3

Most likely he was homeless or a drifter. No one really knew anything about him—where he’d come from, where he lived. But a lot of kids had seen him hanging around the Coffman house.

“Maybe Spidey doesn’t like visitors,” Greg warned.

But Shari was already reaching in through the broken windowpane to unlock the front door. And after little effort, she turned the brass knob and the heavy wooden door swung open.

One by one, they stepped into the front entryway, Greg reluctantly bringing up the rear. It was dark inside the house. Only narrow beams of sunlight managed to trickle down through the heavy trees in front, creating pale circles of light on the worn brown carpet at their feet.

The floorboards squeaked as Greg and his friends made their way past the living room, which was bare except for a couple of overturned grocery store cartons against one wall.

Spidey’s furniture? Greg wondered.

The living room carpet, as threadbare as the one in the entryway, had a dark oval stain in the center of it. Greg and Bird, stopping in the doorway, both noticed it at the same time.

“Think it’s blood?” Bird asked, his tiny eyes lighting up with excitement.

Greg felt a chill on the back of his neck. “Probably ketchup,” he replied. Bird laughed and slapped him hard on the back.

Shari and Michael were exploring the kitchen. They were staring at the dust- covered counter as Greg and Bird stepped up behind them. They saw immediately what had captured their attention. Two fat gray mice were standing on the counter, staring back at Shari and Michael.

“They’re cute,” Shari said. “They look just like cartoon mice.”

The sound of her voice made the two rodents scamper along the counter, around the sink, and out of sight.

“They’re gross,” Michael said, making a disgusted face. “I think they were rats— not mice.”

“Rats have long tails. Mice don’t,” Greg told him.

“They were definitely rats,” Bird muttered, pushing past them and into the hallway. He disappeared toward the front of the house.

Shari reached up and pulled open a cabinet over the counter. Empty. “I guess Spidey never uses the kitchen,” she said.

“Well, I didn’t think he was a gourmet chef,” Greg joked.

He followed her into the long, narrow dining room, as bare and dusty as the other rooms. A low chandelier still hung from the ceiling, so brown with caked dust it was impossible to tell that it was glass.

“Looks like a haunted house,” Greg said softly.

“Boo,” Shari replied.

“There’s not much to see in here,” Greg complained, following her back to the

dark hallway. “Unless you get a thrill from dustballs.” Suddenly, a loud crack made him jump.

Shari laughed and squeezed his shoulder.

“What was that?” he cried, unable to stifle his fear.

“Old houses do things like that,” she said. “They make noises for no reason at all.”

“I think we should leave,” Greg insisted, embarrassed again that he’d acted so frightened. “I mean, it’s boring in here.”

“It’s kind of exciting being somewhere we’re not supposed to be,” Shari said, peeking into a dark, empty room—probably a den or study at one time.

“I guess,” Greg replied uncertainly.

They bumped into Michael. “Where’s Bird?” Greg asked.

“I think he went down to the basement,” Michael replied.