I gaped at the old ghost in disbelief. His smile faded. “I’m telling you the truth,” he said softly, rubbing his pale cheek with a bony hand. “You’re trying to trick us,” Terri replied. “Those three kids—” “They’re not kids,” the old man interrupted sharply. “They’re over 350 years old!” Terri and I exchanged glances. The blood was pounding so hard at my temples, I couldn’t think clearly. “Allow me to introduce myself,” the old man said, lowering himself onto the table edge. His lined face flickered in the shifting candlelight. “I’m Harrison Sadler.” “Another Sadler?” I blurted out. “We’re Sadlers, too!” Terri cried. “I know,” he said softly. He coughed, a dry, hacking cough. “I came here from England quite a while ago,” he told us. “In 1641?” I demanded. He is a ghost, I realized with a shudder. My question seemed to amuse him. “I haven’t been here that long,” he replied dryly. “After college, I traced my ancestors here.
