The Ghost's Grave by Peg Kehret Read Free Book Online

but it wasn’t a lie, either.
    She laughed. “I could have told you that.” She passed me a bowl of raw baby carrots. “Snack time.”
    I took a few carrots to munch on. “Is there anything you want me to do for you?” I asked. I expected her to hand me a dust cloth or a broom or maybe suggest I pull some weeds.
    â€œDo you know how to knit?” she asked.
    Knit?
“Um, no, I don’t.”
    â€œI’ll teach you. I’m knitting a scarf as a gift for Muriel, but I have arthritis in my hands, and it’s getting too hard to work the knitting needles. I only have a few inches left to do.”
    She opened a large shopping bag and withdrew a scarf about two feet long in shades of purple, lavender, and red. One end of the scarf hung on a wooden knitting needle whose pointed end was stuck through a big ball of yarn. A second needle was also stuck in the yarn.
    Aunt Ethel sat on the couch, patting the cushion beside her to indicate where I should sit. I sat. She showed me how to hold the knitting needles, how to stick the point of the empty needle into the end stitch on the other needle, then loop the yarn over and slide the stitch off the first needle, where thescarf was, and onto the other needle. It didn’t look hard, but when I tried, I felt as if I had ten thumbs. Gradually, I got the hang of it with Aunt Ethel giving me directions every step of the way.
    â€œWhile you do that,” she said, “I’ll start our dinner. We’re having oatmeal pancakes with applesauce.”
    Spaghetti for breakfast and pancakes for dinner.
    Knit one, knit two. If the guys on the summer baseball team could see me now, I thought, they’d fall over laughing. When I write the paper on my summer vacation, I think I’ll leave out the part about learning to knit.
    After a while, though, I began to enjoy the repetitive motion and the clicking of the knitting needles. Once I didn’t have to concentrate so hard on how to do it, I found the process relaxing, and I let my mind drift to the tree house and the question of who, or what, had been there with me.
    Although I had been frightened when I left, I decided to return first thing the next morning. I had to go back to feed Mr. Stray, but now I also wanted to see if any of the books got moved overnight. Maybe the tree house was still haunted, as Aunt Florence had believed it was seventy years ago.

CHAPTER SIX
    M y first thought when I awoke the next morning was: I wonder if any books were moved around in the night. I dressed quickly and hurried downstairs.
    Breakfast was pork chops, green beans, fried potatoes, and the leftover applesauce from the oatmeal pancakes. I was glad that the beans were cooked.
    I washed the dishes quickly, then headed for the tree house again. I took the book I’d brought home the day before and carefully placed it on the table. Then I went back down the ladder to refill Mr. Stray’s bowl.
    I didn’t see the cat, nor did I hear any movement in the woods. No deer, no squirrels.
    Back in the tree house, I looked out each of the windows, my eyes searching for Mr. Stray. When Ididn’t see him, I reached for a different book, one that I had left there overnight.
    As I picked it up, a voice from behind me said, “You won’t like the ending.”
    I dropped the book and whirled toward the man’s voice, my heart thumping.
    He peered in at me through one of the windows. He must have moved the ladder—which meant I couldn’t climb down now and run away. Why hadn’t I seen him when I was feeding Mr. Stray? How could I not have heard the ladder being moved?
    â€œThe horse dies,” he continued. “I don’t like books where the animal dies at the end. Why can’t them writers figure out a better way to tell a story than to kill the poor horse?”
    â€œWho are you?” I whispered.
    His eyes lit up, and a huge grin spread across his face. “You can hear