“Are we supposed to be up here?”
The third attic stair squeaked before I answered my sister’s whine.
“Mom is gone for the afternoon. I am bored and in charge until they get back. So yes.”
The attic was full of Grandmother’s old stuff. Here there was a stack of yellowing magazines, there were some musty papers and old books. Under it all was the prize: Her old steamer trunk, blackened with age and oil.
“Bobby, I heard Grandma was a witch.”
Pandora Spyros, Grandma’s name, was written just above the latch. I ignored my sister and opened Grandmother’s box.