Curse of the Fairfield Witch by Paul Ferrante

Author:Paul Ferrante
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: friends, witch, high school, curse, ghost hunter, reality tv, fairfield, hometown, teenage boy, tv star

Chapter Fourteen

“One-for-three with a walk—not horrible,” chided LouAnne as the cousins laced up their sneakers the next morning. “And I liked that sacrifice bunt you laid down in the third inning. The base runner eventually came around to score.”

“Yeah,” said T.J., pleased that his cousin was actually paying attention. “That’s why Coach P. has me batting second, just like on our JV team. I’m pretty good at moving the runner.”

“And you did a Clemente-style basket catch out in center. Was that for my benefit?” she teased, remembering their midnight workout at Doubleday Field in April when the Hall of Fame outfielder’s ghost had taught T.J. the technique.

“Nah, I wasn’t showboating or anything. I actually used it in my JV games if the situation was right. Coach P. didn’t mind.”

“After what he saw that night, why would he?”

“Good point.”

“So, what do you think, Cuz? I’m dying to try that beach run.”

“You got it. We done stretching?”

“I’m loose. Lead the way.”

They hung a left onto Sasco Hill Road as they had the previous day, but instead of making another left onto Oldfield, they proceeded along the crest of Sasco Hill, passing majestic mansions and private clubs. “Lifestyles of the rich and famous, eh?” huffed LouAnne.

“Uh-huh,” T.J. replied, “but my dad told me some of these people lost their shirts in the economy downturn a couple years back. There’s still a ‘For Sale’ sign or two along this stretch.” They reached the end and then turned right down a steep incline to Sasco Beach, which was bordered on the right by an exclusive golf club.

“Sweet!” cried LouAnne as they cut across the narrow parking lot to the beach.

“No pink sand, but it’ll do,” said T.J., referring to their idyllic stay on the South Shore of Bermuda. The cousins found a ribbon of flat sand just below the high tide line and started running toward Southport. It was still somewhat cool, with a light breeze, and the salt air made for a delightful workout.

“So, you excited about Fenway Park tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yeah, it should be cool. I mean, I feel funny doing stuff like that, but if they really want us up there, why not? Bortnicker’s totally psyched up about it. He loves the Sox.”

“What do you think of Mr. Sherwood?”

“Seems like a really smart guy. At least he’s not like that crabby Mrs. Tilbury in Bermuda, who thought the paranormal stuff was all a bunch of baloney. But we know better.”

“You got that right.” She saw her opportunity. “Since we’re on the topic, can I ask you something?”

“Sure. What?”

“I’m gonna just come right out and say it, so don’t get mad, okay?”

“Just say it, Cuz.”

“All right. It’s just that, well, both Bortnicker and I are getting the impression that you’re a little more tuned in to this ghost stuff than you’re letting on. Am I right?”

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