The Ghost and Mrs. Hobbs by Cynthia DeFelice Page A

must have punched in the wrong code or something when I closed up last night. Usually Joan or Reggie sets it, but I was alone yesterday, in a hurry, as usual . . .” Mrs. Nichols was talking, sort of to Allie and sort of to herself, as she threw her raincoat on over her nightgown.
    â€œI have to run down there, sweetie, just for a second. The batter’s all ready. Would you like to start a batch of pancakes for you and Michael?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œYou’ll have to wake him up. Be careful with that hot frying pan. I’ll be back in two seconds.”
    â€œOkay, Mom.”
    Allie put some butter in the pan, waited for it to sizzle, and spread it evenly around. Michael liked lots of silver dollar pancakes, so she carefully spooned small dollops of batter until she had made twelve little circles. When the tops bubbled and the sides looked firm, she flipped them over and was happy to see that they looked perfect. Making perfect pancakes wasn’t exactly a major accomplishment, but it still felt good to be doing
something
right.
    Allie turned down the flame and called up the stairs to wake Michael. When he didn’t answer, she ran to his room and found that he must have gotten up, after all.
    â€œMichael?” She moved through the house, calling to him, but he didn’t reply. Then, figuring that he must have gone out to his fort, she leaned out the kitchen door and called across the yard, “Michael! Your pancakes are ready!”
    There was no answer. “Come on, Mike, quit fooling around! I made your favorites, and they’re ready right now!”
    No sound or movement came from the forsythia bushes. “Michael!” Allie said. “Give me a break!”
    Michael still didn’t answer.
    â€œI’ll eat them all myself,” she threatened.
    Silence.
    â€œDarn you, Michael,” she said angrily, storming across the lawn. The grass was still soaked with dew, and her slippers got wet, making her even madder. “Don’t think for one minute I’m going to guess some stupid password to get you to come out of there,” she grumbled, bending down and peering into the bushes.
    There was no sign of Michael. Allie felt a peculiar mixture of exasperation and fear. “Michael!” she shouted. “Come out here right now, I’m not kidding!”
    â€œI’m going to tell Mom and Dad,” she added desperately when Michael didn’t answer. “They’re going to be home any minute, and they’ll be really mad.”
    The yard was still and silent in the early-morning sun, except for the chirping of the birds. Allie raced back inside and ran through the house again, calling for Michael and checking every room. In his bedroom she looked under the bed, under the covers, and in the closet to make sure he wasn’t hiding.
    Finally, she let the truth wash over her.
Michael was gone.
    And she knew who had taken him.
    In a near frenzy of panic, Allie tried to decide what to do. The idea of going after Michael by herself made her mouth feel cottony with fear. But waiting for her mother or father to come home would meanwasting precious minutes. An image of Michael, alone with the Snapping Turtle, hysterical with fear, filled her mind and nearly paralyzed her. No! She couldn’t wait while the seconds ticked away, not while Michael was in danger.
    A horrible thought took her breath away. Mrs. Hobbs must have known Mr. Nichols was out, and had caused the alarm to go off, summoning Allie’s mother away, as well. Who knew what she might do to keep Allie’s parents from returning?
    Choking back a sob, Allie made up her mind. Quickly she threw a pair of jeans over her shorty pajama bottoms, pulled on some sneakers, and ran downstairs and out the front door. Then she flew to the garage, onto her bike, and out into the street, grateful that she didn’t have far to go.
    The street was deserted in the Sunday morning quiet. She