Free Haunted Island by Joan Lowery Nixon Page A

wouldn’t.” Amy gave a shiver and looked toward the entrance of the cave. “Then who said it?”
    “What did the voice sound like?”
    “I don’t know. It was just—a voice.”
    “A man’s voice?”
    Amy shrugged. “No.” She slid to the floor of the cave and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Chris, I just don’t know.”
    Chris glanced around the cave. “Someone wanted us to come into the cave. I wonder why.”
    “It’s cold in here.” Amy shivered.
    “Where’s your sweater?”
    “Back on the beach, I think.”
    Chris glanced at the slide at one side of the cave. “Look at that,” he said. “There are some good, dry pine branches with lots of pitch in them. Why don’t we light one?”
    “Good idea!” Amy scrambled to her feet. “It will make us feel warmer, at least.”
    Chris had already picked out three of the limbs. He put one aside, took the tinder box from his pocket, and squatted next to the branch. He worked until sparks flew out and one end of the branch flared up.
    He stood, picking up the branch carefully, holding it aloft. The roof, with its jagged stalactites, glittered in the light. The floor was uneven, pockmarked with small holes. Here and there a stalagmite grew under a steady drip from the roof of the cave. As he moved with the light, the wall seemed to move, too, leaping into brightness or shadow.
    “Amy,” Chris said, “the cave goes way back here.”
    “Don’t leave me,” Amy said.
    “I’m not. Don’t you want to explore a little, as long as we’re here?”
    Back in the shadows Chris saw something shine, then wriggle away in the darkness. Another snake? Chris didn’t want to know, and he hoped Amy hadn’t seen it.
    “Not yet,” Amy said. “For one thing, we don’t know why we’re supposed to be here. And for another, I think it’s time to read some of Amelia’s journal.”
    Chris walked back to where Amy was seated on a rock near the entrance, the journal unwrapped and open on her lap.
    “Another voice telling you what to do?” he asked.
    She shook her head. “No. Just something I want to do.”
    “We can’t stay here, Amy.”
    “I know. But I have the feeling there’s an answer for us in this journal. I only want a few minutes to look. Okay?”
    “Well,” Chris agreed grudgingly, “I’d rather look for answers in the cave.”
    “Ten minutes,” Amy said. “That’s all I want.”
    “You know I haven’t got a watch.”
    “Then I’ll tell you when ten minutes is up.”
    “You haven’t got a watch, either.”
    “But I’ll know,” Amy said. “Now, hold the light over this way a little, so I can read.”
    Chris held the limb close to Amy, but not close enough so that a drop of pitch might hurt her. Now and then a bubble of the pitch sizzled as the wood burned, and occasionally a spark flew from the branch. Chris was glad he knew so much about surviving in the wilderness. He never thought his knowledge would come in so useful. “Are you starting at the beginning?” he asked.
    “No,” she said. “At the part where Amelia came to Missouri to marry Joshua Hanover.” She paused. “Amelia didn’t spell very well, and her handwriting is kind of spidery with curls on the letters. It’s hard to read.”
    “Then why don’t you give it up and come with me to see what’s in the rest of the cave?”
    Amy held up a hand to hush him. “Listen to this, Chris. She’s writing here about the property. ‘The pasture is wide and thick with grasses, which makes good grazing for the horse. The river beyond the house and woods is a valuable source of fish, and the woods provide fuel for the stove and fireplace. All is plentiful and good.
    “ ‘I have discovered a quiet place, unknown to Joshua and Shadow. It is here I sometimes come when I have a few free minutes during the afternoon, when work is not too pressing. It is here I come when I want to think my own thoughts and to write them in this little book. It is my cave. My very own place. I am