Sammy Keyes and the Curse of Moustache Mary by Wendelin Van Draanen Page A

since the Huntleys had had a good harvest?
    I made myself put the picture down and pick up the diary. The cover was dark brown leather and the pages were thick. Heavy parchment thick. And except for a few blotches here and there, the writing was beautiful— curvy and flowing—not at all the kind of penmanship I was expecting from Moustache Mary.
    The first page read simply:
Journal of Mary Rose Huntley
. I turned the page and the journal began:

    I wanted to read more, but made myself stop. I fanned through the diary once, listening to the pages crinkle against each other, then turned out the light and hurried back downstairs.
    “Lucinda?” She was almost asleep when I sat down beside her on the couch. “Here you go. Here's the diary.”
    She smiled at me and whispered, “Thank you.”
    “I read the first page—I hope you don't mind.”
    “Not at all.”
    “It's…it's
amazing
. I didn't want to put it down.”
    She put the book in the crook of her arm like a teddy bear. “You can borrow the copy, if you'd like.”
    “The copy?”
    “Kevin thinks this one should be zip-locked away somewhere. He made me a photocopy years ago. The words are all there, but I still prefer this one. Her spirit's in it.” She motions across the room with her eyes. “Go on. The copy's on the bookshelf, right over there. See it? By the Bible.”
    Lucinda's words were slurring, and I could tell that she was fighting to keep her eyes open. So I found the copy of Mary's journal, and we whispered our good-byes, telling her again how sorry we were for what had happened. She nodded and then said, “Can you visit tomorrow? I'd like…,” but she fell asleep before she could finish.
    We tiptoed out of there and found Kevin on the porch, brooding. The band of sweat around his hat seemed to have crept up another half inch, and even in the cool, foggy air, he looked sweaty and dusty from head to toe.
    He takes one look at us and says, “She sleeping?” When we nod, he lets out a sigh. “Best thing for her.”
    I held up the diary. “She said I could borrow this?”
    “Go ahead,” he says, and dismisses us with a wave.
    As we're going down the steps, I look back at him and ask, “So what are you going to do?”
    He shakes his head. “I'll discuss that with her in the morning.”
    Marissa tugs on my sleeve and whispers, “Let's go,” so we hurried through the darkness to get our bikes.
    We steered clear of the ruins because even from a distance the place gave us the creeps. But when we neared the fence, I got shivers anyway because the fence wasn't closed the way we'd left it. It was gaping open.
    Dot whispers what we were all thinking: “Someone's been through here!”
    Marissa says, “Can we please just get
out
of here?” but then Dot grabs my arm and says, “Look!” and points in the direction of the ruins.
    At first, I say, “What?” but then I see it, faintly, through the fog—not a beam of light, more just a glow. Marissa says, “What
is
that?” and Holly offers, “Maybe it's just someone with a flashlight out there.”
    But the more we watch it, the less it looks like someone walking or searching with a flashlight, and the more it looks like something none of us want to say.
    Holly says, “Oh, come on. It can't be.”
    Marissa whispers, “Why not?” and Dot adds, “Yeah, why not?”
    Holly says, “Well, for one thing, a ghost wouldn't have to open this fence. A ghost would float right through it.”
    “Yeah, and you know how things look weird in the fog,” I say. “And they sound weird, too.”
    So we all agree that it can't be a ghost. But we don't all agree that we should go check out what it
is
. Marissa says, “Sammy, no!”
    “Marissa, there are four of us. What could possibly happen?”
    Holly says, “I'm game,” and Dot says, “Me, too,” but when we look at Marissa, she just stands there, doing the McKenze dance. So I say, “You can stay here and guard the bikes if you want…”
    “By
myself