I took a sheet off the bed and tied it to the bedpost and let it out the window. Then I climbed out the window and shinnied down until I touched the ground. Then I ran to the garage, quiet, and I got a couple of shovels and I ran to the empty lot. It was hotter than ever. And I started to dig, and all the while I dug, the Screaming Woman screamed…
It was hard work. Shoving in the shovel and lifting the rocks and glass. And I knew I’d be doing it all afternoon and maybe I wouldn’t finish in time. What could I do? Run tell other people? But they’d be like Mom and Dad, pay no attention. I just kept digging, all by myself.
About ten minutes later, Dippy Smith came along the path through the empty lot. He’s my age and goes to my school.
‘Hi, Margaret,’ he said.
‘Hi, Dippy,’ I gasped.
‘What you doing?’ he asked.
‘Digging.’
‘For what?’
‘I got a Screaming Lady in the ground and I’m digging for her,’ I said.
‘I don’t hear no screaming,’ said Dippy.
‘You sit down and wait awhile and you’ll hear her scream yet. Or better still, help me dig.’
‘I don’t dig unless I hear a scream,’ he said.
We waited.
‘Listen!’ I cried. ‘Did you hear it?’
‘Hey,’ said Dippy, with slow appreciation, his eyes gleaming. ‘That’s okay. Do it again.’
‘Do what again?’
‘The scream.’
‘We got to wait,’ I said, puzzled.
‘Do it again,’ he insisted, shaking my arm. ‘Go on.’ He dug in his pocket for a brown aggie. ‘Here.’ He shoved it at me. ‘I’ll give you this marble if you do it again.’
A scream came out of the ground.
‘Hot dog!’ said Dippy. ‘Teach me to do it!’ He danced around as if I was a miracle.
‘I don’t…’ I started to say.
‘Did you get the Throw-Your-Voice book for a dime from that Magic Company in Dallas. Texas?’ cried Dippy. ‘You got one of those tin ventriloquist contraptions in your mouth?’
‘Y-yes,’ I lied, for I wanted him to help. ‘If you’ll help dig, I’ll tell you about it later.’
‘Swell,’ he said. ‘Give me a shovel.’
We both dug together, and from time to time the woman screamed.
‘Boy,’ said Dippy. ‘You’d think she was right under foot. You’re wonderful. Maggie.’ Then he said. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Who?’
‘The Screaming Woman. You must have a name for her.’
‘Oh, sure.’ I thought a moment. ‘Her name’s Wilma Schweiger and she’s a rich old woman, ninety-six years old, and she was buried by a man named Spike, who counterfeited ten-dollar bills.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Dippy.
‘And there’s hidden treasure buried with her, and I. I’m a grave robber come to dig her out and get it,’ I gasped, digging excitedly.
Dippy made his eyes Oriental and mysterious. ‘Can I be a grave robber, too?’ He had a better idea. ‘Let’s pretend it’s the Princess Ommanatra, an Egyptian queen, covered with diamonds!’
We kept digging and I thought. Oh, we will rescue her, we will. If only we keep on!
‘Hey, I just got an idea,’ said Dippy. And he ran off and got a piece of cardboard. He scribbled on it with crayon.
‘Keep digging!’ I said. ‘We can’t stop!’
‘I’m making a sign. See? SLUMBERLAND CEMETERY! We can bury some birds and beetles here, in matchboxes and stuff. I’ll go find some butterflies.’
‘No, Dippy!’
‘It’s more fun that way. I’ll get me a dead cat, too, maybe…’
‘Dippy, use your shovel! Please!’
‘Aw,’ said Dippy. ‘I’m tired. I think I’ll go home and take a nap.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Who says so?’
‘Dippy, there’s something I want to tell you.’
‘What?’
He gave the shovel a kick.
I whispered in his ear. ‘There’s really a woman buried here.’
‘Why sure there is,’ he said. ‘You said it, Maggie.’
‘You don’t believe me, either.’
‘Tell me how you throw your voice and I’ll keep on digging.’
‘But I can’t tell you, because I’m not doing it.’ I said, ‘Look, Dippy. I’ll stand way over here and you listen there.’
The Screaming Woman screamed again.
‘Hey!’ said Dippy. ‘There really is a woman here!’
‘That’s what I tried to say.’
‘Let’s dig!’ said Dippy.
We dug for twenty minutes.
‘I wonder who she is?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I wonder if it’s Mrs Nelson or Mrs Turner or Mrs Bradley. I wonder if she’s pretty. Wonder what color her hair is? Wonder if she’s thirty or ninety or sixty?’
‘Dig!’ I said.
