My Life as a Haunted Hamburger Hold the Pickles Read online

  MY LiFe

  as a

  Haunted

  Hamberger,

  Hold the Pickles

  Tommy Nelson® Books by Bill Myers

  Series

  SECRET AGENT DINGLEDORF

  . . . and his trusty dog, SPLAT

  The Case of the . . .

  Giggling Geeks • Chewable Worms

  • Flying Toenails • Drooling Dinosaurs •

  Hiccupping Ears • Yodeling Turtles

  The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle

  My Life As . . .

  a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce • Alien Monster Bait

  • a Broken Bungee Cord • Crocodile Junk Food •

  Dinosaur Dental Floss • a Torpedo Test Target

  • a Human Hockey Puck • an Afterthought Astronaut •

  Reindeer Road Kill • a Toasted Time Traveler

  • Polluted Pond Scum • a Bigfoot Breath Mint •

  a Blundering Ballerina • a Screaming Skydiver

  • a Human Hairball • a Walrus Whoopee Cushion •

  a Computer Cockroach (Mixed-Up Millennium Bug)

  • a Beat-Up Basketball Backboard • a Cowboy Cowpie •

  Invisible Intestines with Intense Indigestion

  • a Skysurfing Skateboarder • a Tarantula Toe Tickler •

  a Prickly Porcupine from Pluto • a Splatted-Flat Quarterback

  • a Belching Baboon • a Stupendously Stomped Soccer Star •

  The Portal • The Experiment • The Whirlwind • The Tablet

  Picture Book

  Baseball for Breakfast

  www.Billmyers.com

  the incredible worlds of WallyMcDoogle

  MY LiFe

  as a

  Haunted

  Hamberger,

  Hold the Pickles

  BILL MYERS

  MY LIFE AS A HAUNTED HAMBURGER . . . HOLD THE PICKLES

  Copyright 2006 by Bill Myers.

  Cover illustration by Jeff Mangiat.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts in reviews.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Tommy Nelson®, a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc. Visit us on the Web at www.tommynelson.com.

  Tommy Nelson® books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please email [email protected].

  Scripture quotations in this book are from the International Children’s

  Bible® , New Century Version® , © 1986, 1988, 1999 by Tommy Nelson® , a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Myers, Bill, 1953–

  My life as a haunted hamburger, hold the pickles / Bill Myers.

  p. cm.— (The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; 27)

  Summary: Having made a bet on whether or not ghosts are real, Wall Street and Wally, aided by Opera and Madame Mystic, investigate a house on the edge of town that might be haunted, although

  Wally has learned why the Bible says to avoid the occult.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4003-0636-7 (pbk.)

  ISBN-10: 1-4003-0636-1

  [1. Haunted Houses—Fiction. 2. Occultism—Fiction. 3. Christian Life—Fiction. 4. Humorous stories.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.M98234Myef 2006

  [Fic]—dc22

  2006016251

  Printed in the United States of America

  06 07 08 09 10 RRD 5 4 3 2 1

  For Dee Ann Grand:

  A woman with vision

  and a heart for the children.

  “Do not go to mediums or fortune-tellers for advice.”

  —Leviticus 19:31

  Contents

  1. Just for Starters

  2. Cookies and Caskets

  3. Spook Sleuthing

  4. Busting Ghost Business

  5. A Family Meal

  6. Truth or Scare

  7. Stake Out!

  8. Break In!

  9. A Little House Tour

  10. Wrapping Up

  Chapter 1

  Just for Starters

  The next time I sneak in to see an R-rated movie, just put a sign across my forehead that reads:

  WARNING:

  Moron Under Construction

  Toxic Waste Site

  Brain Transplant Needed Here

  (Please check appropriate box.)

  Of course, Mom and Dad don’t let me see that junk. I have to get a presidential order signed in triplicate just to see a PG-13. But when your best friend knows a friend who knows a brother who works at the ticket window . . . well, there are ways.

  Unfortunately, there are always ways.

  So there I was, watching the scariest movie of my life: . . .

  BODY-STEALING GHOSTS FROM JUPITER

  Actually, I was doing a lot more non-watching than watching—it’s kinda hard to watch anything when you’re under the theater seat, praying for your life, and getting your face stuck to the floor on somebody’s old Gummi Worms. (Don’t you just hate it when that happens?)

  Look, it’s not that the movie was scary, I’m just not a big fan of ghosts from another planet stealing humans to put in their petting zoos back home (although I hear the food is great).

  Anyway, after more screaming, shrieking, and body-stealing than any alien life form should be allowed, the movie finally came to an end.

  “Was that cool or what!” Wall Street (my best friend, even if she is a girl) said after the paramedics restarted my heart for the third time, and we headed home.

  “Ab, munch-munch, so, crunch-crunch, lute burp, ly!” Opera, my other best friend, said while working on his ninth barrel of popcorn with extra butter. (Hey, you can’t blame him just because they give free refills.)

