The Ghost Wore Gray by Bruce Coville

directions to the museum. He even asked Dieter to pack us a box lunch. At about ten o’clock we started walking down a country lane carrying food that would have been a hit in any fancy restaurant.
    As it turned out Peter’s “just over the hill” was more like two miles down the road. But it was a beautiful walk. We even saw a deer along the way.
    The Samson Carter house turned out to be a little wooden building surrounded by a picket fence. To the side was a slightly overgrown garden, crowded with flowers and vegetables. A white sign announced the hours the building was open.
    We stepped through the gate and walked up to the house, wondering what we might find.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
    Samson Carter
    A white-haired woman sat on a wooden chair just inside the door. She was fanning herself with a folded-up newspaper. It didn’t seem to be doing much good, though; her pale, wrinkled skin still glistened with sweat.
    â€œMorning, girls,” she said as we stepped in. “You visiting around here?”
    â€œWe’re staying at the Quackadoodle,” I said.
    The woman snorted. “What, over with that crazy Baltimore Cleveland?”
    I didn’t like her attitude. My first reaction was to defend Baltimore. But I caught myself, realizing we’d probably get more information out of the woman if we just acted casual. So I said, “What’s wrong with Baltimore?” as if I didn’t really care.
    â€œThe man’s got no common sense,” the woman said, tapping herself on the forehead with her newspaper. “He doesn’t know third base from page nine. And he’s in debt to just about everyone in the county.” She leaned forward. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he lost that place before the summer’s over.”
    I swallowed hard at that bit of news. If Baltimore was out of money, how was he going to pay my father?
    â€œAnyway, what brings you girls here?”
    â€œWe just heard about the museum,” said Chris with a shrug. “We thought it would be fun to take a look at it.”
    â€œWell, go ahead and look,” the woman said, gesturing with her newspaper. “My name is Effie Calkins. You can call me Effie. If you have any questions, I’ll be right here.”
    She closed her eyes and started fanning herself again.
    Trying to keep from giggling, Chris and I began to look around. The room we were in was small and clean. A plaque on the wall said that it had been restored to look the same as it had when Samson Carter lived there a hundred and twenty-five years ago. I assumed that did not include the rack of crummy postcards or the glass counter they sat on.
    It was a fascinating little place. We started by going out back, where another little garden was planted with the same flowers and vegetables Samson Carter had once grown on that very spot.
    Back inside, we climbed a narrow stairway to a pair of small bedrooms. White curtains, lifted by a passing breeze, floated away from the windows. The bare wooden floor was made of wide boards. The bed in one room was made of tree branches tied together with thin rope. When I put my hand on the mattress it rustled.
    â€œCorn husks,” said Effie, when I asked her about it back downstairs. “Folks used to stuff mattresses with them all the time. ‘Course, they had to dry them first. But it must have worked all right. At least, I never heard of anyone dying from it. Not that I’d want to try it myself. I’m perfectly happy with my waterbed, thank you very much.”
    â€œYou have a waterbed?” Chris laughed.
    â€œAnything wrong with that?” Effie sounded offended.
    â€œAre there any secret rooms here?” I asked, partly to change the subject and partly because I had been trying to see if I could spot one since we had first entered the place.
    It was Effie’s turn to laugh. “This wouldn’t have been the best place for Samson to hide folks,” she