The mound grew high.
‘Wonder if she’ll reward us for digging her up.’
‘Sure.’
‘A quarter, do you think?’
‘More than that. I bet it’s a dollar.’
Dippy remembered as he dug, ‘I read a book once of magic. There was a Hindu with no clothes on who crept down in a grave and slept there sixty days, not eating anything, no malts, no chewing gum or candy, no air, for sixty days.’ His face fell. ‘Say, wouldn’t it be awful if it was only a radio buried here and us working so hard?’
‘A radio’s nice, it’d be all ours.’
Just then a shadow fell across us.
‘Hey, you kids, what you think you’re doing?’
We turned. It was Mr Kelly, the man who owned the empty lot. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Kelly,’ we said.
‘Tell you what I want you to do,’ said Mr Kelly. ‘I want you to take those shovels and take that soil and shovel it right back in that hole you been digging. That’s what I want you to do.’
My heart started beating fast again. I wanted to scream myself.
‘But Mr Kelly, there’s a Screaming Woman and…’
‘I’m not interested. I don’t hear a thing.’
‘Listen!’ I cried.
The scream.
Mr Kelly listened and shook his head. ‘Don’t hear nothing. Go on now, fill it up and get home with you before I give you my foot!’
We filled the hole all back in again. And all the while we filled it in, Mr Kelly stood there, arms folded, and the woman screamed, but Mr Kelly pretended not to hear it.
When we were finished, Mr Kelly stomped off, saying, ‘Go on home now. And if I catch you here again…’
I turned to Dippy. ‘He’s the one,’ I whispered.
‘Huh?’ said Dippy.
‘He murdered Mrs Kelly. He buried her here, after he strangled her, in a box, but she came to. Why, he stood right here and she screamed and he wouldn’t pay any attention.’
‘Hey,’ said Dippy. ‘That’s right. He stood right here and lied to us.’
‘There’s only one thing to do.’ I said. ‘Call the police and have them come arrest Mr Kelly.’
We ran for the corner store telephone.
The police knocked on Mr Kelly’s door five minutes later. Dippy and I were hiding in the bushes, listening.
‘Mr Kelly?’ said the police officer.
‘Yes, sir, what can I do for you?’
‘Is Mrs Kelly at home?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘May we see her, sir?’
‘Of course. Hey, Anna!’
Mrs Kelly came to the door and looked out. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ apologized the officer. ‘We had a report that you were buried out in an empty lot, Mrs Kelly. It sounded like a child made the call, but we had to be certain. Sorry to have troubled you.’
‘It’s those blasted kids,’ cried Mr Kelly, angrily. ‘If I ever catch them, I’ll rip them limb from limb!’
‘Cheezit!’ said Dippy, and we both ran.
‘What’ll we do now?’ I said.
‘I got to go home,’ said Dippy. ‘Boy, we’re really in trouble. We’ll get a licking for this.’
‘But what about the Screaming Woman?’
‘To heck with her,’ said Dippy. ‘We don’t dare go near that empty lot again. Old man Kelly’ll be waiting around with his razor strap and lambast heck out’n us. And I just happened to remember, Maggie. Ain’t old man Kelly sort of deaf, hard-of-hearing?’
‘Oh, my gosh,’ I said. ‘No wonder he didn’t hear the screams.’
‘So long,’ said Dippy. ‘We sure got in trouble over your darn old ventriloquist voice. I’ll be seeing you.’
I was left all alone in the world, no one to help me, no one to believe me at all. I just wanted to crawl down in that box with the Screaming Woman and die. The police were after me now, for lying to them, only I didn’t know it was a lie, and my father was probably looking for me, too, or would be once he found my bed empty. There was only one last thing to do, and I did it.
I went from house to house, all down the street, near the empty lot. And I rang every bell and when the door opened I said: ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Griswold, but is anyone missing from your house?’ or ‘Hello, Mrs Pikes, you’re looking fine today. Glad to see you home.’ And once I saw that the lady of the house was home I just chatted awhile to be polite, and went on down the street.
The hours were rolling along. It was getting late. I kept thinking, oh, there’s only so much air in that box with that woman under the earth, and if I don’t hurry, she’ll suffocate, and I got to rush! So I rang bells and knocked on doors, and it got later, and I was just about to give up and go home, when I knocked on the last door, which was the door of Mr Charlie Nesbitt, who lives next to us. I kept knocking and knocking.
Instead of Mrs Nesbitt, or Helen as my father calls her, coming to the door, why it was Mr Nesbitt. Charlie, himself.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s you, Margaret.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Good afternoon.’
‘What can I do for
