The Great Snapping Turtle Adventure by Susan Yaruta-Young

terrific!” raved Charles, diving back down into his plate and coming up with a long, crunchy ear of corn. Butter flew as he bit in and pieces of corn pulp sprayed all over his face.
    â€œGeez, Charles,” groaned Max. “We can’t take you anywhere.”

CHAPTER 10

    S TUFFED AND SITTING ON the porch of the Vienna Inn, the boys and Fred listened to the Nanticoke River as it quietly lapped against the bulkheads. They listened to the mutter of sleepy ducks and geese, the swish of marsh reeds blowing in the soft, salty wind, and to Miss Marie’s rocking chair as it creaked back and forth over loose floor boards. They listened to the humming whine of giant mosquitoes looking for a sweet bit of human flesh to nip. Slap! Lap. Creak. Mutter. Swish. Hum. Slap!
    And eventually they also listened to the shadowy voice of Miss Marie, as she spun the ghostly tale of the Vienna Inn.
    â€œOf course, it all began long before my time. Long before I bought this place. Long before I was born or even thought about. I hear tell they first suspected it when a family by the name of Whitney first owned this place about 50-odd years ago. Not like they heard it all over the house, and like they heard it every day, now either. But usually it would make sounds down in the summer kitchen. Just about this time of year. Late summer like it is, when crabs are running good and mosquitoes are still humming about. Got you! ” said Miss Marie, with a fast slap to her muscular arm. She placed her thumb to her forefinger and flicked the unlucky insect off into the grass.
    â€œThat’s the only thing I hate about the Shore, the mosquitoes,” sighed Charles.
    â€œThey make me feel itchy all over every time I hear one humming,” said Max.
    â€œWell, they have one good purpose, as far as I can tell,” said Miss Marie.
    â€œWhat’s that?” asked Fred.
    â€œThey keep a majority of the city folk away from our Eastern Shore. Once a city person has been through just one of our buggy summers, they’re quick to pack up their bags and high tail it back home across the Bay Bridge to big lights, few bugs, and air conditioning. Only folks with true Shore blood in their veins are willing to put up with these critters. And even we have a hard time of it!” said Miss Marie.
    â€œBut back to the ghost, ok, Miss Marie?” said Charles anxiously. “’Cause if we start talking and thinking mosquitoes, I won’t be able to sit still.”
    â€œPoor little guy, of course, let me go on. It was the Whitney family that first suspected something unusual was about. A sound in the summer kitchen, when all other folk were out of the house. Old Mr. Whitney was a real skeptic. He thought it was outside of the house, someone playing him for a fool or maybe just rats rustling about. So, Mr. Whitney bought every kind of rat trap available at the hardware in Cambridge. Then he went to Salisbury and bought some more. But no luck. He couldn’t catch whatever was making that noise. Then he tried bait. He tried bacon, cheese, sausage, butter, and ham, but still no critters got caught. Only thing he ever managed to catch in those traps was his finger, or so the story goes. And that sure didn’t please him none.
    â€œAnyway, no critter in the traps, but still a sound like the creaking of a rocking chair. Like the way this one of mine is sounding right now.” She rocked back and forth without speaking for a few minutes. Max and Charles could feel shivers of expectation climb up their backbones, bone by bone.
    â€œThen, one night, Mr. Whitney’s wife, Astor, thought she saw something. It wasn’t much, just a light, but slipping the way a shadow will, slowly up the wall. And there was a slight perfume smell, but not the brand she used. It made her feel a bit creepy, and she indicated to Mr. Whitney, perhaps they should think about vacating this place. And they did, hanging up a for-sale sign the