Five Days of the Ghost Read Online Free PDF Page B

the lake would be like soup and you’d swim all day without feeling refreshed.
    I splashed around a little, swimming back and forth in the shallow water, then I got out. The tiredness had not gone away like I’d hoped it would. I sat down in the lounge and picked up my tea. I took a sip. And for the first time that morning, I let myself look at Chiefs’ Island.
    It lay out there, quiet, a dark green shape on the lighter green water. I could make out the individual branches of some of the taller trees in the centre. I tried to figure out where the graveyard was. I knew it was somewhere on this end of the island. I wished it was on the east end, the end away from our house.
    Between me and the island boats went by—a big cabin cruiser plowing foamy white waves in the water. Some speedboats pulling skiers. And as usual, a few sailboats with wildly coloured sails. They seemed to be struggling in the light breeze. Lake Couchiching had a lot of sailboat races because of the winds. That’s what John said. The winds swirled around in between the islands, making the sailing tricky. When the wind was strong the lake was dangerous because the waves got big. And the most dangerous place was near Chiefs’ Island.
    But on sunny calm days like today a lot of people liked to go over to the island in a boat and drop anchor along the north shore and swim from the boat. There was a terrific sand beach there. But nobody anchored too close to the island. And nobody went ashore. Some kids I knew wouldn’t even touch the shore.
    I adjusted my chair and lay back, closing my eyes tight against the sun. I tried to relax. But every time I did, a picture of the graveyard would appear in my mind, like on the old TV mystery shows when the guy is developing pictures in his darkroom and you see the photograph slowly appear on the paper in the chemical bath. Like the picture was dissolving, only backwards. Then I’d open my eyes and the sun would practically blind me. I’d squeeze them shut again, seeing blazing yellow stars from the sunlight for a moment. Then the dark would come and the picture of the graveyard washed in moonlight would backwards-dissolve again. The man with the scary face would get off the headstone and glide into the trees and disappear.
    Finally I sat up. I struggled out of the lounge and jumped into the water. While I was splashing around, I looked at the island, then turned and looked up to my bedroom window, where the little leather bag rested on the sill. The sunlight glinted on the glass bits in the wind chimes.
    When I went back into the house, John was up. He was standing at the sideboard beside the fridge, making a sandwich. I sat down at the table.
    John had his bathing suit on and his bones stuck out all over the place through his pale skin. He looked tired, the way I felt.
    I watched him building his sandwich. My brother is the weirdest eater in the universe. He put a piece of whole wheat bread on a plate, then spread peanut butter on it the way you’d gob cement on a brick. He fingered two fat dills out of a jar and sliced them onto the peanut butter. The juice from the dills started to sog the bread. John paid no attention.
    He sliced a tomato onto the dills. Added salt and pepper. Then he took another slice of bread and spread a thin coat of strawberry jam onto it.
    â€œThe jam is the secret,” he said to me over his shoulder. “You have to get it just right.”
    After the jam, he slathered on some mayonnaise and upturned the bread onto the tomatoes. He took a knife and sliced the mess into two pieces and brought it to the table.
    When he sat down he said, “Well, what do you think?”
    â€œI think you have set a new record in horribleness.”
    He took a big bite and talked around the mess in his mouth. A glob of jam slid out of the comer of his mouth.
    â€œI don’t mean this delicious sandwich. I mean last night. When we got back you refused to talk