Ann Martin - Mary Anne And The Secret In The Attic

"Here's the microfilm machine," she said. "You can look through old issues of the newspaper and check for important news." Adam got to work. "And over here are the town records, where the births and deaths are recorded." Jordan started leafing through one of the oversized books. "And over here," said Mrs. Kishi, "are some books about the history of Stoneybrook." She pulled one off the shelf. "This one may interest you," she said to Byron. "It was put together by the historical society, and it tells all the Stoneybrook legends

that have been passed down through the generations." Byron's head was buried in the book before Mrs. Kishi even finished speaking.

"Thanks," said Stacey. "That's a great help."

Stacey picked up one of the other Stoneybrook history books and started to browse through it. But before she'd gotten through the introduction, which was kind of wordy, she heard Byron give a yelp.

"Wow!" he said. "Listen to this. There was this guy named James Hickman, who was the richest man in town. He had a mansion and everything." He read a little further. "He was supposed to be really mean, too — and stingy. He lived all alone in a big old mansion."

This was starting to sound familiar to Stacey. "What did you say his name was?" she asked. "James Hickman," said Byron. "But everybody called him Old Hickory."

Old Hickory! Stacey felt a shiver run down her spine. The BSC once had a midnight adventure at Old Hickory's grave.

"His grave is supposed to be haunted!" said Byron. By this time, Adam and Jordan were reading over his shoulder. "He died in his mansion one day — some people say he died of meanness. He was so stingy he didn't want to spend money even after he was dead, so he had left instructions that he didn't want a

big funeral or a headstone or anything. He just wanted to be stuck in the ground." "Yeah?" asked Jordan. "Then what?" "Then this nephew of his inherited all his money, and he felt guilty because there was no marker on his uncle's grave. So he put up this gigantic headstone, and they say that the ghost of Old Hickory was furious, so it haunts the grave!"

"Wow!" said Adam and Jordan together. "Cool."

"The cemetery is nearby," said Byron. "Can we go check it out?"

"Sure," said Stacey. They hopped on their bikes again, and soon they were exploring the cemetery.

"This is neat," said Adam. Stacey raised her eyebrows. "Creepy is more like it," she said.

The triplets started to look closely at the tombstones. "People sure died a lot younger in the old days," said Adam. "Look at this guy. He was only nineteen, and his wife was seventeen."

"Ooh, listen to this," said Byron, reading an inscription. " 'How many hopes lie buried here.' That's for a little girl who died when she was only three. There's a picture of a lamb on it." "Here's another one," said Jordan. " 'Not

lost but gone before.' That's kind of poetic. Vanessa would like it."

Stacey began to feel unnerved. The cemetery was beautiful and peaceful, but it felt strange to be walking over people's graves. Just seeing their names on the stones — Sarah, Otis, Philura, Emeline — made them seem so real to her. She hurried the triplets along to Old Hickory's grave, which they thought was "really awesome." Then she took them home.

When I read Stace’s entry in the club notebook, I got an idea. Maybe if I went there I could find my mother's grave (which my father had never taken me to), or the graves of her ancestors. I'd never been terribly interested in finding out more about my "personal history," but now I was awfully curious.

Chapter 6.

It took me over a week to find the courage to go to the cemetery. I wasn't scared, exactly. Or maybe I was scared, but I couldn't tell you what I was scared of. I guess it was just that the idea of opening up my past seemed kind of overwhelming. There were times during that week when I could convince myself I was better off not knowing anything about my past, but my curiosity won out in the end.

I headed for the cemetery on a Tuesday afternoon. I hadn't told anyone I was going, not even Dawn or Kristy. This was something I had to do alone. It was a bright, sunny day, and as I biked to the cemetery I felt optimistic and brave. "What's the big deal?" I said out loud. "It's just a cemetery."

But when I paused at the big wrought-iron gate at the entrance to the cemetery, my palms started to sweat. My heart began to beat fast, and my breath was coming in funny little

gasps. I decided to walk my bike around, just to give myself time to calm down. As I walked, I looked through the fence at the cemetery. It didn't look so scary in the daytime.

I thought about the adventure the BSC had had there, one Halloween. The cemetery had sure looked different at midnight ort the scariest night of the year! These girls from school had tried to scare me into thinking that a necklace I had been wearing was a bad-luck charm. They thought they were tricking us into a terrifying night at Old Hickory's grave, but we scared them out of their wits! Still, it had been a nerve-racking night. I don't think I've been back to the cemetery since then.

By the time I'd walked all the way around the cemetery to the front gates I was ready to go in. I took a deep breath and held it — and then let it out with a giggle. I was thinking about when Mallory had told us that she and her brothers and sisters believe you should always hold your breath when you're near a graveyard. It's so the spirits won't bother you or something. Well, there was no way I could hold my breath the whole time I was in the cemetery, so I decided to forget about that old superstition.

I started to walk along the main path through the cemetery. It was kind of a pretty place, if you could forget about all the dead

people. ("People are dying to get into cemeteries!" is one of Watson Brewer's favorite jokes.) Anyway, beautiful big trees were shading the walk, and flowers had been planted near many of the headstones. I had thought the cemetery would be still and quiet, but instead birds were singing happily. I heard the sound of a lawnmower, too, and music coming from somebody's house nearby.

I saw some impressive monuments, like the one that marked Old Hickory's grave, and older, worn stones that must have been standing for a hundred years or more. I bent closer to look at some of the older ones. The writing was faded and hard to read, but the inscriptions were interesting. "There is rest for the weary," said one. "Sweet is the memory of the dead," said another.

That one reminded me of why I was there. It was because I had no memories. I decided to start looking for my mother's grave, but I didn't know where to begin. Little roads and paths led all over the cemetery. How would I ever find the place where she was buried? I needed a map or something.

I started walking, checking the names on every stone I passed. At first I looked for Spiers, but then I realized I should be looking for my mother's maiden name, too. I knew she was buried near some of her relatives, and

their name certainly wasn't Spier. Before she married my father, my mother's name was Baker. Alma Baker — isn't that a pretty name?

Someone with that name would have been kind and gentle and patient. Alma. It was such a calm, sweet name. I thought about my mother as I walked up and down the rows of stones, and I started to feel a little choked up. Still, I checked each name. My head was starting to spin. There were common names, like Smith and Brown. There were simple ones, like Fox and Bell. There were unpronounceable ones, like Andrzejewski and Guadagnino, and ones that I thought were kind of funny, like Looney and Stumpf. (I had to giggle at those, even though I knew it was a terrible thing to do.)

But I didn't see any Bakers. The path stretched on in front of me, leading to an apparently endless row of headstones. I was beginning to feel frustrated. "I should know where my mother is buried," I said out loud, angry at my father for never bringing me to the cemetery. Then I saw something that wiped my anger and frustration away.