Ghost Girl Read online

  Dedication

  FOR JAY,

  WHO ALWAYS BELIEVED I COULD DO ANYTHING—

  EVEN THIS.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  THE STORM THAT TORE THROUGH KNOBB’S FERRY WAS UNLIKE ANY that Zee Puckett had ever seen in all her eleven years. The wind lashed at the tree branches that knocked against her windows. The trunks groaned, straining in the wind that howled up the road. The sky exploded in lightning, so much that it seemed to be coming from one hundred different clouds, and then seconds later a clap of thunder would shake the whole house. It felt like a bad dream. Zee sat by her bedroom window all night long, blanket wrapped around her, watching the streets turn into rivers, mud churning and sloshing up against parked cars. The whole thing was downright witchy, and Zee delighted in every second of it.

  You see, nothing exciting ever happened in Knobb’s Ferry. It was a small town nestled in the mountains. No one spectacular had ever come from there, and nothing spectacular had ever happened. It was the sort of place that people called “sleepy,” but to Zee it was more than sleepy. It was comatose. Which was what made this storm the most exciting thing that had happened in a very long time. The second most exciting thing was when Catherine Cooke discovered she had a peanut allergy at the Summer Fair and her face got all swollen and they had to call an ambulance. But that was nothing compared to this storm. Zee reasoned that with the streets being nothing but mud-soaked ruins, at least one building in town had certainly washed away.

  She prayed it was the school.

  Just north of Knobb’s Ferry was a much bigger town, famous for being the home of the classic ghost story about a headless horseman and the knock-kneed Ichabod Crane. Lots of folks came to visit that town. Sometimes they stopped at Knobb’s Ferry to get gas on the way, or for a slice of pie at the diner, but they always left after that. That seemed to be the thing about Knobb’s Ferry. It wasn’t the sort of place you stuck with. It was the sort of place you moved on from. In fact, Zee’s parents had also moved on—but in a much different way. Now it was just Zee and her sister, Abigail, who was ten years older than her. Abby worked in the diner, and Zee spent a lot of time there practicing her storytelling skills on the people who passed through. Sometimes if they liked the tale enough, they bought her a slice of pie too. It seemed that was the most you could get out of Knobb’s Ferry, a one-horse town with nothing but a pizza shop, a library, one traffic light, and a cemetery. The cemetery was the only part Zee cared about. It was old and huge and macabre—a new word she learned that meant ghastly and ghoulish. Just like Zee’s favorite stories.

  The morning after the storm, the street awash with mud and tree branches, Zee bounded down the steps from her bedroom into the kitchen, where her sister was putting together lunch. The house was an old creaky thing, drafty in the winter and stifling in the summer, even with all the windows thrown open. Only fall and spring ever felt remotely comfortable.

  “No school today,” Zee said cheerfully. “They announced it on the radio!”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And you’re not happy about it.”

  “No, because even though you don’t have school, I still have work. Figures the diner is the only restaurant in town with its own generator,” Abby said with a sigh as she rummaged through the fridge. She adjusted her long black hair in a ponytail. Zee thought that her sister, Abby, was super pretty, but as she always told Zee, she was too busy holding things together to date. Or to care about how she looked. The biggest difference between the girls was that while Abby had coal-black hair, Zee had the opposite. The exact opposite, in fact. Zee’s hair was white. She was a towhead, or flaxen-haired. Most kids Zee knew that had hair like hers grew out of it by the time they started school. Zee’s hair, on the other hand, seemed to double down and stay white year after year. Having bone-white hair didn’t help at school, where the other kids were quick to jump at any opportunity to tease her.

  “And,” Abby said, throwing some Tupperware in a plastic bag, “if I have work, that means you’re coming to the diner.”

  All the excitement fizzled out of Zee like a wet firecracker. “No, Abby, please.”

  “You can’t stay here.”

  “I can! I promise. I won’t go anywhere or do anything. I’ll stay here, reading books all day, and when you get home, I’ll have dinner made.”

  Abby made a face. Hand on her hip, she said, “You never make dinner.”

  “I will, though!” Zee said with enthusiasm. “I can make spaghetti . . . or cereal or . . . something.” Truth was Zee had never even boiled water, but how hard could it be? You just stick it in a pot, right?

  “Get your shoes on. I’m going to be late.”

  “Abby, please. I’m old enough to stay home.”

  But Abby ignored her, moving though the cluttered, in-desperate-need-of-a-cleaning house. With it being just the two of them, and Abby working double shifts at the diner, things like cleaning took a back seat, even though technically it was Zee’s job. But Zee’s theory on cleaning was simple: What’s the point? It’s just going to get dirty again so you might as well leave it.

  As Abby dug around looking for her keys, swearing the whole time that they were on the coffee table last night, Zee followed her, arguing about why she should be able to stay home. Truth be told, it was a rather convincing list. She was already on her ninth point when Abby, moving a pile of clean but unfolded laundry from the couch to the love seat, yelled in frustration, “Zera Delilah Puckett, get your shoes on right NOW!”

