pot. Mr. McCloy was seated at the counter, chopping carrots for a salad. The blood had all been washed up, Brandt saw happily. When Brandt entered, Mr. McCloy set down his knife and raised his eyes to him. “Jinny seems like a nice girl,” he said. “But your mother and I were a little surprised to find her here.” “We were working on our chemistry project. We’re lab partners,” Brandt answered curtly. “Why didn’t you tell us you’d invited her over, Brandt?” his mother asked, turning to face him. “Did you wait till we left and then invite her over?”
“No way,” Brandt insisted impatiently. “I didn’t know I had to tell you every little thing,” Brandt answered. “I’m allowed to invite friends over—aren’t I?” His mother frowned, hurt. She turned back to the stove. “We never mind if you have friends over,” Mr. McCloy said. He changed his tone, trying to sound lighter, less upset. “It’s just—well, we met your friend Abbie the other day, and then today it’s Jinny. We don’t think you should overdo it, that’s all.” “Overdo what?” Brandt snapped, even though he knew perfectly well what they were talking about. He’d heard it before. “You know,” Mrs. McCloy said, “too many girls. It could be too much for you. Look what happened today. Jinny could have been seriously hurt.” “But that wasn’t my fault!” Brandt protested. “It was an accident.” “We know that, Brandt,” his father agreed. “But what if we hadn’t come home when we did? It might have taken a lot out of you—” “Give me a break. I can’t take any more of this,” Brandt muttered. “Call me when dinner’s ready.” He stomped out of the kitchen.
Creak, creak, creak. Brandt lay on his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. Creak, creak, creak. The footsteps again. In the attic. What did it mean? Who was up there? What was making those mysterious sounds? Brandt decided to ignore them this time. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Creak, creak, creak. His eyes flew open. It was no use. He’d never be able to fall asleep. It sounded as if someone were pacing back and forth up there. Back and forth right over his bed. One more time, he thought. I’m going to sneak up to that attic as quietly as I can. This time maybe I’ll catch whoever it is up there. He slipped out of bed and crept up the attic stairs. Silence. He switched on the light. No one in view. But there, in the middle of the floor, lay the diary. It had been moved. Brandt stepped toward it. The little book lay open. Puzzled, Brandt bent down and picked up the diary. “Huh?” He uttered a low cry when he saw the fresh writing. A new page. Someone had started a new page. His hand trembled and his eyes grew wide as he read the words, neatly written in blue ink.
I made Jinny bleed. Abbie is next.
Chapter 15
Brandt dropped the diary as if it were burning hot. I don’t believe this! he thought.
His entire body trembled. Who wrote the new entry? Who wrote these words? He grabbed the diary and shuffled through the old pages. They were written in the same blue ink, he saw. In the same handwriting. Cally Frasier’s handwriting! But how could Cally Frasier still be writing in the diary? She was dead! Still trembling, Brandt stared at the newly written words again.
I made Jinny bleed. Abbie is next.
Such cold, cruel words. Was it some kind of a joke? Brandt suddenly wondered. Was someone trying to scare him? No. No one else had been up in the attic. No one. So what did it mean? Was the house really haunted? Haunted by the ghost of Cally Frasier? Had a ghost written these frightening new words? Had a ghost killed Ezra and cut Jinny? And was the ghost really planning to hurt Abbie next? Brandt shut the diary and tossed it against the wall. He suddenly remembered the shadowlike figure that had chased him onto the front yard. That was the ghost! he decided. The ghost was outside. It chased me home. The ghost is outside—and
“No way,” Brandt insisted impatiently. “I didn’t know I had to tell you every little thing,” Brandt answered. “I’m allowed to invite friends over—aren’t I?” His mother frowned, hurt. She turned back to the stove. “We never mind if you have friends over,” Mr. McCloy said. He changed his tone, trying to sound lighter, less upset. “It’s just—well, we met your friend Abbie the other day, and then today it’s Jinny. We don’t think you should overdo it, that’s all.” “Overdo what?” Brandt snapped, even though he knew perfectly well what they were talking about. He’d heard it before. “You know,” Mrs. McCloy said, “too many girls. It could be too much for you. Look what happened today. Jinny could have been seriously hurt.” “But that wasn’t my fault!” Brandt protested. “It was an accident.” “We know that, Brandt,” his father agreed. “But what if we hadn’t come home when we did? It might have taken a lot out of you—” “Give me a break. I can’t take any more of this,” Brandt muttered. “Call me when dinner’s ready.” He stomped out of the kitchen.
Creak, creak, creak. Brandt lay on his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. Creak, creak, creak. The footsteps again. In the attic. What did it mean? Who was up there? What was making those mysterious sounds? Brandt decided to ignore them this time. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Creak, creak, creak. His eyes flew open. It was no use. He’d never be able to fall asleep. It sounded as if someone were pacing back and forth up there. Back and forth right over his bed. One more time, he thought. I’m going to sneak up to that attic as quietly as I can. This time maybe I’ll catch whoever it is up there. He slipped out of bed and crept up the attic stairs. Silence. He switched on the light. No one in view. But there, in the middle of the floor, lay the diary. It had been moved. Brandt stepped toward it. The little book lay open. Puzzled, Brandt bent down and picked up the diary. “Huh?” He uttered a low cry when he saw the fresh writing. A new page. Someone had started a new page. His hand trembled and his eyes grew wide as he read the words, neatly written in blue ink.
I made Jinny bleed. Abbie is next.
Chapter 15
Brandt dropped the diary as if it were burning hot. I don’t believe this! he thought.
His entire body trembled. Who wrote the new entry? Who wrote these words? He grabbed the diary and shuffled through the old pages. They were written in the same blue ink, he saw. In the same handwriting. Cally Frasier’s handwriting! But how could Cally Frasier still be writing in the diary? She was dead! Still trembling, Brandt stared at the newly written words again.
I made Jinny bleed. Abbie is next.
Such cold, cruel words. Was it some kind of a joke? Brandt suddenly wondered. Was someone trying to scare him? No. No one else had been up in the attic. No one. So what did it mean? Was the house really haunted? Haunted by the ghost of Cally Frasier? Had a ghost written these frightening new words? Had a ghost killed Ezra and cut Jinny? And was the ghost really planning to hurt Abbie next? Brandt shut the diary and tossed it against the wall. He suddenly remembered the shadowlike figure that had chased him onto the front yard. That was the ghost! he decided. The ghost was outside. It chased me home. The ghost is outside—and
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