The Haunted Read Online Free PDF Page B

stream a rich, dark brown. The first couple of drops hissed and splattered until the coffee began to fill up the bottom of the carafe. I shook my head once and moved to grab an empty mug.
    The taste was sharp and bitter, and I added another heapingspoonful of sugar. Then I poured in some more milk for good measure. It didn’t help very much.
    I walked over to a large window in the living room, snagging a padded chair along the way and dragging it with me. The sky was bland and gloomy. It didn’t look like rain, but the sun wasn’t out either. Sinking down onto the chair, I stared outside, sipping as I watched several birds pecking the ground in search of worms.
    Early bird gets the worm.
I held my mug up and toasted the birds. Then I readjusted myself and got comfortable. I didn’t even notice when my head began drooping and my eyes started to close.
    When Mom woke me up two hours later, baffled as to why I was sleeping in the chair, I was more baffled at how I’d managed to put my half-full cup of coffee down on the floor next to me without remembering that I’d done it
or
spilling a single drop. Apparently, I was some kind of sleep juggler or something.
    I staggered back to my room, rubbing my eyes the whole way.
You can’t go back to bed,
I told myself.
The ceremony is less than six hours away, and you have to think about what you’re going to say.
    Grabbing a spiral-bound notebook and a pen from the desk,I sat down on the window seat. But the pen wouldn’t work, and it took me a good five minutes before I finally gave up and grabbed a different one. Putting pen to paper, I tried to sort out my thoughts.
    Kristen Maxwell, who had a tragic drowning accident…
I crossed that out. Everyone who was going to be at the bridge probably already knew what had happened there. No need to state the obvious.
    Today we are here to celebrate…
Another scratch line. That sounded too happy. This needed to be more… somber.
    The Good Book says that there is a season to be born and a season to die.…
Too preachy.
    I balled up the piece of paper and sat back. What was I
really
trying to say here? Was this about her death? Or her life?
    Trying a different angle, I bent over the notebook and wrote down some of the things I’d admired about Kristen. Her laugh. Her infectious smile. Her kindness. Her loyalty. Her fierce protection of our friendship. If only people could see
those
sides of her, my job would be done. She had been an easy person to love.
    Satisfied with what I’d come up with, I took another short nap and woke up with plenty of time to get ready. I knew right away what to wear. It only seemed right to put on her favoritemaroon corset-style top—the one I’d taken from her bedroom after I’d found the diaries—and a flowing black skirt. She would have liked that outfit.
    “Boots or flats, Kristen?” I debated, as I rummaged through my closet. One heavy black boot fell at my feet with a solid
thump
, and I looked down. “Okay. Boots it is.” I laced them up and moved to the bathroom to style my hair. I was finished ten minutes later.
    I almost forgot my notebook as we got in the van to leave, but I hurried back to my room and grabbed it. Dread tied my stomach into knots, and the short trip to the bridge passed all too quickly.
    “How many people are going to be there?” I asked Mom as Dad pulled into the Old Dutch Church parking lot. The church was next to the bridge, and it looked like that was where everyone was parking.
    “Fifty, a hundred. I’m not really sure. I don’t think any more than that.”
    Swallowing hard, I locked my hands together and squeezed until they turned white. The fierce pressure was a welcome distraction from the mind-numbing fear that was threatening to take over at the thought of “fifty, a hundred” people all listening to what I had to say.
    “Are you
sure
I have to do this?” I asked. “Why does it have to be me that says something about her?”
    Mom opened her door and