The Ghost's Grave Read Online Free PDF Page A

Ethel’s house. Steven had told me Aunt Ethel owned about fifty acres, which sounded like a lot. Maybe I’d see deer or squirrels. I planned to search for the old tree house. If I found it, I intended to carry some of my books out there. A tree house would be the perfect place to read—far from Aunt Florence’s screams.
    I glanced back at the house. It had seemed so gloomy last night, but now the sunshine gave it a cheerful look, despite its peeling paint. Bright yellow daisies bloomed along the foundation, and white petals drifted down from a large flowering tree near the back door.
    As the woods closed behind me, I noted I was headed east. No matter how peaceful the woods were, or how much wildlife I spotted, I wanted to be sure I could find my way out.
    I picked my way through the undergrowth, inhaling the smell of fir and cedar. I wished Aunt Ethel had a dog. This would be the perfect place for a dog to run, sniffing at the fallen trees, searching out rabbits or mice to chase.
    Charlie would have loved it here. In my imagination, I saw Charlie’s short dachshund legs scrambling through the bushes, his nose leading the way to adventure.
    You were a good dog, Charlie, I thought, the best dog ever. I miss you.
    Why did Charlie have to get mouth cancer when he was only nine years old? Why did . . .
    I snipped off the thought before it could grow. Mom had said, “Remember the happy times with Charlie, and forget the end of the story. The only way to survive the loss of someone you love is to remember the good times.”
    With my thoughts on Charlie, I forgot to watch for deer. The sudden snap of a branch breaking startled me, and I glanced toward the sound.
    A beautiful doe stood about ten yards away, watching me. We looked at each other for a few seconds, then the deer bounded off, flashing her black tail.
    Ten minutes later, I spotted the tree house. I hadexpected a rickety platform balanced in the branches of a large tree, but I found a sturdy wooden structure, enclosed on all four sides, with a sloping roof of corrugated tin.
    It wasn’t literally a tree house, because it wasn’t attached to a tree. It rested on four unpeeled logs, each about eight inches in diameter, set in concrete. The building stood ten feet off the ground, completely surrounded by huge fir trees. A wooden ladder leaned against the narrow platform outside the tree-house door.
    I stood on the bottom rung of the ladder, testing it. Then I climbed quickly to the platform and pushed open the door. The tree house was eight feet square with windows on three sides—not glass windows, but rectangles cut from the walls, with shutters that closed to keep the rain out. I imagined a young Aunt Ethel and her sister silently gazing out the windows while they waited for deer.
    Dry leaves crunched underfoot on the floor, and cobwebs crisscrossed the window openings. A small makeshift table built of four pieces of log and a plank squatted in one corner.
    I liked the tree house. After I gave it a thorough sweeping and brought out a chair, it would be a perfect spot to read and listen to music. Maybe I wouldbring lunch here, too, or at least a snack to eat while I watched for wildlife.
    I hurried back to the house for a broom and a damp rag to clean the table. Aunt Ethel, pleased I had found the tree house, gave me an oversized pillow to take there for the summer. “It’s the same pillow Steven used in the tree house,” she said.
    I swept and scrubbed, then went back for some cheese and crackers and my box of books. With all three windows open, the tree house had plenty of light to read by. I sank onto the pillow and opened a book.
    I was deep into a mystery novel when a faint sound caught my attention. Another deer? I put down my book, moved quietly to the window, and peered out. I waited, listening, my eyes scanning the trees for movement.
    â€œMeow.”
    I looked toward the sound. A scrawny cat sat in the