  “I don’t know,” I said, checking the sky for any low-flying UFOs whose occupants might be looking for bodies. “I thought it was pretty gross.”

  “Yeah.” Wall Street grinned.

  “BURP!” Opera burped.

  “I’m not so sure,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. (Sometimes alien life forms like to sneak up from behind.)

  “C’mon, Wally,” Wall Street said. “It’s not like that stuff is real or anything.”

  “BEL—” Opera started to belch, then stopped. “It’s not?”

  “No way,” she said. “Well, except for the ghost part.”

  “There’s no such things as ghosts,” I said, ducking from a lightning bug. (Sometimes alien spacecraft like to disguise themselves as insects.)

  “What about that haunted house outside of town?” she asked.

  “Haunted?” I gulped.

  “Gulp?” Opera gulped.

  “Sure,” she said. “Weird stuff always happens there. You know, like ghosts, goblins, the usual sort of haunted stuff.”

  “There’s no such things as ghosts,” I repeated.

  “You tell them that.”

  I shook my head. “You’re letting the movie get to you.”

  “I am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Am not.”

  We could have kept that in-depth conversation going forever had Wall Street not hit me with, “If you’re so sure you’re right, then you won’t mind giving me money when I prove you wrong.”

  I know, I know, I should have immediately run for cover. Who needs body-stealing ghosts when they have money-stealing best friends?

  My point is, whenever Wall Street uses the word money, three things happen:

  1. Warning bell
s go off in my head.

  2. I grab my wallet.

  3. I give up and just hand over the cash. (She plans to make her first million by the time she’s fifteen and so far, all of it has been off me.)

  Since I was still brain-dead from the movie, I stupidly stuck out my hand and, though betting is definitely uncool, even stupidlier (Don’t try that word in English class.) shook her hand.

  (You’d think after twenty-six books I’d know better. I guess that’s why we’re doing number twenty-seven.)

  “Great!” She grinned, which meant I was in trouble. “Meet me at that haunted house, eight o’clock tomorrow morning, and I’ll prove to you there are ghosts.”

  She broke into a chuckle, which meant I was really in trouble.

  She threw herself on the ground, rolling back and forth in uncontrollable laughter, which meant I should probably just give her all the money in my bank account and my folks’ credit cards. Because if there is one thing Wall Street doesn’t know how to do, it’s not make money . . . especially off me.

  The good news was, the movie didn’t affect me at all. I mean, other than:

  —The seventeen nightmares.

  —Never setting my bare tootsies on the floor again. (They say body- stealing ghosts love hiding under beds.)

  —Never sticking my head out from under the covers for the next month . . . or two.

  Of course, there was the minor problem of breaking into hysterical screams every time I heard strange and mysterious sounds—like my chattering teeth, my knocking knees, or my whimpering between breaths.

  But, other than that, everything was great.

  I did need something to unwind a bit, though. And what better way to relax than to work on one of my superhero stories. So, after grabbing Ol’ Betsy, my laptop computer, and pulling her under the covers, I went to work.

  It had been another long, hard day of superherodom for Manners Man. Already he had:

  1. Stopped a superjock from throwing a gigageek into the showers (at least while he was carrying his Blackberry, XBox, and electronic chess game).

  2. Convinced a teen girl to stop rolling her eyes at her parents every five seconds. (Now she’s up to every twelve seconds——talk about progress!)

  3. Then there was that thing about bringing peace to the Middle East (which was small potatoes compared to #1 and #2).

  At last he sits down with his family for a nice turkey dinner when suddenly a giant ghost from Jupiter appears above their house and stomps them flatter than some bug playing tag with our windshield on the freeway.

  Wait a minute, that’s not right. This is supposed to be a superhero story, not some stupid ghost story. Who would write stupid ghost stories, anyway?

  (Certainly not me.)

  I hit DELETE, stuck my head out from under the covers for a quick breath of fresh air, and tried again.

  It had been another long, hard day of superherodom for Manners Man. At last he sits down with his family for a nice turkey dinner, when suddenly a thousand lost souls of the dead rush up out of the kitchen-sink drain. They scream, shriek, and do all those annoying lost-soul types of things, as they prepare to turn the family into mindless zombies who——

  No! No! No! Come on, McDoogle, think!

  I hit DELETE and tried again.

  Manners Man sits down with his family for a nice turkey dinner, where there are no ghosts (especially large ones who stomp houses) and absolutely no lost souls hanging around inside kitchen plumbing.

  “Please pass the mashed potatoes,” Perfect Daughter with perfect teeth says.

  “Why, certainly, dear,” Perfect Mother, who never raises her voice, replies.

  “Oh, please, allow me,” Perfect Son, who never teases his sister, insists.

  I paused a second and looked at the story. Needless to say, I was grateful that I’d finally gotten all that horror stuff out of my head. So, after taking another breath of air outside the covers, I went back to work.

