Dog Gone by Carole Poustie Page B

of light at the top of the well. No one was in sight, all their attention probably on Brody.
    Then, weirder still, I heard a noise. It was like a creepy sort of raspy whispering. I didn’t know if it was in my imagination or for real. I strained to hear what it was saying. I couldn’t make out words, but suddenly I had the feeling something was trying to turn – even pull – my head around to look …

Chapter 20

    Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. My hands felt clammy and shaky. The whispering seemed to be getting louder, and echoed up and down the sides of the well, filling my head with a kind of white noise – like you hear when the radio’s not quite on the station. I wanted to put my hands over my ears to stop it. But I wanted to turn and look.
    It must be the ghost. Just like in the cemetery. It had to be. Everything was the same – the whispering, the heat, something making me want to turn around and see it. My heart was pounding so loudly, it seemed to add to the white noise and make it worse. There was nowhere to escape. And still no sign of anyone ready to rescue me at the top of the well.
    Take deep breaths, Ish. Stay calm. All will be well – all will be well … It was Mum’s voice again, in my head, over the sound of the white noise.
    It was no good, I had to turn around and see. Was it Grandpa? And if not, I figured the ghost hadn’t hurt me before. If it was going to hurt me, it could have easily done that in the cemetery. Or anywhere for that matter. It never seemed to have a problem finding me. Besides, it did stop me breaking my neck when I fell down the well.
    I looked up again. Still no sign of anyone. I took a deep breath and slowly twisted my neck around. The wall of the well seemed to swirl past. It made me feel dizzy.
    Propped up on an old piece of cardboard was Grandpa’s fishing rod. On the handle, with its black hairy legs rearing up, was the spider. It seemed bigger than ever in the narrow beam of Gran’s torch.
    I gasped and sprang back, hitting my head on a paint tin, and dropped the torch. The light went out and I felt around frantically, hoping it hadn’t fallen down beside the mattress. I willed myself to stop thinking that, in the dark, I might pick up the spider instead of the torch.
    I could hear myself wheezing in terror. I felt all around me, patting the wet mattress under my legs and Gran’s table cloth in my lap. I told myself to take deep breaths – all will be well – all will be well – then breathed a sigh of relief, as I felt the rubber of the torch handle under my fingers.
    The switch had turned off as it fell. When I clicked it on again, I was even more relieved to see a beam of light. I swung the beam around and aimed it at the rod.
    The spider had gone.
    Suddenly, the whispering got louder. Still the awful white noise; I wished someone would tune into the station properly. I wanted to make out the words, but I couldn’t.
    Louder and louder. It wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t make it. I wanted to scream, so the sound of my own voice would block it out. Not that the white noise was going to hurt me. It was strange. It was as if I was about to hear the most important message once the station was tuned in, but I was trying to stop myself from hearing it.
    At the same time, all I could think of was my Grandpa. As if he was yelling at me from back in the past – sort of shouting words into my thoughts: You can do this, Ish!
    Then it happened – I saw the ghost. It seemed to seep out of the walls like a mist, then concentrate in one spot, just above the fishing rod.
    It was shaped just like Grandpa.
    â€˜Ish, do you think you can buckle yourself in? The harness is coming down now, mate.’ Dad’s voice made me jump again.
    I looked up to see a circle of heads at the top of the well. It was my turn to be rescued. About time. ‘Okay, Dad,’ I yelled, noticing that the