The Ghost Belonged to Me by Richard Peck

just when—I will kill you, Alexander, and that is a promise. You have ruined my last chance with Tom, and now you have a desperate woman to deal with.”
    My thoughts tried to keep apace with Lucille’s mouth. But they were not equal to the task. They must have fallen somewhat behind because she presently had me by my nightshirt and was hissing dangerously in my ear, “Deny it if you dare and add lies to your loathsomeness!”
    â€œDeny what, Lucille?”
    â€œThat you were in the barn. Look at your nightshirt—and your feet. They’re filthy. You were in that loft tonight, weren’t you?”
    â€œI can’t deny that, Lucille, but—”
    â€œHa!” said Lucille and gave me a shake.
    â€œâ€”but I was not up there when—anybody else was.”
    â€œA bald-faced lie!” she howled, forgetting to hiss. “You went up there to meet that red-necked little arachnid creature from across the tracks. That Blossom! And here’s the proof!” Lucille whipped out of her wrapper pocket the paper rose and the note I’d left, the one that said,
    Here’s a blossom for you, Blossom,
    you spidery-legged little spook.
    â€œOh I saw you under the porch at my party. You’re sweet on her, which is repulsive in itself. But up in the barn at night!”
    Since Lucille and Tom had crept up the loft themselves, by her own admission, I did not think she had any business to be passing judgment on the doings of others. I told her this, which was a mistake. She fulminated something fierce, which gave me the time to remember one of her opening remarks.
    â€œHold on a minute, Lucille, before you work me over,” I said, though my head was snapping back and forth from her shaking. “What is this about a ridiculous costume?”
    â€œYou have the nerve to ask, who devised the whole hellish scheme! You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Rising up in the comer just as Tom and I—rising up in the corner in that nasty old green dress you must have dredged up out of a trunk—holding a candle under your chin to distort your features and giving us both such a turn—and sending us down the steps—I might well have fallen and broken my—and Tom making off into the night like a thing pursued—oh, Alexander, is there no limit to your spiteful perfidy?”
    This disjointed account was clarifying somewhat. Evidently Tom and Lucille had been visited by the ghost of Inez Dumaine. Inez, I thought, Inez, you have been working overtime this night.
    A great dismalness came over me. How could I explain to Lucille that she and Tom had been disturbed by a specter instead of me? Lucille lacks the imagination to follow that line of reasoning.
    After a night of terror, I was pretty well resigned to dying at the hands of my own sister. But a voice from the door called out, “Lucille! Unhand him!”
    She wheeled around, and I retreated to the far side of my bed. Mother and Dad stood in the doorway, looking like they hadn’t just arrived. “Go to your room, Lucille!” Mother said. “Snuggling in the barnloft! Brawling in the house! Your party disfigured by that drunken oaf, Tom Hackett, who would ruin you and cast you to one side without a momentary qualm! That —laxative playboy! That you would so much as contemplate seeing him again after that party, much less allowing him to lure you into the barnloft! All your father and I, especially I, have done and all our well-meaning efforts came to this!”
    Lucille looked in wonderment at Mother for an instant. Then she let out a screech and pounded from the room.
    â€œYou have saved your sister from a fate worse than death, Alexander, though your manner of doing so was rather showy. Nevertheless, one day she will thank you for it. But do not let those dirty feet of yours come in contact with the sheets. And go to sleep at once. It’s past your bedtime!”
    Mother