  It took everything Zee had not to respond. She kept her face as still as possible even though underneath she was fuming. Having white hair was an inconvenience in sixth grade. But a nickname? A nickname was the kind of thing kids at school latched on to—something you couldn’t run from, taunting jeers in the hallways. Which was why Zee hated her full name, and her sister knew that. As the kids at school had proved, it was far too easy to turn Zera into Zero.

  “Abigail,” Zee said calmly. “I would like to stay home. I have no school today, and I’m old enough to take care of myself. You already made me lunch.” She pointed at the brown paper sack on the kitchen table. “I have plenty of books to read. I will not leave the house, and I will lock the door after you. I’ve been really good lately.”

  This, Zee realized, was debatable, but she continued, “And I think I deserve this opportunity to prove myself.” She stood with her hands behind her back, balanced on the tips of her toes as if looking taller would translate into being more responsible. But Abby didn’t notice—she continued to wander around the house looking for her keys.

  “They were right here before,” she muttered. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. “I’m going to be late. Again.”

  Since Zee knew there was nothing that Abby hated more than being late, she counted slowly in her head. It was crucial to get the timing right. As she got to twenty and heard Abby groan and flip over a couch cushion, she knew she was at that sweet spot.

  “Abby,” Zee said as innocently a
s possible.

  Her sister ignored her, continuing to send the entire living room into chaos in her hunt for those keys.

  “Abby?”

  “They were right here, five minutes ago. This is ridiculous!”

  “Abby?”

  “WHAT?” Abby said fiercely. She was frazzled and late and, Zee could see, not in the mood for any of this. Which, of course, made her ripe for the emotional picking.

  “I found your keys,” Zee said, holding them out in her hand. She debated offering a small shy smile but decided that would be too much.

  “You . . .” Abby’s shoulder slumped as the anger seeped out of her. “Thank you, Zee.”

  Zee looked down at the ground, trying as hard as possible to be adorable.

  Her sister sighed. “You promise not to leave?”

  Zee perked up. “I promise.”

  “If I call, you’ll pick up?”

  “Unless I’m in the bathroom, for sure.”

  “Don’t turn on the stove,” Abigail said, heading toward the door. Zee followed, nodding, the giddiness of a whole day ahead of her tingling through her bones. “Don’t open the door for strangers.”

  “Of course not. Though your chances of being murdered by someone you know are far greater.”

  “You open that door for anyone and I’ll murder you.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  When she reached the door, Abby turned and looked at Zee with doubtful eyes. Zee straightened up. If she could have manufactured a briefcase and suit she would have. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  “Never,” Zee said, throwing her arms around her sister. She wagered this might have been a touch too far, but Abby relaxed into her hug and she knew the deal was done.

  “I love you,” Abby said, kissing the top of her head.

  “I love you more.”

  Abby smiled. It was what their father always said. What was amazing was that Abby still failed to realize that it only came out of Zee’s mouth as a way to twist her sister’s emotions into delicate little knots.

  “Lock this door,” Abby said on her way out.

  “Will do. See you for dinner.”

  When the door shut, Zee got up on tiptoes and peeked through the peephole and watched her sister descend the front steps, navigate the river of dried-up mud, and get in the car. It took three attempts, but finally the old thing started and Abby backed down the drive and turned onto Hickory Lane. Once she was far enough from the house, Zee ran upstairs, put on her jeans, her favorite T-shirt, and her hoodie and then crammed her feet into her boots. She threw the lunch her sister made her into her backpack, and faster than you can say “boo,” she was out the door and on her way to Elijah’s house.

  2

  ELIJAH WATSON TURNER—NEVER EVER ELI—WAS ZEE’S BEST AND ONLY friend. Elijah moved to Knobb’s Ferry when they were in the second grade, and the two of them became thick as thieves. It was a symbiotic relationship—they each brought what the other needed. Zee needed someone to listen to all her stories. Elijah needed to hear them, even if he sometimes listened with his hands over his ears.

  Her boots already muddy, she approached Elijah’s house on the corner. It was the exact same layout as her own house, with the exception of one extra step leading downstairs, a fact that quite literally tripped Zee up when they were younger.

  “Elijah,” Zee called, banging on the door. “You home?”

  When the door opened, Elijah stood there—pudgy-faced, sleepy-eyed, his hair faded up the sides until it puffed out into an Afro. He yawned. “What are you doing here, Zee?”

  “What do you mean? We have no school today! Let’s go.”

  “I hardly slept last night because of that storm.”

  “Same! Wasn’t it great? It was like something out of a horror story. Now, come on, get your boots on. We’re going to the cemetery.”

  “The cemetery? Why?”

  Zee leaned in until her nose was pressed flat against the mesh of the screen door and with a smile said, “Because this storm probably pulled half the coffins out of the ground. Let’s go!” She bounded down the steps without waiting for a reply.

  “I don’t know.” Elijah said. “That sounds . . .”

  “It sounds amazing,” Zee said over her shoulder. “Come on, we have the whole day!”

  Elijah chewed his lip and Zee gave him her most confident smile. She knew he would give in. He always did.

