2

The road curved away from the school. They followed it past familiar houses. Then, just beyond a small wooded area, they stopped and looked up a sloping lawn, the grass uncut for weeks, tall weeds poking out everywhere, the shrubs ragged and overgrown.

At the top of the lawn, nearly hidden in the shadows of enormous old oak trees, sprawled a large ramshackle house. The house, anyone could see, had once been grand. It was gray shingled, three stories tall, with a wraparound screened porch, a sloping red roof, and tall chimneys on either end. But the broken windows on the second floor, the cracked, weather-stained shingles, the bare spots on the roof, and the shutters hanging loosely beside the dust-smeared windows were evidence of the house’s neglect.

Everyone in Pitts Landing knew it as the Coffman house. Coffman was the name painted on the mailbox that tilted on its broken pole over the front walk.

But the house had been deserted for years—ever since Greg and his friends could remember.

And people liked to tell weird stories about the house: ghost stories and wild tales about murders and ghastly things that happened there. Most likely, none of them were true.

“Hey—I know what we can do for excitement,” Michael said, staring up at the house bathed in shadows.

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Greg asked warily.

“Let’s go into the Coffman house,” Michael said, starting to make his way across the weed-choked lawn.

“Whoa. Are you crazy?” Greg called, hurrying to catch up to him.

“Let’s go in,” Michael said, his blue eyes catching the light of the late afternoon sun filtering down through the tall oak trees. “We wanted an adventure. Something a little exciting, right? Come on—let’s check it out.”

Greg hesitated and stared up at the house. A cold chill ran down his back.

Before he could reply, a dark form leaped up from the shadows of the tall weeds and attacked him!

Greg toppled backward onto the ground. “Aah!” he screamed. Then he realized the others were laughing.

“It’s that dumb cocker spaniel!” Shari cried. “He followed us!”

“Go home, dog. Go home!” Bird shooed the dog away.

The dog trotted to the curb, turned around, and stared back at them, its stubby tail

wagging furiously.

Feeling embarrassed that he’d become so frightened, Greg slowly pulled himself

to his feet, expecting his friends to give him grief. But they were staring up at the Coffman house thoughtfully.

“Yeah, Michael’s right,” Bird said, slapping Michael hard on the back, so hard Michael winced and turned to slug Bird. “Let’s see what it’s like in there.”

“No way,” Greg said, hanging back. “I mean, the place is kind of creepy, don’t you think?”

“So?” Shari challenged him, joining Michael and Bird, who repeated her question: “So?”

“So... I don’t know,” Greg replied. He didn’t like being the sensible one of the group. Everyone always made fun of the sensible one. He’d rather be the wild and crazy one. But somehow he always ended up sensible.

“I don’t think we should go in there,” he said, staring up at the neglected old house.

“Are you chicken?” Bird asked.

“Chicken!” Michael joined in.

Bird began to cluck loudly, tucking his hands into his armpits and flapping his

arms. With his beady eyes and beaky nose, he looked just like a chicken.

Greg didn’t want to laugh, but he couldn’t help it.

Bird always made him laugh.

The clucking and flapping seemed to end the discussion. They were standing at

the foot of the broken concrete steps that led up to the screened porch.

“Look. The window next to the front door is broken,” Shari said. “We can just

reach in and open the door.”

“This is cool,” Michael said enthusiastically.