The Ghost in the Big Brass Bed Read Free

white from about six feet above the ground to the top. Sketchy black lines showed the outline of a forest, with mountains in the distance.
    â€œDave’s getting his mural!” Norma shouted.
    I knew Dave Davis was the owner of the store. But I didn’t know anything about a mural.
    â€œHe’s been wanting to have a mural painted on that wall for years,” said Norma when I asked about it.
    â€œHow do you know that?” asked Chris. “I thought you only moved here two months ago.”
    â€œHoney, I work fast!” said Norma. Then she laughed that great laugh of hers.
    I was happy. I thought the mural would fit well in our neighborhood, which is filled with great old houses and strange young people—well, strange people of all ages, actually.
    About a mile from Westcott Street we started up a long hill. At the very top of the hill was an enormous, dark green house. It looked like the product of an architect’s nightmare. Everything that could have been added to a house of that time had been added. The roof had three chimneys, two dormers, and a skylight. A long porch with big pillars stretched across the front. Some of the windows bowed out, some had diamond panes, and some were made of stained glass.
    But the thing I liked best was the right corner—the east corner, I later figured out—which was a three-story tower. The roof of the tower was covered with black shingles; it tapered to a peak that made me think of a witch’s hat.
    The house was surrounded by more open land than most places in Syracuse. A winding stone sidewalk led up a broad lawn to the porch.
    The lawn itself was bordered by the remains of a stone wall; the jagged chunks of broken rock looked like rotting teeth in some huge, prehistoric jaw.
    Even though the place was rundown, I thought it was wonderful. As soon as Norma parked the truck, Chris and I jumped out.
    As we did, I realized one more thing about Phoebe Watson’s house.
    It was haunted.
    Very haunted.

CHAPTER THREE
    The Painted Past
    I turned to Chris. “Do you feel it?” I whispered.
    Eyes wide, she nodded.
    I could tell she was frightened. I was, too. The reason was simple: Until that moment, we had never known a place was haunted without somehow experiencing the ghost itself. Yet the instant we stepped out of Norma’s truck, we knew there was a ghost somewhere nearby. It didn’t show itself. It didn’t touch us. We just knew it was there.
    Waiting.
    Waiting for Chris and me?
    That didn’t seem likely.
    But if not for us, then who? And why did we know about it?
    The last question was the only one I thought I might have an answer to. Chris and I have a theory that one reason we met Captain Gray was because our experience with the Woman in White had increased our sensitivity to spirits. Had our second experience done the same thing? Had we started on some kind of spiral that would have us meet more ghosts, and become even more sensitive to the spirit world, so we would meet even more ghosts?
    How long could that go on? Would our lives become crowded with ghosts that no one else could see? I hoped not. Much as I like being able to meet ghosts, I do want some kind of limit to it all!
    Norma was halfway to the porch before she realized we weren’t with her. She turned back to see what was keeping us. The look on our faces must have startled her because she asked, “What’s wrong with you two? You look like you just saw …” Her voice trailed off. “Forget it. If you saw what you look like you saw, don’t tell me. I promised Phoebe we would pick up this wardrobe, and I won’t be able to do it if I’m all the time worried that someone is floating behind my shoulder.”
    I took a deep breath. “It’s okay,” I said, trying to reassure her. “Neither of us saw a ghost.”
    â€œDonteventalkaboutit!” cried Norma, so fast it all came out as one word. “Now, come on,