The Ghost and Mrs. Hobbs by Cynthia DeFelice Page B

stopped at 1228 Armstrong Street, got off her bike, and stashed it in the bushes. As Allie crept across the grass, her heart pounded under her pajama top. When she reached the steps that led up to the half of the porch that remained, a sudden noise made her gasp out loud and whirl around in terror. It was only one of the tarps that covered the roof and walls, flapping in a passing breeze.
    On the porch she slipped quietly past the front door and over to the open window. She peeredthrough the screen, terrified of what she might see. Her imagination offered images of Michael tied to a chair, blindfolded and gagged, choking on his sobs. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim gloom of Mrs. Hobbs’s living room. What she saw then caused her to gasp in disbelief.

Nineteen
    Mrs. Hobbs was sitting alone on a couch, weeping. There was no sign of Michael.
    Allie was so stunned by the sight of the Snapping Turtle crying that for a moment she simply stood staring, watching the rise and fall of Mrs. Hobbs’s shaking shoulders and listening to the lost, hopeless sounds of her sobs. Appalled, Allie wondered what in the world could have happened to make a woman like Mrs. Hobbs cry.
    An answer too terrible to contemplate occurred to her. Had Mrs. Hobbs done something so awful to Michael that even she was feeling remorse? That thought put steel in Allie’s spine. Without knocking, she burst into Mrs. Hobbs’s living room. Having planned nothing—not what she was going to do or what she was going to say—she stood in the opendoorway, her eyes locked furiously on the figure of Mrs. Hobbs.
    Mrs. Hobbs lifted her tear-stained face. Her expression registered no surprise at Allie’s intrusion, no anger, no emotion at all except a profound weariness. In a low, dull whisper, she said, “I give up.”
    Allie felt confused. Give up? Did Mrs. Hobbs mean she was giving Michael back? “Where is he?” Allie said, her voice sounding huge and angry in the tiny room.
    Mrs. Hobbs’s expression didn’t change. “You know that as well as I do,” she said tiredly. Her voice was as strange and gravelly as it had been in the cafeteria, only now there was no fury left in it.
    Is she joking around with me? Allie wondered in amazement. “You didn’t hurt him, did you?” she cried, taking a step toward the woman, feeling as if she might grab her and shake the answers out of her.
    Mrs. Hobbs looked off toward the distance, to somewhere only she could see. “I suppose he thinks I did,” she said quietly.
    â€œNo,” Allie moaned, unable to bear the thought. “What did you do to him?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter anymore. I’m going to put an end to it once and for all.”
    Allie’s mind was racing in frantic circles. Put an end to
what
? Michael’s life? “Oh, please,” Allie whimpered. “Please, no.”
    â€œI do wish you’d tell me something,” Mrs. Hobbs went on. Her voice remained slow and monotonous, and her face still showed a complete absence of feeling. “How did he get you to play his twisted little game?”
    Game? Allie shivered in the warm, stuffy room, chilled by the thought that Mrs. Hobbs must be mad. In that case, what was the best course of action? Should Allie force her way past the woman and search the house for Michael? No, she thought, she shouldn’t do anything to make Mrs. Hobbs angry or upset. At the moment the woman was calm and unthreatening. Talk to her, Allie thought. Get her talking about Michael and maybe she’ll tell you where he is.
    She had asked about Michael’s game. What game was she talking about? Allie racked her brain for an answer. “You mean the games he plays with those little plastic figures?” she asked desperately.
    Mrs. Hobbs’s dull expression changed momentarily to confusion. Then she moved her hand as if to wave away Allie’s words and said, “Did