The Mystery of the Whispering Witch

was burned to death on Thanksgiving night?” he asked.
    Trixie nodded. “Yes.”
    “And she was also born on Thanksgiving day thirty-four years before that,” Fay put in suddenly.
    Trixie stared. “She was? Why, I didn’t know that! Who told you? I thought no one knew the exact day she was born. Her grave was never found.”
    “Her grave is here on the grounds of Lisgard House,” Fay said, her voice low. “I’ll show you later, if you like. I—I was interested, you see, and when Zeke Collins offered to show me where she was buried....”
    Trixie, Honey, and Di exchanged startled glances over the top of Fay’s bent head.
    Trixie in particular was astonished. She’d never had any inkling that Sarah’s final resting place was right there at Lisgard House. She supposed someone should have suspected that it would be, long before this.
    “Not only that,” Fay was continuing, “but it’s a well-known fact that a person who dies a violent death on the day of her birth is doomed to haunt the scene forever.” She raised her head and looked at the investigator. “Is that true?”
    Mr. Hunter nodded his head. “Yes, my child. It’s quite true.” He sighed heavily. “And that presents us with a problem I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to mention.” He hesitated. His steepled fingers once more tapped gently against his pursed lips. His hands dropped to his lap as if he’d come to a sudden decision. “It means that everything is now explained,” he said simply. “It’s the anniversary not only of her death but also of her birth. Sarah can’t rest, you see, and she’s becoming more and more active as that date approaches.”
    Trixie stared at him. “You mean something’s going to happen this Thanksgiving night? Why— but that’s next Thursday!”
    Mr. Hunter sighed. “Exactly!”

    It seemed to Trixie that they sat in that living room for hours, discussing what to do. Afterward, she discovered that less than an hour had passed since they’d first entered the room.
    Mr. Hunter left them at last, assuring them warmly that Fay had nothing more to worry about. He said he would call them—all of them—as soon as he and Mr. Gregory were ready to exorcise Sarah’s ghost and lay her forever to rest.
    Trixie’s thoughts were still in a whirl as she and her three friends stood in the entrance hall. She had never before experienced anything like this! Events had moved so swiftly that she felt she hadn’t had time to consider any of them. It was as if they were all under some kind of enchantment —a spell from which there was no escape.
    Honey smiled when Trixie told her about it. “I know what you mean, Trix,” she said. “I’ve been feeling the same way.”
    Di glanced around her and noticed the gloomy trophies that hung on the walls. Then, while Fay and Honey hurried to pack some of the needed clothes—not bathing suits this time!—Trixie showed Di the rest of the downstairs rooms.
    Di was strangely silent as the four girls left the old mansion and hurried toward the back gate, where their horses waited patiently.
    Trixie was about to ask her if anything was wrong, when she thought suddenly of something else. “Sarah Sligo’s grave!” she exclaimed. “You promised to show us where the witch was buried, Fay.”
    Honey moaned. “Oh, Trix, do we have to? The more I think about it, the more I think how good it’ll be to get home to Manor House.”
    “It’ll only take a moment,” Fay promised, leading them toward a tangle of undergrowth at the side of the house.
    She parted a low-growing shrub with her hand and pointed. “There it is,” she said. “I’ve been here often in the last few weeks. I wanted to cut back some of this shrubbery and make it look neat. But Zeke Collins said I was to leave it alone.”
    Trixie stared down at the small, white head-156
    stone. She had expected it to be indecipherable after all these years. But the words carved there were as clear as if they’d been engraved only yesterday. They said simply:

    HERE LIES SARAH SLIGO
    BORN THANKSGIVING DAY, 1755
    DIED THANKSGIVING NIGHT, 1789

    “I looked up the dates in the encyclopedia,” Fay said, looking down at the grave. “Sarah died on November the twenty-sixth, Trixie. I was able to check it because that was when President Washington proclaimed the first national Thanksgiving holiday after the American Revolution.”
    Di had been calculating the date in her mind, Trixie thought, because she said quickly,