Ramona and Leah screw up their courage and stride into the middle of the room. Small sounds come through the window. The distant scrape of a hoe in the kitchen gardens and the call of a dove in the grapefruit tree. Lottie says, “Shh . . . listen. I think I hear something.”

The girls tense, and Lottie slams the book in her hands closed. Bam. The girls jump, and Beatrice screams. Lottie laughs at the sounds they make, but her laughter makes the girls scream even more. They think it’s Lorraine’s ghost, delighted at having three fresh girls to eat for supper. Leah spins in terrified circles, and Ramona looks like she might pee or puke or both. Beatrice makes a high-pitched squeak that travels out of the window and across the dirt yard to Mrs. Thomas’s house.

“Shh . . . wait, wait, wait.” I try to hush them. “Lottie is joking. It’s nothing. There’s nothing here.”

“I saw Lorraine.” Ramona hiccups. “Right there in that corner. She’s got red eyes.”

“And red teeth,” Leah adds. If Mrs. Thomas comes to investigate, she will blame Lottie and me for corrupting young minds. Talking to the dead is an offense against the one true God, and we will be punished. We might even, Lord take this cup from me, be sent to Mr. Vincent’s office for a lecture and a public caning at assembly.

Lottie also understands where her innocent joke might lead, and shows the girls the book.

“See.” She opens the cover and shuts it gently. “It was me. I made the sound.”

The girls jump and cry harder. I scramble under my cot, pull out my suitcase, and grab the package of shortbread biscuits. Technically, feeding other people’s pets is wrong, but I have no choice.

“Here. Look what I’ve got.” I rip the package open, and the smell of sugar and butter immediately gets their attention, but Ramona and Leah hesitate, as if this is somehow a trick to poison them. I ram a biscuit into my mouth and make exaggerated mmm sounds. Then I give one to Lottie, who joins in the mmm chorus. She rolls her eyes in delight, and the girls giggle.

“One each,” I say, and hand them out. Beatrice takes a shortbread finger, sits on the edge of my cot, and chews. Ramona and Leah perch on the end of Lottie’s bed and take small, luxurious bites, to extend the time that it takes to finish their biscuits. Rich or poor—and pets are chosen for looks and temperament, not family money—a love of shortbread makes their fear evaporate. The silence is lovely, and I relax. Things could have ended badly, but they didn’t: instead, we are five girls eating biscuits together in a haunted room.