The Mystery of the Whispering Witch

resist saying.
    For a moment, Trixie thought they’d gone too far, for Regan was frowning up at them.
    At last, obviously realizing they were only teasing, he said, “Well, you just be careful.”
    The other girls had already moved out of the stable yard. Trixie was about to join them, when Regan put a restraining hand on Susie’s bridle.
    “One more thing, Trixie,” Regan said. “If you see Zeke, don’t you let him scare you with one of his weird tales.”
    Trixie was startled. She’d forgotten all about the Lisgard odd-job man. Now she thought of the stains on his overalls. Had they been blood?
    “Does he like to hunt?” she asked Regan abruptly. “Who, Zeke?” Regan scratched his red head. “Not that I know of. Why?”
    Trixie told him of Zeke’s strange appearance and was surprised when Regan laughed. “I expect it was just paint,” he said. “Zeke’s been doing a lot of painting lately.”
    “Oh!” Trixie’s face fell and she felt a pang of disappointment upon hearing such a mundane explanation of the stains.
    She turned Susie’s head toward the three girls, who were waiting for her. At the last moment, however, she couldn’t resist leaning from her saddle and whispering to Regan, “I found out what Caleb Lisgard died of. It was a bowl of mashed potatoes.” She laughed when she noticed the puzzled look in his face.
    The four girls were riding easily when they came in sight of Lisgard House.
    Suddenly Fay gasped and pulled Strawberry to a halt as she stared straight ahead of her.
    Startled, Trixie raised herself in her saddle to get a better look and found herself gazing at a small group of people gathered outside the mansion’s iron front gates.
    She recognized four of them at once. They were the same members of the press who had tried to get Fay to talk to them at the hospital parking lot. There were, however, two additions to the group. One, Trixie knew, was Lewis Gregory, the owner of Lisgard House. A dark-haired young man, he seemed to have no hesitation in talking earnestly to the reporters.
    Trixie had never seen the other man before. He stood quietly. His long, thin face wore a serious and intent expression. A long cape hung from his shoulders. It made him look, she thought, a little like a magician about to pull a rabbit from a hat.
    Trixie heard Mr. Gregory announce, “And so, you see, I’ve been aware all along of the strange things that have been happening in my house. Is the place haunted? Has Sarah Sligo been summoned from her grave to exact her revenge on the innocent citizens of Sleepyside? Is there any truth to the persistent rumors that the witch’s phantom inhabits my property?”
    “Yeah?” Paul Trent prompted him, his pencil poised. “And what’s the answer?”
    “That,” Mr. Gregory said, “is what we’re about to find out. Folks, I want you to meet someone. This man”—he gestured toward the silent stranger—“is none other than Mr. Simon Hunter, the famous psychic investigator.”
    “Jeepers!” Trixie muttered under her breath. “I’ve never met one of those before. I wonder what a psychic investigator does?”
    Honey leaned sideways in her saddle and then whispered in her ear, “I’ve heard they’re sort of like ghost detectives. They investigate psychic phenomena.”
    They watched as the man in the black cape stirred but said nothing.
    “And so I’ve invited Mr. Hunter to come and discover exactly what’s going on at Lisgard House,” Mr. Gregory said.
    “Is this true?” the television reporter asked. At last Trixie remembered his name. It was Ed Gaf-fey, from Sleepyside’s small television station. The Beldens seldom watched him.
    Mr. Hunter smiled. “It’s quite true,” he replied quietly. “There are many stories of hauntings in our country. Some prove to be merely rumor and gossip. Some are not.”
    Paul Trent scratched his head with the end of his pencil. “And the haunting of Lisgard House?
    Which do you think this is? Do you think it’s possible for someone around here to be dabbling in black magic? Can a person call a dead spirit from the grave?”
    Mr. Hunter hesitated. “It’s not only possible,” he said at last, “but from what I’ve been told about this case so far, I’d say it’s very likely.”
    Ed Gaffey frowned. “Then who is it who’s doing all this witchcraft-black-magic stuff? Do you have any ideas?”
    “I have lots of ideas,” Mr. Hunter answered grimly, “though not necessarily the correct