The Ghost, the Eggheads, and Babe Ruth’S Piano: A Novel

By Larry Sweitzer

It's the summer of 2004 and Freddie Holtzman cant wait to get to Camp Mason, a summer camp for eggheads or rather, gifted teens. He hopes to reconnect with Ginny Haig, a girl he met at camp last year. Freddies old friends, Logan and Monty, are there along with some new faces. He tries to win Ginnys affection, but every time he tries to talk to her, he saysand doesnerdy things.

At Camp Mason, a science fair pits the eggheads against one another for the top prize of a five thousand dollar scholarship. But, when the projects go missing, friendships are put to the test, relationships get put on hold, and everyones a suspect. To make matters worse, the camp is haunted by young Billy Mason who died there decades ago. The boys are determined to solve the mystery of the ghost and the missing science projects.

Freddies quest to win the scholarshipand the girl of his dreamsare constantly in jeopardy. There are complications at every turn: the ghost, a creepy caretaker, Freddies high school nemesis, a cantankerous camp manager, and a saboteur all threaten his chance to win the prize and Ginnys heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 10, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440171024

Larry Sweitzer

Larry Sweitzer was born and raised in western Maryland and now lives in Virginia with his wife and two daughters. This is his debut novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

They left their house at nine am and were well into Botetourt County by ten, headed a few miles west of where the James River and Craig’s Creek converged.

Each passing moment and every click of the odometer brought Freddie closer to the place where so much had happened. He knew the entrance to Camp Mason wouldn’t be much farther. He could feel the butterflies come alive in his stomach. It was the simultaneous feeling of dread and excitement. Freddie had been waiting for this moment for a year now, and he was filled with nervous anticipation. He felt like he was on a roller coaster, ascending the first enormous hill. He questioned why he was on the thing in the first place and realized there was no turning back. When it reached the top, gravity would take over, and a second later, he wouldn’t know whether to scream in horror, raise his hands in defiant joy, or just pee his pants. Though, it would be possible to do all three.

Freddie couldn’t believe that last summer he practically had to be dragged to camp. The last thing he had wanted to do was spend a whole week at a camp for gifted teens. His reservations were long forgotten by the end of the first day. He hadn’t realized he would know so many people from school. He’d get to know even more before he left. And by the last day, that last wonderful day of camp a year ago, he would come away with a memory that he would cherish. It was the day Freddie kissed the girl of his dreams.

The anticipation was overwhelming. Countless questions swirled in Freddie’s mind, but there was one question that had kept him up at night in recent weeks. He’d lie in bed staring at the ceiling for what seemed like hours. Hoping … dreaming of the moment he could see her again. He asked himself the question endlessly. Will she be there?

She was Ginny Haig, and if Camp Mason held any attraction for him, it was because of her. Ginny went to Northside High School, on the other side of town, but they had been brought together last year thanks to Camp Mason and a game of Truth or Dare on the last night of camp.

So, do you think you’ll see any ghosts this year? his dad asked.

Huh? Freddie asked, startled by the sudden break in silence.

Do you think you’ll see that ghost everyone always talks about? You know, that Mason boy.

Dad, you know I don’t believe in ghosts.

Just because you don’t believe in them, doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

I know all about him from last year, Freddie said. And his name is Billy. Billy Mason.

Right. What happened to him again?

You know the Masons own the land the camp is on. I heard it used to be a hunting lodge years ago for the Mason family and their friends, before they turned it into a camp for us eggheads. Billy was like twelve or thirteen years old at the time. He used to hike from their big mansion down to the lodge to play. He’d hang out with Delmar, the caretaker at the camp. Delmar lives down there in his own cabin. The Masons let him stay there in exchange for keeping up the place.

Freddie’s mom turned around in her seat. I heard he had something to do with it, that Delmar.

Mom, he wouldn’t still be working for the Masons if he had anything to do with it. Besides, I’ve met him. He’s harmless.

I heard they just couldn’t get enough of a case against him to charge him. I want you to stay away from him just in case.

Mom! Freddie turned his head and rolled his eyes, doing his best to keep her from noticing. One winter Billy was on his way to the lodge and got caught in a bad snowstorm. They didn’t find his body until a week later. It was in Mason’s Pond, right next to the lodge.

How do you know all this? Freddie’s dad asked.

Everyone knows this stuff. I’ve heard it a million times at school and at camp last year.

But how did he die, and how did he end up in the pond? pressed his dad.

Freddie paused to bite his lip in disgust. He died of exposure, he said, his voice rising toward the end.

He died of exposure at the bottom of a pond? his dad asked.

No … I mean … he’s dead. End of story.

End of story, except for his ghost. It all sounds kind of fishy to me, son, his dad said, peering at Freddie in the rearview mirror.

Exactly, Freddie’s mom added.

