At the tender age of six, I was prone to believe everything my 8-year-old sister told me. So when she stated, with round, sincere eyes, that the ghost of a Civil War veteran had a deadly grudge against me, I believed her. No questions asked.
Needless to say, with a homicidal spirit roaming the upstairs, I chose to spend as little time there as possible. But, when the occasional need arose for me to visit my small bedroom, I would dash like an Olympic sprinter up the stairs, around the corner to my room, and back down again. And for a little girl with a tendency to trip on anything, many times over her own fumbling feet, these were always stressful missions. Missions I was willing to attempt, with a brave, self-sacrificing nod, if my best friend, Colorful Bear, was in jeopardy.
It never seemed to register that my sister was always lurking somewhere nearby, stifling her maniacal laughter with a well-placed hand.
