Free The Ghost's Grave by Peg Kehret

incline. I turned right and soon looked down on an old cemetery.
    Once-white gravestones were dark gray; some hadtoppled to the ground. There were a few large markers, but most were about two feet high—flat slabs with rounded tops.
    I went to the back row where fourteen identical grave markers stood side by side, sticking up like concrete headboards. I read the names, including Emil Davies, and saw they all had the same date of death: May 9, 1905. All of the miners from that explosion were buried there except Willie.
    Some fast subtraction from the dates of birth told me most of the men had lived less than thirty years. Emil Davies, at thirty-seven, was the oldest. His son, Victor, age sixteen, was the youngest.
    Sadness for these lost lives brought a lump to my throat. The newspaper account I’d read last night had seemed far removed, a tragedy in a past century that had nothing to do with me. Seeing these names and dates made the disastrous explosion vividly real in my mind.
    I turned away from the last row and surveyed my surroundings. Faded plastic flowers and a few small American flags—probably left from Memorial Day—decorated half a dozen graves. The rest were unadorned.
    No one else was visiting a grave, no joggers ranpast, and no cars drove by on the road that bordered the far side of the cemetery. Willie was right; I could dig here unobserved if I wanted to.
    Did I?
    Back home, I would not have considered such an action for one second, knowing the trouble I’d be in if I got caught. Why should it be different here?
    Although I was still angry at Mom for going to India and sending me here for the summer, I wasn’t so mad that I wanted to get myself hauled off to juvenile detention.
    Still, now that I’d seen the cemetery, the idea of helping the ghost appealed to me. It was Willie’s leg, and he wanted it moved. Shouldn’t this be his decision?
    There are laws against digging up graves because grave robbers steal jewelry or other valuables that were buried with the body. I only wanted to find Willie’s leg bones so I could grant his wish to have his leg buried with the rest of his body.
    A voice in my head whispered,
Tell that to the police if someone sees you
.
    Since other people couldn’t see or hear Willie, there would be no way to prove my story if I got caught.

CHAPTER NINE
    I walked up and down the rows of graves, arguing with myself as I searched for the spot where Willie’s leg was buried.
    I didn’t find it. I did find Florence’s grave, though.
    F LORENCE H ODGE
B ELOVED DAUGHTER, SISTER, AND TEACHER
    â€œEthel misses you, Florence,” I whispered, “and Steven remembers you fondly.” I thought, so does Willie, but I decided not to mention him.
    Of course, I didn’t believe Florence could hear me, no matter what I said to her. If Aunt Ethel was right, Florence was now perched on the porch rail. If Willie was right, Florence had moved on and was an angel by now. Either way, she wasn’t lying under thesod, listening to me. Still, it seemed natural to talk to her.
    I retraced my steps, reading each marker carefully, still searching for Willie’s leg. I was about to give up when Willie appeared beside me.
    â€œThere it is,” he said, pointing at a flat marker about four by eight inches big that I hadn’t noticed at the edge of the graveyard.
    â€œIt’s about time you showed up,” I said.
    I knelt beside the marker he pointed to. It was far smaller than the others, and grass had encroached along the edges, giving it an uneven look. I bent to brush a fallen leaf from the marker and saw W.M.M. etched on the top.
    â€œNo wonder I missed it,” I said. “I was looking for your name or the nineteen-oh-three date.”
    â€œDidn’t want my whole name put on. Only my initials.”
    â€œWhat’s your middle name?”
    â€œMichael.”
    â€œThat’s my middle name!”
    We smiled at