Free The Ghost Wore Gray by Bruce Coville Page A

had expected, the ghost wanted us to follow him. When he beckoned, Chris grabbed my arm and started up the bare wooden steps. They were very cold, compared to the carpeting we had been walking on. The flashlight wobbled in my trembling hand. I wondered what we were getting ourselves into.
    The attic ceiling was low, only a foot or two above our heads. A tall man would have had to duck to walk there. The roof was supported by broad beams. It had never been insulated, and we could see the actual wood of the roof.
    I pointed the flashlight in different directions. The place looked like a giant yard sale. Generations worth of stuff that was broken, worn-out, or just plain out of style was piled wherever we looked.
    The ghost was standing at one end of the attic, waiting for us.
    â€œCome on,” said Chris again. “I think he’s getting impatient.”
    â€œOr tired,” I said.
    I have a theory that it’s fairly hard work for ghosts to show themselves. Of course, Chris and I seemed to be able to see Captain Gray when no one else could. But if he wanted to be sure we saw him, I figured he was working at being visible.
    The attic floor was even colder than the stairs had been. I wished I had taken the time to put on my slippers.
    Moving toward the ghost, we walked past broken chairs, boxes of old dishes, battered suitcases, and piles of lumpy mattresses. Nervous as I was, I really wanted to stop and open some of the more interesting looking boxes.
    The ghost was standing next to a large, badly battered trunk. It was made of wood and had a rounded top. The brass latches were undone.
    The ghost looked at the trunk and nodded.
    Obviously, we were supposed to open it.
    I wasn’t particularly thrilled by the idea. For some reason, I expected it to be like one of those trick peanut-brittle cans—you know, the kind where you take off the top and all these fake snakes come flying out.
    I think something like that must have occurred to Chris, too. “Here, I’ll hold the flashlight while you open it,” she said.
    â€œYou have got to be kidding!”
    â€œShhh!” she whispered. “Let’s not argue in front of the ghost!”
    I glanced over at Captain Gray. He was starting to look kind of cranky.
    I set the flashlight on a nearby chair, so that its beam fell on the trunk.
    â€œHere,” I said. “You take one side, I’ll take the other.”
    Chris nodded. We knelt at opposite sides of the trunk.
    â€œReady? she asked.
    â€œReady,” I whispered.
    We lifted the lid.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    The Trunk
    Nothing jumped out of the trunk. What did happen was that as soon as we had the lid up, the ghost disappeared. It was as if someone had turned off a light. Click . One second he was there, the next he was gone.
    â€œMy goodness, Toto,” I said, “People come and go in the strangest way around here.”
    â€œCome back from Oz and let’s get down to business,” replied Chris. “I figure if Captain Gray went to all that work to get us up here, there must be something pretty important in this trunk. So let’s find it.”
    I got the flashlight and pointed its beam into the trunk.
    â€œI don’t get it,” said Chris.
    I didn’t either. I was expecting something from Civil War times. All I saw was a stack of clothes that looked like things I had seen in pictures of my parents when they were hippy teenagers: paisley shirts, bell-bottom trousers, and fringed vests—things like that.
    â€œMaybe there’s something else underneath that stuff,” I said.
    We started digging. Ten minutes later we had emptied the trunk. We were surrounded by stacks of old clothes, a complete run of Popular Mechanics from 1963 to 1966, a broken waffle iron, a toothless comb, and fifteen record albums by three groups I had never heard of. With the possible exception of the comb, none of it looked like it was any older than my father.
    â€œWhat does