Bradbury, Ray - SSC 13 (26 page)

 
          
“Margaret,”
said Father. “This is the place where Mr. Kelly dug yesterday, a big hole, to
bury his trash and garbage in.”

 
          
“But
during the night,” I said, “someone else used Mr. Kelly’s burying place to bury
a woman. And covered it all over again.”

 
          
“Well,
I’m going back in and take a cool shower,” said Dad.

 
          
“You
won’t help me dig?”

 
          
“Better
not stay out here too long,” said Dad. “It’s hot.”

 
          
Dad
walked off. I heard the back door slam.

 
          
I
stamped on the ground. “Darn,” I said.

 
          
The
screaming started again.

 
          
She
screamed and screamed. Maybe she had been tired and was resting and now she
began it all over, just for me.

 
          
I
stood in the empty lot in the hot sun and I felt like crying. I ran back to the
house and banged the door.

 
          
“Dad,
she’s screaming again!”

 
          
“Sure,
sure,” said Dad. “Come on.” And he led me to my upstairs bedroom. “Here,” he
said. He made me lie down and put a cold rag on my head. “Just take it easy.”

 
          
I
began to cry. “Oh, Dad, we can’t let her die. She’s all buried, like that
person in that story by Edgar Allan Poe, and think how awful it is to be
screaming and no one paying any attention.”

 
          
“I
forbid you to leave the house,” said Dad, worried. “You just lie there the rest
of the afternoon.” He went out and locked the door. I heard him and Mother
talking in the front room. After a while I stopped crying. I got up and tiptoed
to the window. My room was upstairs. It seemed high.

 
          
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 a while 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.”