Okay, okay, Freddie said, exhaling the words. People say they’ve seen and heard strange things around the camp. We were all sitting around a campfire last year, and one of the counselors told this ghost story about Billy Mason. He went on and on about how Billy wanders the campgrounds at night and how, if you listen really closely, you can hear footsteps deep in the woods. It was so corny. Logan freaked! He couldn’t sleep the whole rest of the time we were at camp.

Oh, that’s right. You’ll get to see Logan again. Have you kept up with him since last year? his mom asked.

Yeah, we’ve e-mailed a lot since last year, Freddie said.

What school does he go to again? his mom asked.

He’s home-schooled. He’s only fourteen, but he’s probably one of the smartest guys I know. He’s brilliant. Logan leads a pretty sheltered life, though, and really looks forward to camp. He’ll probably win the scholarship this year.

You’ve got just as much of a chance as anyone, honey. You’re my little genius.

Mom, stop!

Freddie was a rarity at Southside High School. He was smart, and he was a jock. Not that there weren’t a lot of student athletes who were smart. Freddie was very smart—an egghead. He had managed to bridge the gap between Geekdom and the sports field. As flimsy and narrow as that bridge was, he had somehow pulled it off. By his junior year, he was the starting second baseman for the varsity baseball team and the president of the physics club. As long as he treaded lightly between the two cliques, everything was okay. Trying to mix the two always ended badly.

Surprisingly, Freddie got more grief from the eggheads than the jocks. Well, one egghead in particular—the reigning king of Geekdom, Tony Munson. Tony was well known at Southside. He was the proud holder of many titles: National Merit Scholar, candidate for valedictorian, president of the school’s chapter of the National Honor Society, and First Rate Jerk. Everyone had loathed the day Tony showed up armed with his acceptance letter from his first-choice, Ivy League school. He had paraded the letter around as if it gave him full permission to trample on the feelings of everyone with whom he came into contact—especially Freddie. For Tony, the road to his ambitious goals was through a war of harassment—embarrass, humiliate, and belittle the competition. He’d knock the competition down a rung every chance he got. Unfortunately, Freddie was usually the recipient of the badgering since he was the only one who could come close to matching Tony’s intellect. Freddie felt like he was always playing second fiddle to King Tony.

Still, Freddie managed some small successes—mere crumbs left in Tony’s wake. Freddie was the vice president of the Honor Society. Sure, that would look good on a college application, but was it worth having to hear Tony pronounce vice like it was a scarlet letter? Sometimes Tony wouldn’t even acknowledge the title. He’d just call Freddie number two.

Freddie’s achievements on the baseball diamond and in the classroom hadn’t gotten him very far with the girls, either. He had plenty of friends who were girls. Talking to them as friends or classmates was never a problem. It was the girls with whom Freddie wanted to be more-than-friends that always seemed to leave him tongue-tied.

When it came to baseball, he could talk endlessly. Apparently there was a shortage of girls at his school who wanted to talk about batting averages, pennant races, and the designated hitter. Freddie was a huge baseball fan—a Boston Red Sox fan, to be exact. He had no choice but to be one. He had been born in Boston, after all, and spent the first five and a half years of his life there before the family moved to southern Virginia. He remembered little of the place, but his dad always said it still required Freddie to be a life-long Sox fan. He was born Frederic Lynn Holtzman—his dad’s doing, of course—named after Fred Lynn, the Red Sox star of the 1970s and ’80s.

With his dad’s help, Freddie became quite the Red Sox historian. As a child, he was tucked into bed with stories of Ted Williams, whom his dad called the greatest hitter that ever lived; Carl Yasztremski, the last man to win the Triple Crown; and many others. But his dad never spoke as passionately as when he would talk about a young Babe Ruth. Ruth was the great Red Sox pitcher and slugger who, after the 1919 season, was sold to the New York Yankees. A curse befell the Red Sox on that day that would haunt Fenway Park and cast a permanent cloud over the club, and some would say the city of Boston, for more than eight decades.

The car slowed, and Freddie crooked his neck to get a better look. The wooden archway to the camp entrance came into view as his dad pulled the car off from the main highway. The butterflies in Freddie’s stomach sprang to life again. He wiped the sweat from his palms onto his pant legs and took a deep breath.

Here we are, son, Mr. Holtzman said.

Chapter 2

Freddie stepped out of the car and scanned the crowd for a familiar face. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and merged into the steady stream of people heading toward the check-in area. With parents in tow, Freddie filed into line with the other campers and their parents, burdened with luggage and extra pillows.

The grounds were just as Freddie remembered. They were concealed from the main road by a thick row of trees and heavy brush. No one passing by would ever know the gravel drive opened into such a vast clearing except for the Camp Mason archway at the entrance.

The cabins and great hall looked their age from the outside, but inside, campers had all the modern amenities they needed. The great hall stood atop a small hill, with a row of six cabins on either side. A few small buildings scattered across the campground housed various types of equipment. Delmar’s cabin and a connecting utility shed were visible down a short path to the rear of the great hall.

Phone lines and running water had been seamlessly integrated into the buildings over the years, and there was even a rumor that wireless Internet had been added for this year’s campers.

