The Haunted Toolshed

  Dave Keane

  Joe Sherlock

  Kid Detective

  Case #000001: The Haunted Toolshed

  For Christine, who always believed

  —D.K.

  Contents

  Chapter One: Joe Who?

  Chapter Two: The Evening Caller?

  Chapter Three: Strange Goings-On

  Chapter Four: That’s the Spirit

  Chapter Five: Toe Jam

  Chapter Six: Sister Sledgehammer

  Chapter Seven: Howl

  Chapter Eight: Red Leader

  Chapter Nine: Speed Demon

  Chapter Ten: Toe Break

  Chapter Eleven: Crime Scream

  Chapter Twelve: Barf Bath

  Chapter Thirteen: Bundt Cakes and Black Holes

  Chapter Fourteen: Who’s on First?

  Chapter Fifteen: Strangers in a Strange Land

  Chapter Sixteen: Can I See a Show of Hands?

  Chapter Seventeen: Calling for Backup

  Chapter Eighteen: Close Encounter

  Chapter Nineteen: Spilling the Beans

  Chapter Twenty: Lightning Strikes

  Chapter Twenty-One: I Got Your Poof Right Here!

  Chapter Twenty-Two: You’ve Got No Mail!

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Off to the Wheelbarrow Races

  Chapter Twenty-Four: So Close and Yet So Far

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The Beast

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Case Closed

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Joe Who?

  My name is Joe Sherlock.

  But almost everybody just calls me Sherlock.

  Never Joe.

  In fact, most people around here think I squirted into this world without a proper first name attached.

  But for me, Sherlock is the perfect fit, like a worn-out pair of sneakers that you just love but your mom throws out anyway, because she’s simply horrified that one of her friends might actually see you wearing them.

  So what’s so great about having a name like a smelly old pair of sneakers?

  Well, Sherlock also happens to be the name of the greatest detective who ever looked through a magnifying glass: Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And just like the great Mr. Holmes, I was born with a natural gift for solving mysteries.

  It may sound weird, but while most kids my age are busy doing homework, playing soccer, or scooping out their ear wax with paper clips, I stay busy preparing myself for a life of mystery solving.

  I’ve seen just about every detective movie ever made. I’ve seen the really good ones that keep you on the edge of your seat so much that you end up chewing off half your toenails without even realizing it. And I’ve also seen all the old black-and-white ones where everybody stands around talking so much that you wake up on the floor two hours later in a pool of your own drool.

  But no amount of movie watching could have prepared me for the Case of the Haunted Toolshed. Just hearing that name makes me feel like I have a pair of live squirrels in my stomach and two corks shoved up my nostrils…if you know what I mean. So bolt the doors, lock the windows, and remember to keep breathing as I tell you about my first official case as a private detective: Case #000001.

  Chapter Two

  The Evening Caller?

  I don’t hear the doorbell at first.

  It’s Friday night and I’m in the bathroom trying to figure out why I can’t get my Inspector Wink-Wink electric toothbrush to turn on. I can’t hear much of anything because I’m too busy smacking my toothbrush against the side of the sink—which is basically how I try to fix most things.

  My stubborn toothbrush does not respond.

  So I bang it harder.

  Inspector Wink-Wink is a cartoon show character that I like a lot. He’s a detective, like me. But to be totally honest, it’s really a show for younger kids. I’m probably one of the biggest Inspector Wink-Wink fans on the planet. But I try not to let anyone know because it’s a little weird that I still like a little-kid show.

  Before I realize what’s happening, the top section with the brushing bristles pops off the base, bounces off the mirror, and falls into the toilet with a sickening little ploop sound. I watch in silent horror as it sinks into that nasty, dark cave at the bottom of the toilet bowl.

  I freeze, clutch my forehead, and make a weird squeaking noise that sounds like someone just stepped on a hamster.

  In the terrible silence that follows, just as I hear the doorbell ring on its desperate third try, I notice that I’ve chipped the rim of the sink.

  This makes me think of two important facts. Fact one: It’s Friday night and my mom is out of town at my aunt Peachy’s house in Phoenix (which is somewhere in Florida, I think). My aunt Peachy broke her clavicle, and my mom is staying with her for a few days to help take care of my creepy twin cousins. Fact two: My dad is sick in bed.

  So I do what any kid would do in this situation when both his parents are unavailable: I quickly cover up the sink’s missing chunk with a gigantic blob of sparkly toothpaste.

  “Mr. Asher is here and he wants to hire you!” my little sister, Hailey, exclaims, throwing open the bathroom door and nearly crushing all the delicate little bones in my right elbow with the doorknob.

  “Aaaaaaaaaagh!” I groan like Frankenstein’s monster as I roll around on the bathroom mat. I’m almost certain that my elbow bones have been crushed into a fine powder. For some unexplained reason, I can smell boiled cabbage—which can’t be a good sign.

  “Why do they call it a funny bone again?” I wheeze.

  “Quit goofing around, Sherlock,” she whispers. “Poor Mr. Asher looks like he’s seen a ghost!”

