A Gust of Ghosts Read Free Page B

was staring at what looked like a wall of spiky branches. “You don’t mean we’re going to try to get through those bushes, do you?”
    â€œThe ones that are five feet tall?” asked Poppy.
    â€œAnd covered with thorns?” asked Will.
    â€œPrecisely,” said Mr. Malone, looking from one appalled face to the next. “Paranormal investigations are not for the faint of heart! But I will be right behind you, cheering you on.”
    He held out the machete. “So,” he said, “who wants to go first?”

Chapter THREE
    D espite Mr. Malone’s cheering them on (which mainly consisted of shouting things like, “Keep going, keep going, no one ever died from a scratch!”), bushwhacking turned out to be just as hard as it sounded. By the time they pushed their way through to the small clearing where the Glowing Angel stood, Poppy had scratches on her arms, nettle stings on her legs, and a prickly feeling of certainty that she would wake up the next day with a case of poison ivy.
    It would have been worth it if the famous Glowing Angel statue had been the slightest bit impressive. The angel itself was quite small—more of a cherub, really. It perched on top of a squat column that looked as if the sculptor had run out of stone before it reached its full height. It was almost hidden from visitors in the shade of a cottonwood tree.
    And it was definitely not glowing.
    Poppy crossed her arms and looked at it with a familiar feeling. Somehow, this unimposing little statue seemed to stand for every paranormal investigation her family had ever gone on. It always started with the hope of something thrilling—say, a magnificent marble angel, wings outspread, glowing in the night like moonlight on freshly fallen snow. And it always ended like this, with a small, fat angel sitting amid thorny bushes, looking completely ordinary.
    Mr. Malone held up a magnetometer in front of the statue and tried to read the gauge in the gathering dusk.
    â€œLook at these fluctuations, Lucille,” he said, his voice tense with excitement. “I don’t think I’ve seen this much activity since we tested that witch’s grave in Salem.”
    â€œ Alleged witch, dear,” said Mrs. Malone, peering at the dial. “Unjustly accused, poor thing; no wonder she couldn’t settle down after she died.... Oh yes, those numbers look very encouraging!” She wrote them in a small notebook. “Did you take a temperature reading when we arrived? I think it’s starting to feel cooler.”
    Poppy brushed damp hair off her forehead and wondered if she should point out that the temperature always fell after sunset.
    â€œYou’re right,” said Mr. Malone, squinting at a thermometer. “It looks as if the temperature has dropped—let’s see—three degrees since we got here!”
    Will took the thermometer from his father. “You’re right. It’s down to ninety-five,” he said. “Brr. Get out the sweaters.”
    â€œThat’s not quite the deep, bone-chilling cold that indicates that a spirit is present,” admitted Mrs. Malone. “But still! The night is young!”
    A mournful, eerie sound floated through the air.
    â€œShh.” Mr. Malone held up a hand. “Did you hear that?”
    â€œYes!” Mrs. Malone whispered. “It sounded like a sad and lonely spirit, longing to find rest.”
    â€œIt sounded like an owl,” said Poppy flatly.
    â€œNonsense,” said Mr. Malone. “What are we more likely to find in a graveyard? Ghosts? Or owls?”
    A dark form launched itself from the top of a nearby tree and flew silently above their heads, its wings outstretched against the darkening sky.
    â€œOwls,” said Poppy, trying not to sound triumphant.
    â€œDon’t get too smug,” said Mr. Malone, pointing the thermometer at her. “Remember, ‘there are more things in heaven and