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live.”
    â€œIt’s Hoss Williams’s grave,” murmured Huck, creeping stealthily up to the dirt mound and sniffing it. He held his hand up so that none of us would come closer. I was grateful for that. Nearby the grave was a clump of three thick trees. Tom motioned for us to take our places behind them.
    The spirits began to moan again at that point, and I have to say I began to sweat.
    â€œI just had a thought,” Frankie whispered to me.
    â€œDid it hurt?”
    â€œSort of. My thought is, if the lost page is actually buried in that dead grave over there, you’ll have to dig it up.”
    I made a scoffing noise. “Why should I do it?”
    â€œThe fifty-fifty rule,” she said.
    I frowned. “What fifty-fifty rule?”
    â€œThe one that says that when one of us thinks up an idea, the other one has to do it.”
    â€œI never heard of that rule.”
    â€œIt’s new.”
    â€œShhhh!” hissed Huck. “The evil spirits are coming!”
    A muffled sound of voices floated up from the far end of the graveyard.
    â€œWho … or what … is it?” I whispered to Frankie. “What does the book say?”
    Frankie’s eyes were bugging out, trying to catch a ray of moonlight to read by. She shook her head. “I don’t know. The words are too blurry to read! What if Huck is right? What if there really are evil spirits?”
    â€œAnd what if they’re coming—for us?” I added.
    Some vague figures approached through the gloom, surrounded by an eerie glow that freckled the ground with little spangles of light.
    Huck shuddered. “It’s the spirits, sure enough! Three of them! Anybody know how to escape from evil spirits?”
    â€œI thought you did!” said Tom.
    â€œI thought you did!” said Huck.
    â€œOh, man!” said Frankie
    â€œHere they come!” I said.

Chapter 8
    As the spirits approached, I could see that the eerie glow that freckled the ground with little spangles of light was coming from an old-fashioned tin lantern.
    â€œUm, do spirits carry lanterns?” I asked.
    Frankie almost jumped for joy. “They’re not spirits! They’re … people! Three of them ….”
    â€œAnd one of them is Muff Potter!” whispered Tom.
    â€œCute name,” I said. “Not so cute guy.”
    Muff Potter was a large, sloppy-looking man who staggered out front, his arm out and his chubby fingers seeming to point to the grave. Two others were following him, but it wasn’t easy to see what they looked like.
    The cemetery, of course, was darker than dark.
    â€œThe second one is Doc Robinson,” said Huck. “I can see his long coat.”
    Then, out of the shadows came the third member of the pack. It was a guy about seven feet tall, all muscles, and with a face that could stop a bus. Actually, it looked as if it had stopped a bus. The nose was all pushed to one side and the cheeks were bumpy and wide and the mouth was in a permanent angry sneer. He wore a hat pulled low over his brow, but the lamplight caught and flickered on his eyes, which were black and piercing and spooky beyond belief.
    â€œWho’s that?” I asked.
    â€œWhy, that’s none other than Injun Joe!” said Tom.
    A shiver went through me when he said that. I turned to Frankie. We were both thinking the same thing.
    â€œUm, sorry, Tom,” whispered Frankie. “Time out. We can’t call the guy that name. First of all, it’s Indian , not ‘Injun,’ and second, we would say Native American. I know that you’re from a long time ago, but it’s not nice to label someone with his ethnic heritage. It’s insulting, and just plain inappropriate.”
    I nodded, big-time. “If that man is going to be a character in this story, we’re really going to have to change his name.”
    â€œWhat should we call him?” whispered Huck.
    â€œWell, he’s