The thunder growled behind them. Amy quickened her steps. As she had said, she shuddered at the tempest. What might be of a disturbing nature in the old farmhouse could not, she thought, be as fearsome as the approaching tempest.
CHAPTER VIII
CARTER’S GHOST
On the broken porch of the abandoned house Amy stopped and waited for her chum to overtake her. When she looked back she cried out again. Forked lightning blazed against the lurid clouds. It was so sharp a display of electricity that Amy shut her eyes.
Jessie, still laughing, plunged up the steps and bumped right into the sagging door. It swung inward, creakingly. Amy peered over her chum’s shoulder.
“O-oh!” she crooned. “Do—do you see anything?”
“Nothing alive. Not even a rat.”
“Ghosts aren’t alive.”
“Nothing moving, then,” and Jessie proceeded to march into the rather dark kitchen. “Here’s a table and some benches. You know, Miss Allister’s Sunday School class picnicked here last year.”
“Oh, I’ve been here a dozen times,” confessed Amy. “But always with a crowd. You know, honey, you are no protection against ghosts.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” laughed Jessie. She had put down the things she had brought up from the lakeside, and now turned back to look out of the open door. “Oh, Amy! It’s coming!”