  Finally, my first official case as a private detective has arrived.

  Chapter Three

  Strange Goings-On

  “Hi, Mr. Asher,” I say when I find him in our living room.

  “I’m sorry to bother you so late, Sherlock,” he says, nervously fingering the handle of his cane.

  Hailey is right. Mr. Asher looks freaked out. His eyes are all jumpy and bugged out, like he’s a boxer who just got punched hard below the belt. Magnifying the problem are his thick glasses, which make his eyes appear to be the size of white tennis balls. His face is covered in big gobs of sweat. His nose is making an eerie whistling noise.

  “Sherlock, you must help us,” he says between nose whistles. “There are strange things happening at the end of Baker Street. I may have…a poltergeist.”

  “I see,” I say like any thoughtful detective would say, although I’m really thinking that I have absolutely no idea what “poltergeist” means.

  “Cool, a poltergeist,” Hailey says from behind me.

  Great! My seven-year-old sister knows what he’s talking about, but I don’t have a clue. I make a mental note to brush up on my vocabulary.

  “A poltergeist is a kind of ghost,” Mr. Asher explains.

  “Oh…I know that,” I say like an idiot.

  “My mother is visiting from the old country, and these strange events have made her very nervous,” he continues. “Today she fainted three times, and now she’s developed a terrible case of flatulence.”

  “Cool, flatulence,” Hailey chirps.

  What is everyone talking about?

  “Flatulence?” I reply to Mr. Asher.

  Hailey answers for him. “That means she’s farting up a storm.”

  This case is not off to a great start.

  Mr. Asher is a chunky, bald man who combs the wispy hair from the back of his head up and over his bald spot, which he then swirls around and around into a sort of hairy cinnamon roll.

  “It started last night, with str
ange noises, like moaning and shrieking from another world,” Mr. Asher explains as his nose whistle mysteriously changes key. “Then things start to disappear. Suddenly my mailbox is gone. Poof! My mother’s fresh bundt cake is gone without a trace. Poof! Now even her glass eye is missing. Poof!”

  “Cool, a glass eye,” Hailey says excitedly.

  I give her my best “shut up now” glare. But truthfully, the thought of Grandma Asher’s moist glass eye rolling around somewhere on a dusty carpet makes my stomach tighten into a fist.

  “I think something evil has moved into my toolshed,” Mr. Asher croaks in a way that no kid ever wants to hear an adult croak.

  I’m waiting for Hailey to say, “Cool, something evil.” But she doesn’t.

  In fact, the room gets quiet. Too quiet. I stare at Mr. Asher’s magnified eyes. They slowly blink back at me, like twin garage doors opening and closing. Then even the tune he’s been playing on his nose suddenly falls silent. It’s so quiet in here you could hear a bug change its mind.

  Then we hear it. A hollow, spine-straightening moan from another world. The evil spirits from beyond this life have followed Mr. Asher down the street from his house! The poltergeist is now in my house!

  Chapter Four

  That’s the Spirit

  The three of us remain frozen in mindless terror.

  We strain to hear the sound again. Silence has never sounded so loud.

  Then the groan returns. It’s low and distant, like the sound a cow would make if a barn fell over on it.

  Without warning, the evil spirit brushes my hand with its bony fingers! Blind with fear, I jump to my feet in a crouch. “Mommy!” I blurt out like a baby goat.

  But then I look at my hand. It’s not the evil spirit that has touched my hand at all. I’m still holding the base of my Inspector Wink-Wink toothbrush, which has finally sprung to life. It buzzes away cheerfully, obviously unaware that its top half remains at the bottom of the toilet.

  I switch it off. But it keeps buzzing away. It is clearly in the off position, but it continues to buzz like mad. Has the whole world gone bananas? I wiggle it. I shake it. I finally whack it on the small table next to me. It goes quiet.

  Just as I begin to feel relief, the rumbling groan returns. I look at Mr. Asher, who is now as white as a tub of sour cream.

  “Um…that’s just my dad, Mr. Asher,” Hailey says calmly from behind me. “He probably can’t reach his pain pills. I’ll be right back.” She runs through the kitchen and down the hallway to get my dad his pain pills.

  I clear my throat while I try to think of something to say. “Mr. Asher,” I begin with only a hint of a squeak, “I’ll ask my dad if I can stay out late to work on this case. I’d like to help you get to the bottom of this mystery as quickly as possible. But I must warn you that my fee is ten dollars a day…or night.”

  I secretly hope that he says that my price is too high, calls me a dope, and storms out mumbling every bad word not in the dictionary.

  But, of course, he doesn’t. My luck is always like this.

  “That sounds reasonable,” he says, standing and edging closer to the door. “Sherlock, I’ve called the police, but they just laugh at me and I…I simply don’t know where else to turn.” He looks around the room as if he doesn’t remember how he even got here. “I’ve heard that you have a knack for solving mysteries. So please…just call me and let me know when you’ll be arriving.”

  Before I can change my mind, he’s out the door and fading into the inky darkness like a ghost with a limp.

