I felt very cheerful the following morning. I guess it was because I didn't
have to worry about that certain someone breaking in on me as I slept.
We all went to Sunday services. Uncle Richard believed that attending would boost local morale, which it did. I was glad to go really. It gave me a chance to sneak around the cemetery.
Becca and Tom showed up with their families and Becca caught my eye more than once during the service as to inquire about the Devil bag. I would grin and shrug then she would lean back in her pew, satisfied. It was rather hard to concentrate on the sermon. I kept feeling someone's eyes watching me; you know that back of the neck feeling. When the congregation was dismissed I headed over to an old oak where my friends stood waiting for me. A firm grip on my arm made me stop and turn to see Old man Spickler. He stood stony as ever, minus the usual stubble. I was about to say something but he stopped me and pulled me over to my friends. Tom and Becca shifted uneasily in Mr. Spickler's presence. He looked angry about something and we three could only guess what. "You three think yourselves to be pretty smart, eh?" he growled at us. We just looked at him. "Well I tell ye'. You aint and He knows it too. Come by later this evening while we got time. 'For there's killin's." and with that he released my arm and hobbled on towards his house at the edge of the cemetery. We exchanged confused and slightly frightened looks. After the way things were starting to get weird here, talking to Spickler didn't seem like such a bad idea. Needless to say we canceled our inner-cemetery expedition.
Later on, after lunch we went over to Old man Spickler's. He showed us into the kitchen and we all sat around a pine board table. His home was in a somewhat disorderly fashion. It suited Spickler. I happened to glance around at the assorted knickknacks and figurines. They were all, as far as I could see, from the Revolution, Civil, and World wars. It sort of looked like he had either been on the battlefield taking them up from the very soldiers or had raided the Smithsonian in Washington. Becca had also taken an interest in the memorabilia; she sat staring at a picture of Gettysburg that hung over the refrigerator. Tom, a little more curious, was walking around the living room fiddling with different pieces of Spickler's collection. Mr. Spickler came from the pantry and sat at the table with a mug of strong coffee. Becca looked at it and wrinkled her nose. She hated coffee. I smirked; I found the scent of coffee relaxing so I didn't complain. Spickler noticed, "Old Colonial recipe. Best stuff in New York." I nodded "So. What's the deal?" I asked folding my arms on the table. Spickler drank some coffee. "Alright. Stop messing with the Horseman, Shortcake." I narrowed my eyes "It's Charlotte and what do you mean stop? He started it!" Spickler shook his head, "Don't matter. He's gonna try an' finish it. Just watch." I leaned back in my seat "I say let him try!" Becca gave me a look "Maybe we should listen, Charl." Here goes my really short temper. "Listen! If we did how, exactly, are we going to stop him? Its not like he's just going to quit on his own, you know." "You've got a point there, missy. I reckon he's after something. Any guesses as to what?" I didn't respond and looked at the table. Becca watched me with renewed interest. "Charl, what is he talking about?" I didn't answer. Spickler chuckled "Nothing to say there, missy? I thought not." He looked up. "Boy! What in the world are doin' put that down. It aint meant to be played with!" Becca and I looked at Tom who was holding a rather ancient Bugle with faded red and gold tassels. "What is it?" Becca asked. Mr. Spickler grumbled something before he answered. "It's a old bugle from a red coat officer." "Can I have it?" Tom spoke up still holding the horn. "I'll give you twenty for it." Spickler eyed him but finally agreed. We all left not long after. Becca questioned me nonstop about what Spickler had meant, while Tom looked over his new bugle.
We all went to Sunday services. Uncle Richard believed that attending would boost local morale, which it did. I was glad to go really. It gave me a chance to sneak around the cemetery.
Becca and Tom showed up with their families and Becca caught my eye more than once during the service as to inquire about the Devil bag. I would grin and shrug then she would lean back in her pew, satisfied. It was rather hard to concentrate on the sermon. I kept feeling someone's eyes watching me; you know that back of the neck feeling. When the congregation was dismissed I headed over to an old oak where my friends stood waiting for me. A firm grip on my arm made me stop and turn to see Old man Spickler. He stood stony as ever, minus the usual stubble. I was about to say something but he stopped me and pulled me over to my friends. Tom and Becca shifted uneasily in Mr. Spickler's presence. He looked angry about something and we three could only guess what. "You three think yourselves to be pretty smart, eh?" he growled at us. We just looked at him. "Well I tell ye'. You aint and He knows it too. Come by later this evening while we got time. 'For there's killin's." and with that he released my arm and hobbled on towards his house at the edge of the cemetery. We exchanged confused and slightly frightened looks. After the way things were starting to get weird here, talking to Spickler didn't seem like such a bad idea. Needless to say we canceled our inner-cemetery expedition.
Later on, after lunch we went over to Old man Spickler's. He showed us into the kitchen and we all sat around a pine board table. His home was in a somewhat disorderly fashion. It suited Spickler. I happened to glance around at the assorted knickknacks and figurines. They were all, as far as I could see, from the Revolution, Civil, and World wars. It sort of looked like he had either been on the battlefield taking them up from the very soldiers or had raided the Smithsonian in Washington. Becca had also taken an interest in the memorabilia; she sat staring at a picture of Gettysburg that hung over the refrigerator. Tom, a little more curious, was walking around the living room fiddling with different pieces of Spickler's collection. Mr. Spickler came from the pantry and sat at the table with a mug of strong coffee. Becca looked at it and wrinkled her nose. She hated coffee. I smirked; I found the scent of coffee relaxing so I didn't complain. Spickler noticed, "Old Colonial recipe. Best stuff in New York." I nodded "So. What's the deal?" I asked folding my arms on the table. Spickler drank some coffee. "Alright. Stop messing with the Horseman, Shortcake." I narrowed my eyes "It's Charlotte and what do you mean stop? He started it!" Spickler shook his head, "Don't matter. He's gonna try an' finish it. Just watch." I leaned back in my seat "I say let him try!" Becca gave me a look "Maybe we should listen, Charl." Here goes my really short temper. "Listen! If we did how, exactly, are we going to stop him? Its not like he's just going to quit on his own, you know." "You've got a point there, missy. I reckon he's after something. Any guesses as to what?" I didn't respond and looked at the table. Becca watched me with renewed interest. "Charl, what is he talking about?" I didn't answer. Spickler chuckled "Nothing to say there, missy? I thought not." He looked up. "Boy! What in the world are doin' put that down. It aint meant to be played with!" Becca and I looked at Tom who was holding a rather ancient Bugle with faded red and gold tassels. "What is it?" Becca asked. Mr. Spickler grumbled something before he answered. "It's a old bugle from a red coat officer." "Can I have it?" Tom spoke up still holding the horn. "I'll give you twenty for it." Spickler eyed him but finally agreed. We all left not long after. Becca questioned me nonstop about what Spickler had meant, while Tom looked over his new bugle.