Dave Casler
PO Box 98
Ridgway, Colorado 81432
Young Adult Novels by Dave Casler...
I've been told by publisher after publisher that there's no market for Young Adult novels. I think they're wrong! So I'm putting my novels on-line for you. Forget the publisher! Read to your heart's content--it's free! And, I'd like to hear from you, too! Contact Page.
You're reading About Phillip. Be sure to check out About Dan here.
Phillip is a computer nerd who suddenly discovers a liking for track. Everything would be fine except for his father.
About Series Home
About the About Series
Index to All Chapters
Here are all the chapters, disguised as asterisks. Hover your mouse over an asterisk to see the title of the chapter. Click on the asterisk to go straight to that chapter.
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(About Phillip Home) (Last) (Next)
The Haunted House
"Good night!" called Phillip over his shoulder. He hopped down the steps from Melanie’s porch. The rain was a mere mist but the wind had picked up. He made sure his jacket was zipped all the way up.
He didn’t have far to go—they lived next door to each other; only a hedge separated their yards. When he rounded the hedge he saw that no one had turned on the porch light for him. The only light was in Martin’s room.
Phillip stopped in his tracks. He stared: the dim yellow light from the streetlight made the house cold and empty. A cat passed silently at his feet, startling him. There was no sound anywhere; the mist damped out even traffic noises. He turned to look behind him; his shoes scraped on the wet sidewalk.
The memory of the evening evaporated, replaced by dread. He could taste it. He tried to put a name to it. What was wrong?
He looked up at the streetlight; the mist swirled in the orange glow. His glasses were wet again. Martin’s light disappeared, drawing his attention back to the house. It was haunted now, sprouting ghosts from every window. Fear oozed from the porch.
Phillip looked back at Melanie’s house. The blue light from the TV flickered on the lace curtains. Melanie laughed with her mother in the kitchen. He was sure she was describing the bus trip.
He appraised his own house and sighed. "Admit it, Phillip," he heard himself say. "You really don’t want to go home."
The thought startled him; he pushed it away. He forced himself to walk again; he turned into his driveway. He got as far as the porch steps and stopped again.
"No, Phillip." It was the inner voice again. "You don’t want to go inside—and you really don’t have to."
"Stupid!" He said it out loud.
He felt as though he carried a fifty-pound pack and the porch steps were each three feet high. He climbed nonetheless. Holding his breath, he opened the door and stepped inside.