From the Valley of the Missing | Page 8

boy, announcing that from that day
on he would take the place of her own child who had died a few months
before. No person had told Everett that the millionaire was not his
father, nor was he made to understand that the mother and the home
were not his by right of birth. His bright mind and handsome
appearance were the pride of his adopted mother's life, and his rich
father smiled only the more leniently when the lad showed a rebellious
spirit. In the child's dark, limpid eyes slumbered primeval passions,
needing but the dawn of manhood to break forth, perhaps to destroy the
soul beneath their reckless domination.
Everett was entertaining Ann and Horace Shellington at dinner, and
after the repast the youngsters betook themselves to the large square
room given to the young host's own use. Here were multitudinous
playthings and mechanical toys of all descriptions. For many minutes
the children had been too interested to note that the shadows were
grown long and that a somber gloom had settled down over the
cemetery that lay just beyond the windows.
Ann Shellington, a delicate little creature of eight, looked up nervously.
"Everett, draw down the curtain," she said. "It looks so ghostly out
there!"

Ann made a motion toward the window; but the boy did not obey her.
"Isn't that just like a girl, Horace?" he asked. "I'm not afraid of ghosts.
Dead people can't walk, can they, Horace?"
The other boy answered "No" thoughtfully, as he started a miniature
train across the length of the room.
"Then who is it that walks in the night out there?" insisted the girl.
"Lots of town people have seen it. It's a woman with shaggy hair, and
sometimes her eyes turn green."
"Pouf!" scoffed Everett. "My father says there aren't any such things as
ghosts. I wouldn't be a fraidy cat, Ann."
"I'm not a fraidy cat," pouted the girl. "I always go upstairs alone, don't
I, Horace?"
Another answer in the affirmative, and Horace proceeded to roll the
train back over the carpet.
"If you had any mother," said Everett, "she'd tell you there weren't any
ghosts. My mother tells me that."
"I haven't any mother," sighed the little girl, listlessly folding her hands
in her lap.
"Nor any father, either," supplemented Horace, with seemingly no
thought of the magnitude of his statement. "I don't believe in ghosts,
anyhow!"
He glanced up as he spoke, and the train fell with a bang to the floor.
Everett Brimbecomb dropped the toy he held in his hand, and Ann
bounded from her chair. A white face with wide eyes, staring through
scraggly gray hair, appeared at the window. For only an instant it
pressed against the pane, then vanished as if it had never been.
"It was a woman," gasped Horace, "or was it a--"

"It wasn't a ghost," interrupted Everett stoutly. "I dare follow it out
there. Look at me!"
He straightened his shoulders, threw up his dark head, and opened the
door leading to the narrow walk at the side of the house. In another
moment the watching boy and girl at the window saw him dart into the
hedge and a minute later emerge through it, picking his way among the
ancient graves. Suddenly from behind a tall monument stole a figure,
and as it approached the solemn eyes of the apparition smiled in dull
wonder on Everett Brimbecomb.
Scraggy held out her hands. "Don't run away, little 'un," she whispered.
"There be bats flyin' about in my head; but my cat won't hurt ye."
She passed one arm about the snarling creature perched on her shoulder;
but the cat with a hiss only raised himself higher.
"Don't spit at the pretty boy, Kitty--pretty pussy, black pussy!"
wheedled the woman. "He won't hurt ye, childy. Come nearer, will ye?
This be a good cat."
"Are you a ghost?" demanded Everett, edging into the light.
"Nope, I ain't no ghost. I love ye, pretty boy. Ye won't tell no one that I
speak to ye, will ye? I ain't doin' no hurt."
"What do you carry that cat for, and what's your name?" demanded
Everett insolently; for the proud young eyes had noticed the disheveled
figure. "If any one of our men see you about here, they'll shoot you. I'd
shoot you and your cat, too, if I had my father's gun!"
Scraggy smiled wanly. "Screech Owl's my name," said she. "They call
me that 'cause I'm batty. But ye wouldn't hurt me, little 'un, 'cause I
love ye. How old be ye?"
"Six years old; but it isn't any of your business. Crazy people ought to
be locked up. You'd better go away from here. My father owns that
house, and--don't you follow me through the hedge. Get