Palace Beautiful by Sarah DeFord Williams

Author:Sarah DeFord Williams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2010-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

Clenched-Fist Gray

NIGHT IN SALT LAKE CITY IS THE BEST time of all. All the heat mellows and the mountains breathe out clean, cool air. Bella and I each took a flashlight from her laundry room, and the zebra-striped notebook, and headed for the cemetery.

Bella’s mom was sound asleep. Before we left, we opened her bedroom door just a tiny crack and heard quiet, snoring kind of breathing. She didn’t seem like the kind of lady who would snore even a little, but apparently, she was. Bella and I had to cover our mouths so we didn’t laugh. Lights were on next door at my house, though, and Jason and his friends were still shooting hoops even though it was all the way dark outside.

It was only two blocks to the cemetery.

Our neighborhood was built in the 1800s by silver miners. They must have been doing pretty well for themselves, because the houses were all large and none of them were the same. Some had towers on their sides like castles. Some had porches all the way around, and some had fancy wooden decoration all over. Some of them had been fixed up and looked perfect, like Bella’s house, and a few looked like they were about to fall apart.

The neighborhood was on a hill—really it was on the slope of a smaller mountain. In some places the roads were steep. The houses looked charming during the day, but at night, they looked almost haunted. Maybe they were.

“This way,” whispered Bella, hopping over a lower section of fence next to the large, ornate cemetery gates. My first foot landed in a muddy patch, and I tripped the rest of the way over the fence.

When we were inside, Bella pulled out her notebook. “Here’s what we’re looking for,” she said. “Little spots of lights called orbs, full-body or partial-body apparitions, any strange shadows or any weird feelings.”

“If we find any of these things, how will we know they are Helen?” I asked, rubbing my shoes into the grass to remove the mud.

“We’ll ask,” Bella said, turning on her flashlight and motioning for me to do the same. She stopped and sniffed the air. “Hmmm.”

I sniffed, too. The air smelled spicy like the mountains and the wet grass and almost smoky at the same time. Bella leaned over close and whispered, “I smell mystery in the air—or maybe it’s hamburgers. Let’s go.”

The cemetery was huge. It took up acres and acres, and there was no way we could cover every part of it in one night. When we got far enough that we couldn’t be seen from the street, Bella stopped. We stood in a small grove of trees. There were many little groves only a few trees deep that made for good hiding.

“Let’s begin,” she said.

I looked down and saw I was standing over the clenched-fist-gray grave of a woman named Maria Cosentino who was born in Italy in 1891 and died in Utah in 1975. Zuzu says that when you get a chill down your spine, that means someone is standing on your grave.

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