  I realize that I don’t have his phone number. I realize I should have asked for more than ten dollars. And with a gasp, I realize I’ve made an ugly chip in the table with the base of my toothbrush.

  I haven’t even left the house yet and I’ve already damaged a sink, a table, and an elbow. I can’t imagine how things could get any worse….

  Then I hear the toilet flush.

  My toothbrush! The brushing bristles of my Inspector Wink-Wink toothbrush are gone forever! Tears creep into the corners of my eyes. My nose fills with snot. I even choke back a sob. (Hey, it was a collector’s item!)

  I’m struck with the uneasy feeling that this evening is only going to get worse.

  Chapter Five

  Toe Jam

  My dad’s not sick in the traditional way, like someone with a stomach virus, a lung infection, or an armpit rash.

  My dad had to stay home from work today because of something called gout. It’s in his big toe.

  Medically speaking, gout makes my dad’s toe slightly swollen and the color of uncooked hamburger meat. Just the thought of his rotten toe makes me want to spew the entire contents of my stomach onto the carpet.

  Our family doctor, Dr. Bell, says that gout happens to old guys like my dad when they stuff themselves with a lot of junk food while their wives are out of town. He says that a bunch of gross acid squirts out of the guy’s liver or gizzard or something and gets sucked down to his toes by gravity.

  I enter my dad’s room slowly, staring at his big, ugly toe like it’s about to explode and spray toe jelly all over the room.

  His toe now rises proudly out of the bedsheets, a shining example of everything that can go wrong with a foot.

  “I need to help Mr. Asher with a mystery,” I whisper to the toe.

  “I heard,” my dad answers from the other end of the bed.

  “He thinks his house might be haunted,” I say.

  “Hailey told me all about it,” he murmurs.

  “Funny, huh?” I ask.

  “Nothing is funny right now,” he moans.

  “Um…so I’m going to run down there and see if—”

  “She tells me that Grandma Asher is farting up a storm,” he interrupts.

  “Well, that’s not really part of the mystery,” I reply quickly.

  He laughs quietly. “Silent but deadly.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “She wants to help you, Sherlock,” he mutters.

  “Grandma Asher wants to help me?” I ask.

  “No. Hailey. Hailey wants to go with you, but I told her she can’t,” he says.

  “I might be out pretty late,” I say.

  “Be back by nine o’clock,” he mumbles.

  “How about ten?” I ask, realizing that it’s already seven-thirty.

  “Nine o’clock sharp,” he slurs. “And be very, very careful that your mother doesn’t find out.”

  “Okay,” I sigh, staring at the sad family of little piggies that live at the end of my dad’s foot. I realize that after nine and a half years of life, I’ve never really taken a good look at my dad’s toes. Now I know why. They look like they’ve been run over by a tank. Or a Zamboni.

  “Have your toes always been bent like that?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the thought of what my mother would think of my after-hours detective work.

  “It’s rude to stare at a man’s feet, son,” he says.

  “Dad, does this mean you’re not taking me and Hailey to the circus tomorrow?” I ask, unable to take my eyes off his gnarled toes.

  “Sorry, son,” he says softly. “Maybe next year.”

  My dad starts to snore. I hope Hailey hasn’t given him too many pain pills. He seems a bit loopy. I stare at his messed-up toes a bit longer, then stumble out into the hallway, holding my lurching stomach. As I close the door, I make a pledge that I will never take my normal-looking feet for granted again.

  “Sherlock!” my older sister, Jessie, yells from the other end of the hall. “For some reason Mr. Asher is on the phone, and he’s rambling on about how you better get over to his house fast.”

  Chapter Six

  Sister Sledgehammer

  “Hello?” I say, hoping Mr. Asher has called to say that it was all just a big mistake.

  But the phone is dead. “Hello?” I say again just to make sure he’s gone.

  “Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Jessie sneers while rolling her eyes. This is nothin
g new. She rolls her eyes whenever she communicates with anyone.

  “Mr. Asher’s up to his neck in weird stuff tonight,” I say, staring at the phone. “Dad says I can go and help him get to the bottom of things.”

  Jessie is thirteen years old and has been extremely moody since she turned eleven. She spends most of her time locked in her room practicing being angry.

  Jessie’s most favorite thing to do is to call her friends and talk about how miserable she is. Her second favorite thing to do is glare at me like I’m something stuck on the bottom of her shoe.

  “You flushed the toilet, didn’t you?” I ask, mostly to change the subject.

  “Aaaghgh,” she says again. “You’ve got a problem with that?” Another eye roll.

  “Well, my toothbrush was in there,” I explain.

  This stops her dead in her tracks. She can’t even roll her eyes. Her mouth drops open slightly.

  “Um,” I say, simply to break the uncomfortable silence. “It was my favorite toothbrush. A collector’s item, actually. I was about to fish it out of there right before you flushed it.”

  “Aaaghgh,” she gurgles, regaining her composure. She spins and storms off down the hall. She’s almost running. I’m sure she’s about to speed-dial all her friends to tell them that her freakish little brother now brushes his teeth in the toilet bowl.