The moonlight made Lucy’s eyes sparkle like dark jewels. But the light faded from her eyes as the fog covered the moon. I didn’t blink. I didn’t move. I suddenly felt as wooden as the trees hiding behind the swirling fog. “You—you’re joking, right?” I stammered. “This is one of those great Camp Spirit Moon jokes?” But I knew the answer. I could read the answer in her dark eyes. In her trembling mouth. In her pale, pale skin. “I’m a ghost,” she repeated sadly. “The stories—they’re true, Harry.” But I don’t believe in ghosts! That’s what I almost blurted out. But how could I not believe in ghosts when one stood right in front of me, staring into my face? How could I not believe in Lucy? “I believe you,” I whispered. She sighed. She turned her face away. “How did it happen?” I asked. “Just as Uncle Marv told in the story,” she replied. “We were sitting around the campfire. All of us. Just like the other night. The fog rolled in. Such a dark, heavy fog.”
