Free Waiting Spirits by Bruce Coville

as bad. Hard as a rock. Of course, she was a geologist. Talk about dealing with reality!” Lisa giggled. “The kids on campus used to call her The Great Stone Face. They also called her Rocky.”
    Brian looked at her for a second, then began to smile. “Rocky Miles. Not bad!”
    â€œI figured it would appeal to your sick sense of humor,” said Lisa. “Gramma was such a tough grader they called her course the Rocky Miles Endurance Test.”
    Brian’s smiled broadened. “I bet no one took it for granite.”
    Lisa rolled her eyes but refused to groan. “But you want to know something weird?” she said. “I think Gramma does believe me—or at least some part of her does. You should have seen her face when I was telling Dad about the ghost.” She frowned, then added in frustration, “I don’t get it.”
    â€œMaybe she knows more than she’s telling,” suggested Brian.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell, you said she used to summer here, right?”
    Lisa nodded.
    Brian looked away, as if he were embarrassed. Then he looked directly into her eyes. “I’ve been doing a little asking around. My mother told me that there was an awful tragedy in your house once. She wouldn’t tell me exactly what happened, though. I couldn’t figure out if she didn’t know, or just didn’t want me to think she was gossiping. But I got the impression it’s part of the village folklore that something horrible happened here a long time ago.” He shrugged. “Terrible tragedy, haunted house. Every town has something like it. Only it seems like this one is the real thing!”
    â€œGreat,” moaned Lisa. “Why me?”
    She grabbed a low-hanging branch and pulled down on it. It was hard to believe in ghosts on a sunny day like this. She looked down the road, a lovely country lane. The ocean air was sweet and clean, and the breeze rustled through Brian’s blond hair in a way she found fantastically attractive. She let the branch support her weight as she swayed back and forth, wondering what her grandmother was hiding.
    An hour later, Lisa was leaning against another tree, the old oak in the front yard, and watching her grandmother. Brian was back on his ladder, working away at the windows. He had made one more pun about their “spirited discussion,” then had withdrawn his hand from hers and given her a quick kiss before he ran up the driveway. His father had been standing by the house, looking at his watch and frowning. Lisa hoped she hadn’t gotten Brian into trouble.
    Her grandmother was sitting on the porch swing, reading. Lisa smiled. The older woman was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The shirt, a gift from one of her graduate students when she had retired, said “The Great Stone Face” in large black letters across the front. Dr. Miles sat cross-legged on the swing, the book perched between her knees. With her head down, it would be easy to look at her and think she was a college student studying for a summer exam. From this distance only her white hair, done up in an old-fashioned bun, gave her away.
    Brian had urged Lisa to talk to her grandmother, to see if she would open up about what had happened here so long ago.
    Lisa hesitated. Gramma Miles was a dear, as sweet as could be when no one was crossing her. But it was not wise to press her. She had developed a sharp tongue in the classroom. She claimed it was partly a result of being one of the first women in a very male-dominated field. Whatever the reason, that sharpness often strayed over into her everyday life.
    â€œWell, sticks and stones and all that,” muttered Lisa as she tried to convince herself that finding out what was going on in the old house was too important to let herself be intimidated by the fear of a few pointed comments.
    Trying to appear casual she started toward the porch.
    Dr. Miles looked up as Lisa climbed the