Free The Bagpiper’s Ghost by Jane Yolen

loved the joke. “Spelling counts,” she said again. Somehow it no longer seemed so funny.
    â€œMmmmmm,” Molly called out, mostly asleep. “Jennnnnn?”
    Jennifer looked over at her little sister. The last thing she needed was to wake Molly and have to explain a lame joke. “Everything’s fine, Molls,” she whispered. “Just fine.”
    Though, of course, nothing was fine.
    Peter was possessed by some eighteenth-century liar and twin abuser, and it was all her fault.
    Her fault.
    And the dog’s.
    Molly turned over and went right back to sleep, making her little pop-pop-pop snore.
    Shoving the paper back in her pocket, Jennifer tried to fall asleep herself. Really she did.
    But no such luck.
    She tossed and turned and ended up with the sheets wrapped around her neck in a stranglehold. Having to untangle herself woke her up completely. She knew she would never fall asleep now.
    So she got off the bed and tiptoed into Peter’s room.
    Still knocked out by whatever the doctor had injected into him, Peter was snoring lightly. He looked no different from her old familiar brother. No sign of the awful Andrew MacFadden anywhere. But Andrew MacFadden was still there. Jennifer knew that for certain.
    Dead certain.
    Or certainly dead , she thought.
    Peter turned over heavily but did not waken.
    â€œOh, Peter,” Jennifer whispered, “don’t leave me. Don’t leave me and become some dried-up old Fifer who lies to his sister and keeps her from her own true love.”
    Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again without a sound.
    â€œYou’re my best friend, Peter,” Jennifer said. “You’re my twin. We were together before we were with anyone else. We belong together now. Come back. Come back.”
    She tried not to sound sappy. Peter hated sappy. But there were tears in her eyes.
    Something like a shadow of an answer passed across Peter’s face. But still he slept.
    Kisses always work in fairy tales , Jennifer thought. She bent over and kissed him on the forehead.
    He didn’t stir.
    â€œOh, Peter,” Jennifer cried again. She couldn’t stand feeling so helpless, so she went back to her own room. This time when she lay down on top of the covers, she fell instantly to sleep and slept without dreams.
    At eleven-thirty something woke her. Some strange sound. A scraping, a grunting, a cascade of foreign language.
    She got up slowly, still half asleep, and walked out into the hallway. Looking out over the half balcony that Gran called a minstrel’s gallery, she saw that the front door of the house stood wide-open.
    â€œPeter?” she whispered.
    No one answered, so she went to check up on him. In the half-light, she saw the bed was empty.
    Quickly she checked in the bathroom down the hall.
    He wasn’t there, either.
    She ran down the stairs. A washcloth lay by the open front door.
    â€œPeter …” she called, loud enough to be heard outside, but not so loud as to wake the house.
    Still no answer.
    She ran outside, paying little attention to the way the pebbles hurt her bare feet.
    The road was empty.
    Why didn’t the dog bark? She thought. Where’s Gran? Why didn’t she wake me? What should I do now?
    She took a few tentative steps on the road and realized that going barefoot would slow her down. So she went back into the house and found her shoes. Then, just to be sure, she checked Peter’s room again.
    A strange, muffled sound came from the closet.
    Opening the door, she found the dog tied up, a gag made out of a sock tight around his jaws.
    Quickly she untied him.
    â€œOh my ears and tail, he swicked me,” the dog moaned. “Swicked me and tricked me. Aye, he’s a canny one.”
    â€œPeter?” Jennifer asked.
    â€œNae—that spoacher, that minister, Andrew MacFadden” the dog said, shaking himself all over. “The one who stole Peter’s body fer his ain.”
    The noise