By Betty Ren Wright
Christina isn't awaiting spending the summer time with Uncle Ralph. She dreads the lengthy days within the spooky, remoted Victorian mansion specifically simply because Uncle Ralph dislikes her and there are not any childen within reach to play with. issues switch, besides the fact that, whilst she sees the ghostly determine of a small, unhappy boy who mysteriously disappears sooner than she will be able to seek advice from him. confident that he's a ghost, Christina units out to find why he's there. may perhaps he be associated with the murders that occurred in the home thirty years ahead of? And what evil, chilling presence is lurking within the attic? Betty Ren Wright adroitly combines a suspenseful story fo the supernatural with the touching tale of 2 very varied those that discover ways to like one another.
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Additional info for Christina's Ghost
One fist clutched a telephone; with the other hand he was jotting additions to a long list of items. He had an odd, glazed expression, and his glance flicked over Chris without seeing her. After what seemed a very long time, he mumbled a good-bye and hung up. "Liberated women," he snarled into the air above Chris's head. " She took one step closer to the counter. " the man snapped. " Chris looked over her shoulder, ready to run if necessary. "I suppose when you grow up you're going to want a career," the man jeered.
Uncle Ralph seemed pleased to have a job. He hurried off, and Grandma patted the bed beside her. "Sit here, Chrissy," she invited. "Now, how are things going? " The words spilled out. "Uncle Ralph doesn't want me with him. Oh, we get along okay"—she wanted to chase away Grandma's worried frown—"but he'll be glad when I'm gone. And so will I," she added. Grandma hugged her. "My Ralph is a loner, I'm afraid. He's lived by himself for a long time, and he's used to it. But I'm sure he's glad to have you with him, dear.
Time passed, and her muscles ached, but she stayed in her sheet-tent. When she peered out at last, the first gray light of morning was touching the windows. She stayed in bed another half-hour, listening to the world wake itself up. A cardinal sang. A squirrel scolded. The lake made its soft, lapping sounds. When she opened her bedroom door, the house was very still. Uncle Ralph's door was closed. The attic door was closed, too. There was nothing unusual to see, except for the chest. It stood out from the attic door at an angle, as if it had been roughly thrust aside.