  “Manners Man,” Perfect Wife asks, “would you carve the turkey for us?”

  “Why, I’d love to,” he replies.

  He sticks the turkey with the carving fork and is about to begin slicing, when suddenly the bird leaps up off the platter. It wrestles the fork from Manners Man’s hands, jumps onto the back of his chair, and holds the fork against the man’s neck——making it clear that if anyone moves, Manners Man will be a goner.

  “What’s happened?!” Perfect Wife cries.

  “It’s the turkey!” Perfect Son shouts. “It’s been possessed by an alien spirit!”

  “No doubt from Jupiter!” Perfect Daughter screams.

  “Don’t worry!” Manners Man yells. “Just don’t let them steal your body or——”

  I hit DELETE.

  Where did all these ideas come from? Got me.

  I shut Ol’ Betsy down and lay under the blankets. Of course, I wasn’t able to sleep—not with all the junk running through my head.

  So, I decided to just lie there.

  Night wouldn’t last forever. In just a few terrifying hours, daylight would finally arrive and my fears would be gone.

  Soon, Wall Street, Opera, and I would get back together.

  Soon, my life would return to normal. Well, at least normal for me—which, as we all know, is far scarier than any nightmares or ghosts from Jupiter.

  Chapter 2

  Cookies and Caskets

  The next morning I arrived at the so-called haunted house more than a little nervous.

  I would have been less than a little nervous if, when I pushed open the front gate, it didn’t

  K-REEEAK . . .

  and

  GROOOAAN . . .

  like some Jupiter spacecraft opening up, waiting to eat me alive.

  I would have been less than a lot nervous, if it weren’t for the half-dozen coffin-sized boxes stacked up on the porch next to the front door.

  And I probably wouldn’t have nearly passed out . . . if it weren’t for the talking bush beside that porch!

  “Hey, Wally!” it hissed.

  I opened my mouth and gasped.

  Not only was the bush talking, but it was also growing a head right out of the top of it.

  And not just any head . . . Wall Street’s head!

  “What did you do with the rest of her?!” I yelled.

  “What?” it asked.

  I gave another gasp. Not only had it sprouted Wall Street’s head, but now it was speaking through her mouth!

  “Spit her out!” I shouted. “Spit her out this instant!”

  And sure enough, just like that, the bush spit Wall Street out of its side. (Funny, she wasn’t even wet from all those nasty digestive bush juices.)

  “What are you talking about?” Wall Street demanded. Apparently, she was in such shock she didn’t even remember being eaten.

  Then, as a bonus prize, it spit Opera out its other side.

  But before we had a chance to celebrate, Opera pointed up at the attic window and cried, “L-l-l-look!”

  We spun around, looked up, and saw a tall old guy in a tuxedo. He stood on the roof just outside a second-story window.

  Weirder still was that he wasn’t totally solid. We could actually see part of the window through him.

  And weirderer stiller was that his long gray hair and tuxedo were blowing in a hurricane-force wind.

  The only problem was, there was no hurricane.

  Come to think of it, there was no wind!

  He looked down at us and scowled. Then he raised his arm and pointed his long bony finger. Suddenly, being eaten by a bush didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

  But before I had time to leap into it for cover, the old man opened his mouth and screamed.

  Only there was no sound.

  Instead, his entire body started to shake and vibrate.

  Soon, giant chunks of his hair started falling off and blowing away.

  Then his face started blowing off . . . until it was nothing but a skull. (Talk about a weight
-loss program.)

  But he wasn’t quite done. The next thing to blow away was his tuxedo . . . immediately followed by the rest of his skin and muscles.

  Now he was nothing but a skeleton.

  But a very angry skeleton, who was still pointing and yelling at us . . . until he suddenly collapsed into a giant heap of bones that any dog would go nuts over.

  I was scared in a major do-I-want-to-run-off-screaming-hysterically-or-just-fall-down-dead-and-avoid-the-rush kind of way.

  Of course, my friends were equally as scared, which would explain Opera turning to us and shouting, “B-b-b-b-burp!”

  And Wall Street turning to me and asking, “W-w-w-ill you be paying off that ghost bet by c-c-cash or c-c-redit?”

  Before I could answer, or at least have a couple of good fainting spells, I heard a loud

  K-SCREEECH.

  I turned toward the noise and saw the front door opening. A hunched-over lady with white hair stepped onto the porch.

  “YOU!” she yelled at us.

  Of course, we should have been polite and answered . . . but it’s hard remembering your manners when you’re busy tripping over each other, racing to the front gate, and pushing on it for all you’re worth.

  But our worth wasn’t worth much because the gate wouldn’t budge!

  “We’re trapped!” Opera cried.

  “Guys!” Wall Street shouted.

  “Like rats in a trap!” I yelled.

  “Guys!”

  “LIKE POTATO CHIPS IN ONE OF THOSE PLASTIC BAGS YOU CAN NEVER OPEN!” Opera screamed.

  “GUYS!”