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.”
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 ’em limb from limb!”
“Cheezit!” said Dippy, and we both ran.
“What’ll we do now?” I said.