Help for the Haunted by John Searles Read Free Book Online Page A

voice could be heard saying, “Okay. We’re rolling. Go ahead.”
    My mother gave a nervous smile. “Go ahead, what?”
    â€œGo ahead and explain where we are and what we’re doing here.”
    â€œI feel . . . silly .”
    â€œJust give it a try, Rose.”
    She let out a breath. “All right then. My name is Rose Mason. I’m here with my husband, who is holding the camera. Isn’t that right, husband-holding-the-camera?” My father nodded so that the frame moved up and down. “We are at the home of—” My mother stopped, looked at the ground. “Oh, I don’t like this, Sylvester. Can’t we just record the details in a notebook or on a cassette like we used to do?”
    â€œHere,” my father said. “You hold the camera. I’ll give it a—”
    From the far side of the basement, there came a loud snap before the lights went out, the TV along with it. In an instant, the basement was enveloped in black. Apparently, it was the same throughout the house, because two floors above Dot called from the tub: “Girls? Hello? Girls?”
    â€œNot funny,” I told Rose.
    â€œGirls? Anybody hear me? Yoo-hoo! Girls?”
    Rose clicked on a flashlight and shined it at her face, transforming her features into something ghoulish. She handed me a flashlight too. “First of all, who the hell says, ‘yoo-hoo’? Second, it is so funny and you know it.”
    â€œSylvie? Rose? Hello?”
    â€œDick Van Dot is calling,” my sister said. “We better go see what she wants.”
    By the time we stepped into my parents’ room again, I could hear her splashing around in the dark, like some oversized, floppy fish washed ashore. The sound made me want to put an end to whatever more Rose had in mind, but, ashamed as I was to admit it, the thought of my essay and how much I wanted to win led me to keep my mouth shut. I sat on my mother’s bed, where Dot had discarded her uniform with the tiny bears. Since the rest of her clothes were folded in the laundry basket downstairs courtesy of me, I knew she had nothing in the bathroom except a towel.
    Rose went to the door. Scratched at the wood.
    â€œWhat the devil?” Dot said.
    Scratch. Scratch. Rose kept at it, which brought on another onslaught of, “Girls? Hello? Girls?” At last, she gave up on that too. The woman sighed, followed by a splash, loud enough that I knew she was standing up in the tub. I listened to her feet pad across the linoleum. Her hand found the knob, and I watched the rope tighten. The door did not budge. Dot banged on it, crying out more frantically. “Girls! Can anybody hear me?”
    Rose walked to my mother’s bed and sat on top of Dot’s uniform. Leaning close, she whispered in my ear, “Do The Scream .”
    I should have figured that’s what she wanted. I shook my head.
    â€œ Do it, ” she insisted.
    The Scream was a talent—if that’s the word for it—I had stumbled upon a few nannies before when Rose lured us into a game of indoor hide-and-seek. We were actually having fun until my sister decided to hide where neither of us could find her. After an hour of searching, we gave up and got ready for bed. When I climbed into mine and turned off the light, Rose reached out from where she had jammed herself between the wall and the mattress and grabbed my neck, which caused me to release the most bloodcurdling scream. From that night on, Rose begged me to do The Scream in all kinds of places: store parking lots, outside of church, the library. Since it felt good to have her appreciate me for a change, there were times when I gave her what she wanted. But that night with Dot locked in the bathroom, I kept shaking my head.
    Still, Rose went right on whispering: “ Do it. Do it. Do it. ”
    â€œIf I do it, can I get my essay back and go to bed?”
    â€œGirls? I don’t know what the