A haunted house. Three ghosts blamed for a missing diamond. Can a centuries-old mystery ever be solved? From the author of Trex comes a twist-filled mystery perfect for spooky season reading! "A fun haunted house story full of mystery and heart!"—Lindsay Currie, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Mystery of Locked Rooms After twelve-year-old Charlie moves from New York City to sweaty, sticky Florida, she’ll do anything to get back home. Even if it involves ghosts. Winklevoss Manor, Charlie’s new house, is a towering Victorian mansion famous for one thing—it’s haunted. Three ghosts—Ada, Arthur, and Guff—live there, and not by choice. They’re trapped, cursed for stealing a dead man’s diamond. A diamond that, just like the ghosts, is still in the house. And this gets Charlie thinking. . . Maybe if she can find the diamond and sell it, Charlie’s family could have enough money to move back to the city. But lifting the curse isn’t that simple, especially when she’s pitted against the school bully and three unruly spirits. It’s frightening to think about, but what if the only way to get rid of the ghosts and curses is by doing what Charlie fears the most—confronting the past that haunts her? "A fun haunted house story full of mystery and heart !"—Lindsay Currie, New York Times bestselling author of The Mystery of Locked Rooms "Spooky, fun, just a little scary, and full of heart .”—Delilah S. Dawson, New York Times bestselling author of Mine and Camp Scare "The Curse of the Dead Man’s Diamond is the perfect blend of mystery, treasure hunt, colorful ghost characters, and Florida haunted house setting."—Fleur Bradley, award-winning author of Daybreak on Raven Island and Midnight at the Barclay Hotel . "A spirited mystery brimming with heart and souls."—Jan Eldredge, author of Nimbus and Evangeline of the Bayou "Ghosts get equal billing with the living in this sweet tale about finding home." — Kirkus Reviews Christyne Morrell is the author of Trex and Kingdom of Secrets . When she’s not writing for kids, Christyne is busy raising one. She is a corporate attorney, and in her spare time enjoys reading, baking, and watching House Hunters marathons. Chapter 1 My cheek was smashed so firmly against the cool car window that it peeled off like a Fruit Roll-Up when I lifted my head. Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto no. 2 was still blaring in my earbuds, as it had been ever since we’d stopped for gas two hours ago. As I cracked my eyes open, Dad came into focus, his body twisted around awkwardly in the driver’s seat. He smiled at me, but it wasn’t his usual smile. It was his pretending-everything-is-great-when-everything-clearly-isn’t-great smile. Which I’d come to know well. Our car was no longer moving. We had arrived. “Welcome home, Charlie!” said Dad, too cheerfully. I gazed past him at the bizarre color of the sky--a heavy grayish-blue--then rubbed my eyes, wondering how I could’ve slept so long. It took my foggy brain a few seconds to realize that it wasn’t actually nighttime. Those were storm clouds overhead, blocking out the sun. They churned like a wild animal trying to claw its way out of a sack. How appropriate. But even worse than the angry sky was the house outlined against it, stark black against the ashy gray. Winklevoss Manor--that’s right, our new home had a name--was a towering Victorian mansion, crisscrossed with so many thick vines it looked like clutching fingers were trying to drag the place back into the earth. The paint was faded and chipped and speckled with mold. A row of sharp iron spikes jutted up from the edges of the roof for no reason whatsoever. On the left side of the house, a narrow third story extended into the sky, ringed by a spindly iron balcony. According to my Google research, this charming feature was called a “widow’s walk.” In other words, everything about the place was creepy, like something out of a ghost story. The classical music in my ears swelled dramatically as I blinked up at it. “Whaddaya think?” asked Dad as I yanked out my earbuds. “Welcome to Winklevoss Manor! Do you think we should change the name? How about Hess Manor? No--Hess House!” “It’s . . . it’s . . .” I couldn’t find the words for the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’d expected the move to Florida to be horrible, but this? I dug into the backpack at my feet and removed the crumpled page Dad had printed from the Internet. I smoothed it against my knees and held it in front of my father’s beaming face, confronting him with the breezy blue beach cottage I’d been promised, with its broad front porch and elegant, winding balconies. A real-life dollhouse, only bigger. There was nothing breezy or dollhouse-y about the place in front of me. “That photograph was taken decades ago,” said Dad, with a literal wave of his hand. “I told you this place was a fixer-upper. That’s why we got such a great deal on it.” “More like a tearer-down