and your brother in school today?"
The question took me by surprise. For a moment, I was speechless. "We don't go—" I started to say, and then checked myself. "We're homeschooled. We finished early today."
"Just like me," Lissa said with a smile, not realizing that she herself had given me the idea. Before I'd heard her and Mr. Morrison talking about her lessons, I'd never known of such a thing.
Well, that launched a slew of questions from Mr. Morrison that I could answer only in the vaguest way. But he didn't seem to suspect anything. He smiled and puffed on his pipe, blowing a smoke ring or two to entertain us. We ended up talking about books we loved— Oliver Twist and Treasure Island, Great Expectations and Kidnapped, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, The Call of the Wild, The Jungle Books, and, of course, Lassie Come-Home. I was the only one, however, who'd read Clematis, so I promised to lend it to Lissa—who'd never even heard of it.
"It must be an old book," Mr. Morrison said. "Probably out of print."
"Yes," I said. "It was written a long time ago, but it's a good story."
At last, Mr. Morrison went inside to work on his own book—a mystery, he said, which he
Similar Books