  “Um . . . okay, let me see,” Elijah said, disappearing from the door. Within a few minutes, Zee could hear the deep baritone of Elijah’s father’s voice. She sighed. How many times did she have to tell him that it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission? When Elijah did appear, he had the same nervous expression he always wore after speaking to his father, but he had his coat on. They were silent as he followed her down his front porch.

  “You okay?” Zee asked as they turned off his street.

  “Fine.”

  Zee knew that tone and knew it was best to let it go. There was always tension between Elijah and his father. Most of it was because Elijah was a little on the bigger side and hated sports, while his father used to be a football player and still had the body to prove it—the rest, Zee assumed, was probably Elijah’s friendship with her. Elijah’s father wasn’t a fan of Zee, mostly because she had a talent for landing in the principal’s office. There was no point in talking about either of those things now, though, so instead Zee told him a new story she’d been working on as they sloshed through the mud to the cemetery.

  “This rich old baron was hosting a party at his big mansion on the hill. One of his guests asked him if he had ever seen a ghost. While some of the other guests laughed, the old man turned serious. ‘Seen a ghost,’ he asked, putting a thoughtful hand to his chin. ‘Of course I have.’ The other men in the room went silent,” Zee said, picking her way around a downed tree, Elijah just behind her. “Dead silent.”

  “So,” Zee continued, “the old baron told this story. ‘When I was a young man at college,’ he said, ‘I had a terrible case of insomnia. For what seemed like weeks on end, I couldn’t sleep. During this time, I would lie awake at night and see things. Shadows and light would come together to form strange illusions. Tricks of the eye. But one night it was more than that. One evening, as I read by the fire, I saw in the shadows a pair of eyes. Bulging, veiny, bloodshot eyes with drooping lids. I closed my own eyes in horror, but no matter what I did, the eyes stared back at me. There was no face, mind you. Not one that I could see. Nothing but those rheumy eyes.’”

  “Nice vocabulary word,” Elijah said.

  “Right? It’s when eyes are all slimy. Like with mucus.”

  “Yes, I know,” Elijah said, causing Zee to scowl as they neared the cemetery. She hated how Elijah always liked to subtly bring up how he was in all the advanced classes.

  “So the old man says, ‘I couldn’t get away from those eyes. I moved. I changed jobs. I did everything I could, but those eyes just followed me each night.’ ‘What did you do?’ one of the guests asked. ‘Nothing,’ the old baron said. ‘One day it just stopped. I put it out of my mind, you see. In fact I haven’t thought about those old eyes in quite some time.’ The baron got up and crossed the room to the fireplace. Above it was a large mirror, and when he looked up, he screamed in terror!”

  At this point Zee screamed so loud that Elijah nearly leaped out of his skin.

  “What is wrong with you?” he said, catching his breath.

  “The old man looked in the mirror and said, ‘The eyes! They’re back!’ And fell over dead from a heart attack.”

  Elijah made a face. “I don’t get it.”

  Zee sighed, her shoulders slumping. “They were his own eyes. That’s what he saw all those years ago. His own soon-to-be-a-dead-man’s eyes.”

  “Oh!” Elijah said. “That was a good one, Zee, but I think it needs a little more work. You need to make it obvious that they were the same eyes. I don’t think listeners would immediately think he
was haunting himself. But you should work on this one. It’s got potential.”

  Zee smiled. This was why she liked trying her stories out on Elijah. He always made them better.

  They slipped through the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery and picked their way through the mud. There were a few downed trees, as well as toppled-over headstones. They tried to pick a few up, but they were far too heavy. The steep hillside was now just a mud slide, which they attempted to coast down like skiers, but their boots got stuck. Much to Zee’s disappointment there wasn’t one exhumed coffin. They ate their lunch on one of the stone benches.

  “Remember when we used to play hide-and-seek here?” Zee asked.

  “Sure,” Elijah said, watching a flock of birds cross the sky. “That was when we were kids.”

  “Oh, I know,” Zee said as breezily as possible. Sometimes it felt like time was going too fast. Soon they would be teenagers. And while Zee sometimes looked forward to that, many other times she missed things from her childhood. How much easier everything was back when it was just her and Elijah playing games as third graders. Now that they were in sixth grade, everything seemed like it had gotten more complicated.

  “But . . .” She hesitated. “. . . it was still fun.”

  “Are you serious, Zee?” Elijah said with an eye roll.

  “What? Is there someone here to judge you? I’m just saying. It was fun when we could still do that.”

  Elijah smiled, and before she could think, he sprang up, smacked her arm, and yelled, “You’re it,” and took off down the hillside.

  Zee cursed under her breath and then started counting, unable to stop the smile on her face.

  When she got to ten, she screeched, “I’m gonna find you, Elijah Watson Turner!” She searched everywhere, jumping out and yelling “boo” when she rounded the first mausoleum—but Elijah was nowhere to be found. She trotted around the pond at the center of the graveyard and peeked behind all the big wide tree trunks. It wasn’t until she got to the newer section of the cemetery that she stopped. The gate was open. He must have gone in there.

  Go, Zee told herself. But her feet wouldn’t move. Everything felt locked and rigid and suddenly it was hard to breathe. A flock of birds burst out of a nearby tree, and Zee jumped. Stop being so scared, she told herself. You’re not afraid of anything.