Joe Sherlock Kid Detective 1 : The Haunted Toolshed by Dave Keane Page A
Authors: Dave Keane
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is everyone talking about?
“Flatulence?” I reply to Mr. Asher.
Hailey answers for him. “That means she’s farting up a storm.”
This case is not off to a great start.
Mr. Asher is a chunky, bald man who combs the wispy hair from the back of his head up and over his bald spot, which he then swirls around and around into a sort of hairy cinnamon roll.
“It started last night, with strange noises, like moaning and shrieking from another world,” Mr. Asher explains as his nose whistle mysteriously changes key. “Then things start to disappear. Suddenly my mailbox is gone.
Poof! My mother’s fresh bundt cake is gone without a trace. Poof!
Now even her glass eye is missing. Poof!”
“Cool, a glass eye,” Hailey says excitedly.
I give her my best “shut up now” glare.
But truthfully, the thought of Grandma Asher’s moist glass eye rolling around somewhere on a dusty carpet makes my stomach tighten into a fist.
“I think something evil has moved into my toolshed,” Mr. Asher croaks in a way that no kid ever wants to hear an adult croak.
I’m waiting for Hailey to say, “Cool, something evil.” But she doesn’t.
In fact, the room gets quiet. Too quiet. I stare at Mr. Asher’s magnified eyes.
They slowly blink back at me, like twin garage doors opening and closing.
Then even the tune he’s been playing on his nose suddenly falls silent.
It’s so quiet in here you could hear a bug change its mind.
Then we hear it. A hollow, spine-straightening moan from another world.
The evil spirits from beyond this life have followed Mr. Asher down the street from his house! The poltergeist is now in my house!
‧ Chapter Four ‧
That's the Spirit
That’s the Spirit
The three of us remain frozen in mindless terror.
We strain to hear the sound again. Silence has never sounded so loud.
Then the groan returns. It’s low and distant, like the sound a cow would make if a barn fell over on it.
Without warning, the evil spirit brushes my hand with its bony fingers! Blind with fear, I jump to my feet in a crouch. “Mommy!” I blurt out like a baby goat.
But then I look at my hand. It’s not the evil spirit that has touched my hand at all. I’m still holding the base of my Inspector Wink-Wink toothbrush, which has finally sprung to life. It buzzes away cheerfully, obviously unaware that its top half remains at the bottom of the toilet.
I switch it off. But it keeps buzzing away.
It is clearly in the off position, but it continues to buzz like mad. Has the whole world gone bananas? I wiggle it. I shake it. I finally whack it on the small table next to me.
It goes quiet.
Just as I begin to feel relief, the rumbling groan returns. I look at Mr. Asher, who is now as white as a tub of sour cream.
“Um . . . that’s just my dad, Mr. Asher,”
Hailey says calmly from behind me. “He probably can’t reach his pain pills. I’ll be right back.” She runs through the kitchen and down the hallway to get my dad his pain pills.
I clear my throat while I try to think of something to say. “Mr. Asher,” I begin with only a hint of a squeak, “I’ll ask my dad if I can stay out late to work on this case. I’d like to help you get to the bottom of this mystery as quickly as possible. But I must warn you that my fee is ten dollars a day . . . or night.”
I secretly hope that he says that my price is too high, calls me a dope, and storms out mumbling every bad word not in the dictio-nary.
But, of course, he doesn’t. My luck is always like this.
“That sounds reasonable,” he says, standing and edging closer to the door. “Sherlock, I’ve called the police, but they just laugh at me and I . . . I simply don’t know where else to turn.
” He looks around the room as if he doesn’t remember how he even got here. “I’ve heard that you have a knack for solving mysteries. So please . . . just call me and let me know when you’ll be arriving.”
Before I can change my mind, he’s out
“Flatulence?” I reply to Mr. Asher.
Hailey answers for him. “That means she’s farting up a storm.”
This case is not off to a great start.
Mr. Asher is a chunky, bald man who combs the wispy hair from the back of his head up and over his bald spot, which he then swirls around and around into a sort of hairy cinnamon roll.
“It started last night, with strange noises, like moaning and shrieking from another world,” Mr. Asher explains as his nose whistle mysteriously changes key. “Then things start to disappear. Suddenly my mailbox is gone.
Poof! My mother’s fresh bundt cake is gone without a trace. Poof!
Now even her glass eye is missing. Poof!”
“Cool, a glass eye,” Hailey says excitedly.
I give her my best “shut up now” glare.
But truthfully, the thought of Grandma Asher’s moist glass eye rolling around somewhere on a dusty carpet makes my stomach tighten into a fist.
“I think something evil has moved into my toolshed,” Mr. Asher croaks in a way that no kid ever wants to hear an adult croak.
I’m waiting for Hailey to say, “Cool, something evil.” But she doesn’t.
In fact, the room gets quiet. Too quiet. I stare at Mr. Asher’s magnified eyes.
They slowly blink back at me, like twin garage doors opening and closing.
Then even the tune he’s been playing on his nose suddenly falls silent.
It’s so quiet in here you could hear a bug change its mind.
Then we hear it. A hollow, spine-straightening moan from another world.
The evil spirits from beyond this life have followed Mr. Asher down the street from his house! The poltergeist is now in my house!
‧ Chapter Four ‧
That's the Spirit
That’s the Spirit
The three of us remain frozen in mindless terror.
We strain to hear the sound again. Silence has never sounded so loud.
Then the groan returns. It’s low and distant, like the sound a cow would make if a barn fell over on it.
Without warning, the evil spirit brushes my hand with its bony fingers! Blind with fear, I jump to my feet in a crouch. “Mommy!” I blurt out like a baby goat.
But then I look at my hand. It’s not the evil spirit that has touched my hand at all. I’m still holding the base of my Inspector Wink-Wink toothbrush, which has finally sprung to life. It buzzes away cheerfully, obviously unaware that its top half remains at the bottom of the toilet.
I switch it off. But it keeps buzzing away.
It is clearly in the off position, but it continues to buzz like mad. Has the whole world gone bananas? I wiggle it. I shake it. I finally whack it on the small table next to me.
It goes quiet.
Just as I begin to feel relief, the rumbling groan returns. I look at Mr. Asher, who is now as white as a tub of sour cream.
“Um . . . that’s just my dad, Mr. Asher,”
Hailey says calmly from behind me. “He probably can’t reach his pain pills. I’ll be right back.” She runs through the kitchen and down the hallway to get my dad his pain pills.
I clear my throat while I try to think of something to say. “Mr. Asher,” I begin with only a hint of a squeak, “I’ll ask my dad if I can stay out late to work on this case. I’d like to help you get to the bottom of this mystery as quickly as possible. But I must warn you that my fee is ten dollars a day . . . or night.”
I secretly hope that he says that my price is too high, calls me a dope, and storms out mumbling every bad word not in the dictio-nary.
But, of course, he doesn’t. My luck is always like this.
“That sounds reasonable,” he says, standing and edging closer to the door. “Sherlock, I’ve called the police, but they just laugh at me and I . . . I simply don’t know where else to turn.
” He looks around the room as if he doesn’t remember how he even got here. “I’ve heard that you have a knack for solving mysteries. So please . . . just call me and let me know when you’ll be arriving.”
Before I can change my mind, he’s out
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