The House on Parchment Street — Patricia A. McKillip

Carol Christopher puffed her cheeks, sighed, and sat down on her suitcases in the middle of Parchment Street. The street was old and worn; it ended abruptly, running into a broad empty field in front of her. On one of the street was a graveyard. On the other side was a high stone wall with a closed gate. Behind the stone wall stood the house where her cousin, aunt, and uncle lived. She had come from California to spend a month here, in the small English town where her uncle taught history and her aunt and cousin tried to survive the historic but cold, drafty and sometimes downright unpleasant old house.

Carol's visit got off to a poor start. She did everything wrong. And after one meeting she and Bruce, her cousin, were actively avoiding each other. Only when they unexpectedly shared a discovery did they find a meeting ground; they both knew the cellar had ghosts and no adult seemed to see them.

The ghosts had problems, too, had had them for 300 years, Carol and Bruce decided. It was time someone did something. And in pooling their efforts to help the ghosts, they found ways to have some of their own all too real, all to living everyday problems.