Mason’s Pond was calm and inviting, with its lone dock jutting into the water.

Every so often a camper would light up with a smile or give a cheerful wave as they reconnected with old friends. Freddie recognized a few faces, but he didn’t see anyone he knew.

Wow, there’s a big turn out this year, Mr. Holtzman said. What do you think—a hundred campers or more?

That sounds about right, Freddie replied.

Mrs. Holtzman inched up behind Freddie and placed her hand on his shoulder. Look, is that Delmar? she whispered into his ear.

Where?

Over there raking the grass.

Yeah, that’s him. That’s Del. And why are you whispering? Freddie asked, mocking her with his own whisper.

He looks so old. Older than I imagined, anyway. When did Billy die, 1958? And Delmar was in his early twenties then, right? So he’s got to be close to seventy now, Mrs. Holtzman said.

See, Mom. I told you he was harmless.

They watched Delmar as he raked. There was little else to do while they waited. Delmar stood with a slight bend at the waist that made him appear shorter than his medium height, and he wore his usual working clothes: baggy overalls and a tattered, well-worn hat. He seemed to move in slow motion, dropping the rake to the ground and pulling it back in long, steady strokes. He collected a small pile of freshly cut grass and placed it with great care into a wheel barrel. Delmar went about the task as if he had done it a million times, because he had. He had outlasted six lawnmowers, eight weed trimmers, and countless hand and garden tools. He was there in 1968 when the roof of the original great hall caved in. He helped rebuild it after a lengthy clean-up effort. In 1974, he was the sole witness to the unfortunate mishap concerning former camp manager Linda Stevens, an outhouse, and a freak gust of wind. He, and the camp, survived the flood of 1985 and the drought of 2000. Forty-seven years of his life had been spent taking care of the place, down to the smallest detail. He took great pride in his work as the sole caretaker of the camp. It was his home.

Freddie tried to picture Delmar as a young man. He tried to picture him as a killer. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t see how anyone, including his mom, could suspect Delmar of being responsible for a young boy’s death.

The line began to move steadily, and the check-in table came into sight. Freddie spotted the camp manager, Mrs. Harnish, and a few counselors checking their lists and directing campers. Mrs. Harnish had a reputation for being strict. She seemed to take pleasure in handing out punishments to campers who misbehaved. Campers always knew when she was coming from the sound of the keys she kept on a lanyard hanging from her belt. With each step, the jingle of those keys kept campers on their toes and on their best behavior.

Where is everyone? asked Freddie, looking out across the sea of people.

Maybe all your buddies have already checked in? Mr. Holtzman said.

The moment they reached the table, Mrs. Harnish began her military-style interrogation. Name?

Holtzman.

Frederic?

Freddie.

She scowled at him over her clipboard. You’ll need to be in the great hall at one o’clock sharp for orientation. Don’t be late.

How charming, Mr. Holtzman said sarcastically as they turned from the check-in table. Okay, son, here’s where we leave you. He handed the luggage to Freddie. Remember to call or e-mail a couple of times. … And behave.

Have fun and be good. We’ll see you soon, Mrs. Holtzman said.

Freddie’s parents started to walk away, then stopped. Mr. Holtzman turned to face Freddie. Be sure and tell us if you see the ghost.

Bye, Dad, Freddie said with a nod to suggest that they move on.

They exchanged a final wave, and Mr. and Mrs. Holtzman headed back toward the car. They were quickly swallowed up in the sea of people entering the camp. Just as they disappeared, Freddie saw not one but two familiar faces emerge from the throng.

Freddie!

Logan! Monty! yelled Freddie as he waved them over. Am I glad to see you. I haven’t seen anyone from last year.

We’ve seen a few, Logan said.

Like who? Freddie asked.

We’ve seen Grace Tedrick, and you’ll be glad to know Tony is here somewhere, Monty said.

Oh, geez. Tony Munson, yippee, Freddie said with a pseudo-excited roll of his eyes.

Logan was shorter than most of the other kids. He was younger than Freddie and looked up to him like a big brother. Logan had followed Freddie around everywhere the previous year, like they were attached at the hip. Freddie didn’t mind. He liked the thought of someone so bright looking up to him. Logan had smarts—book smarts. Being home-schooled and a year younger, Logan had a lot to learn outside the covers of a book.

Monty went to the same school as Freddie. They even had a few classes together. Like most of Freddie’s close friends, Monty was a typical egghead—gifted, intelligent, and a little immature for his age.

I think there’s something moving in your pocket, Monty, Freddie observed.

Oh, that’s Harry, Monty said, gently pulling a mouse out of his front shirt pocket.

Harry?

I named him after Harry Potter. Ron and Hermione had to stay home, didn’t they, Harry? Monty raised the tiny rodent to his face and rubbed noses with it.

Freddie and Logan exchanged looks, trying hard not to laugh, as Monty talked gibberish to Harry. Monty was the ultimate animal lover. It was rare to see him without some little