The Ghost Belonged to Me by Richard Peck Page A

Perhaps I could do it because she was your sister. Besides, they were intruders here.”
    â€œI wish I could help you, Inez.”
    â€œPerhaps you can if you find me,” she said. “But you will need the help of other believers—true believers.”
    â€œBut aren’t you here?”
    â€œI am not here, but near. You will know me if you find me.”
    â€œHow?”
    For an answer, the shadows moved, and Inez stepped onto the moonlit floor. Her skirts covered the wet footprint, and Trixie was all but lost in the folds of her skirt. Inez seemed to stare through the floor, her face in shadow. But she pointed to the brooch that held her old-fashioned collar together. The moonlight caught its tiny flowers beneath the glass oval.
    â€œThis is all he left me,” she said in a very ghostly voice this time. “And this is how you will know me.”
    Then she was gone, and I was staring at the footprint in the empty loft. But I heard her voice once more and never again: “Not here, but near. ”

Chapter Fifteen
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    I was in my school knickers and sitting to a family breakfast of scrapple and bacon when Cousin Elvera began her pounding on our front door next morning. Mother had decided I was to go to school if only to spread the word among my chums that I’d been lying about Inez. Remembering how Blossom had once fared at the hands of our classmates, I had no intention of doing this. Still, I was glad not to be under house arrest. The words of Inez were strong in my mind but hard to decipher.
    â€œLook at this!” Cousin Elvera said, rocketing into the dining room. “It is the St. Louis Democrat, and your name will be a byword of ridicule nationwide!”
    Mother clutched her cameo, and Dad said, “Elvera, take a chair.” She was beside herself but enjoying it. Her corsets squeaked in time to her breathing. She began to read aloud. The article covered the same ground as Lowell’s, but it embroidered considerably, calling Inez a “fearful apparition” and me “a shyly sensitive and mystical lad, given to swooning and introspection.”
    â€œI can see you did not grant this interview, Alexander,” Dad said. “What a lot of balderdash, Elvera.”
    â€œYou don’t know the worst, Joe,” she replied, holding up the St. Louis Democrat. Taking up half a page was a photo of our barnloft, though not a clear picture. The wet footprint was only a smudge on the floor. The central figure was Mother’s dress form. When she recognized herself, so to speak, she fell back in her chair. The headline over the photograph read:
    SPECTRAL BARN WHERE DREAD VISITOR
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    FORETELLS FUTURE HORRORS
    â€œHorrors,” said Mother, “we are standing on the abyss. You won’t be attending school again today, Alexander.”
    â€œI guess we ought to have a guard posted at the back of the property too,” remarked Dad.
    â€œIf you ask me, Joe,” Cousin Elvera said, “that is a classic example of shutting the barn door after the cat is out of the bag.” She smiled, very satisfied at this clever statement, and added, “People will be carting away souvenirs next.”
    â€œOr that nasty little arachnid, that Blossom, who Alexander is sweet on, will start selling the bricks off the barn. She is of the class to take liberties,” Lucille said.
    I said nothing.
    â€œI wish you would all be quiet. You too, Alexander,” Mother said, very near tears. “You are all as bad as the public, and no one knows the pain I am being put to.” She flung herself out of her chair and swept over to the bay window to stare out through a Boston Fern. “I think,” she said in slow and tragic tones, “we had just as well sell the house and—Dear Lord, an automobile has gotten through the barrier and is coming up the lane. What good is it to have a guard posted? We are as vulnerable here as early