She had been looking forward to spending the weekend at her grandparent's house; but now, lying in bed with the covers pulled over her head she only wanted to be back home.
Everything had been fine during the day. In the morning she had helped Mama pick ripe, juicy fruit from the strawberry patch in the back yard. Later in the day she had sat on a wooden crate in the corner of Papa's basement workshop while her grandfather applied a coat of lacquer to the rocking chair that would soon sit on the front porch.
Even bath time had been fun with bubbles rising past the top of her head.
But when it had come time to climb into bed in the room that served as a library, she had gotten the heebie creepies. It felt like she was being watched. The walls and bookcases were covered with pictures of family members who had died long before she had been born.
She told herself it was her imagination... until Great Uncle Alfred turned his head within the dark brown frame and glared down at her.
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