The Ghost Wore Gray Read Free Page B

closet equally. I put my stack of books next to my bed, then went to stand at the window.
    â€œNice view,” said Chris, coming to stand beside me.
    She was right. Our window looked out onto the inn’s backyard, which was small and neatly trimmed, with a scattering of wooden chairs. The yard was bordered by a stream, about six feet wide, that bounced and bubbled over glistening rocks. The midday sunshine made the water sparkle as though it were filled with diamonds. A little footbridge crossed the stream about fifty feet from our window. The bridge led to a path that disappeared into the forest.
    We were just deciding to go and explore when my father stuck his head into the room.
    â€œHow are you two doing?” he asked.
    â€œGreat,” I said. “Do you mind if we go out for a walk?”
    He glanced at his watch. “No problem. But if you can make it back in ninety minutes, Baltimore is going to be giving me a tour of the inn. I thought you might like to come along. It’s a fascinating old place.”
    â€œSounds good to me,” I said, glancing at Chris. She nodded.
    â€œFine,” said Dad. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
    â€œAre you sure your heart can stand it?” I asked.
    He laughed. “It really is horrible, isn’t it? I’ll just be sure to take a lot of before-and-after photos. Even if I only do a halfway decent job, people will think I’m a genius when they see what the place used to look like. See you guys in an hour and a half.”
    He popped back into his room. Chris and I headed out into the hallway, where I remembered the old photographs I had spotted on the way in.
    â€œStop a minute,” I said. “I want to look at these.”
    The five pictures were arranged in a kind of X-shape: two above, two below, and one in the center. Each was in a fancy, gold-painted wooden frame.
    They were all interesting, but it was the one in the center that held my attention. It was a picture of a man in a Confederate Army uniform. I’ve seen other photos from the Civil War period, and while the men are OK, they’re not what I’d call gorgeous. That wasn’t the case here. This was a picture of one of the most handsome men I had ever seen. He was staring intently at the camera, as people usually did in those old photos. But the serious look in his large, dark eyes was offset by a smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth—as if he couldn’t really imagine being that serious for long. The gray uniform accented his broad shoulders and trim waist, and there was something exciting about the way his hand rested on the saber at his side.
    Chris sighed. “What a hunk. Too bad he’s dead.”
    That was when it happened.
    I shivered and looked at Chris. She was already looking at me.
    â€œDid you feel that?” she whispered.
    I nodded. Frozen in place, I turned my head ever so slightly and rolled my eyes to the side so I could look over my shoulder.
    There was no one there—no one who could have laid an ice-cold hand on the back of my neck.
    But I had felt it. And so had Chris.
    â€œCome on,” she said. “Let’s get out of here!”
    We got.

CHAPTER FIVE
    The Secret Cemetery
    â€œHunk alert,” whispered Chris.
    â€œI don’t think I can take it,” I said. “I’m still recovering from the hunk in the hallway.”
    â€œWell, this one is alive and well and standing about thirty feet to your left.”
    We were in the backyard of the Quackadoodle, still trying to figure out if what had happened in the hallway was just a trick of our imaginations. I decided to put the question on hold and check out the action on the left.
    Chris was right. The tall blond slapping green paint on one of the wooden chairs was definitely alive and well. He looked up and smiled at us. “Hi, girls,” he said, waving his paintbrush.
    I felt myself begin to blush.
    He put down the paintbrush