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move.
    “I know what,” Chelsea said after a time. “Let’s hold a séance. We can ask the Sempler ghosts to come and help us find Finley.”
    “Don’t be silly,” Running Spirit said. “Moira’s too tired for such foolishness.”
    “It’s not foolish,” Reginald Vane said. “I like Miss Worthington’s idea. Do try, Miss Tay.”
    “Have you ever contacted a ghost before?” Angie asked, skepticism all but dripping from her tongue.
    “I may have,” Moira replied, enigmatic as always. “It’s hard to say if my apparent success was only because the desire for the ghosts was so powerful among those with me. They believed the ghosts were there, whether they were or not. In other words, I might have produced no more than a manifestation of the beliefs of the living, and not the dead at all.”
    “In that case,” Running Spirit said, “given the strength of Chelsea’s belief in young Sempler, you might end up with a dozen ghosts of the seafaring Jack instead of just one.” He laughed.
    “You can shut your mouth, Greg Jeffers,” Chelsea cried. “You don’t know anything about me or Jack Sempler.”
    He smirked. “But I know gullible when I see it.”
    “You are totally hateful! Why aren’t you gone instead of Finley—” Chelsea clapped her hand to her mouth and, wide-eyed, looked at Moira. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
    “We will hold a séance,” Moira said.
    The group pulled a table away from the wall and placed chairs around it. Moira lit a candle in the center of the table while Chelsea blew out the others. Everyone joined hands.
    For a long while, no sound existed but that of incessant rain and harshly blowing wind. Then Moira slowly intoned, “Jack Sempler. Elise Sempler. Susannah Sempler. Join us here, we beseech you.” She waited a heartbeat or two, then began to drone the words once more.
    Angie wondered what Paavo would think if he walked in now. Probably that she was as flaky as the rest of them.
    Moira stared at the candle. The table didn’t shake. Nothing flew across the room. The candlelight didn’t even flicker. As a séance, this was a dud.
    “Jack…Jack Sempler,” Moira called. “I feel your presence. Won’t you give us some sign you are here? Please. Some sign.”
    “He’s here,” Chelsea cried. “I know he’s here. He’ll let us know.” She jumped to her feet. “ There ! Look!”
    Angie’s hair stood on end as she whirled around to look where Chelsea pointed. She saw nothing.
    “He was there,” Chelsea cried.
    “I believe you,” Reginald Vane said. “Please sit, Miss Worthington. Don’t overexcite yourself.”
    “But it is exciting.” Chelsea’s eyes were shining.
    “Jack,” Moira called. “Come back to us, Jack.”
    Nothing happened.
    “Elise?” Moira called. “Susannah? Tell us you are with us. Help us find my brother. Will you talk with us tonight?”
    They waited. Angie held her breath, hoping to hear or see something, despite her skepticism. “Who can tell with ghosts?” she said after a while. “Maybe they had a previous commitment. You know, couldn’t fit another haunting into their schedule tonight.”
    “That could be,” Chelsea agreed, ignoring the glares directed at Angie.
    Angie looked at her incredulously.
    “Well,” Chelsea said, not seeming to notice, “I guess I’ll go up to bed. At least in my room I feel as if Jack Sempler is nearby.”
    The grandfather clock in the drawing room began to strike twelve.
    “The witching hour,” Reginald Vane said.
    “On second thought,” Chelsea said, “I think I’ll wait until it’s through striking.”
    They grew quiet, silently counting the strokes.
    A chill went down Angie’s spine. She’d seen this scenea zillion times on TV. Old black-and-white movies, in particular, had corny scenes about ghosts at midnight. In fact, in real life it was still a corny scene.
    The clock stopped. Chelsea didn’t make a move to leave. What nonsense, Angie thought. There were more