Ghost Read online

  This book is dedicated to those who face their fears.

  Text and illustrations copyright © 2019 by Illustrátus.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Names: Hemingway, Blaise, author. | Reffsin, Jesse, author. | Sasaki, Chris, illustrator. | Turley, Jeff (Illustrator), illustrator.

  Title: Ghost / Blaise Hemingway, Jesse Reffsin ; [illustrated by Chris Sasaki and Jeff Turley]

  Description: San Francisco, CA : Chronicle Books, [2019] | Summary: A collection of thirteen original ghost stories, some in rhyme, by Blaise Hemingway and Jesse Reffsin, accompanied by illustrations by Chris Sasaki and Jeff Turley.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017061556 | ISBN 9781452171289 (hc) | ISBN 9781452171326 (epub, mobi)

  Subjects: LCSH: Ghost stories. | Horror tales. | Stories in rhyme. | CYAC: Ghosts--Fiction. | Horror stories. | Short stories. | LCGFT: Horror fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ5.H3595 Gh 2019 | DDC [Fic]--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017061556

  Design by Alice Seiler.

  Typeset in Baskerville.

  The illustrations in this book were rendered digitally.

  Chronicle Books LLC

  680 Second Street

  San Francisco, California 94107

  Chronicle Books—we see things differently. Become part of our community at www.chroniclekids.com.

  We would like to thank all those who

  believed in us and the idea behind Ghost.

  Working on this book has been a true

  pleasure and we hope you enjoy reading

  it as much as we did creating it.

  Prologue

  Reflection

  The Old Pond

  The Doll

  Point Whitney

  Fred

  Depth

  The Descent

  Eyes Closed

  The Library

  The Boy in the Basement

  Widow in Black

  Green Eyes

  Epilogue

  About

  Credits

  Written by Blaise Hemingway

  Illustrated by Jeff Turley

  Prologue

  It was in the mess hall that the boys first heard about Camp Champlain's groundskeeper, Old Man Blackwood.

  Blackwood lived in a one-room cabin at the southern edge of the camp property, in the marshlands near the abandoned highway. The rumor was that Blackwood knew all the best ghost stories, the ones that were too scary or too gruesome for the counselors to tell the young campers around the campfire.

  Thomas was too scared to try to find Blackwood’s cabin alone, in the dark, but when his bunkmate Skeeter announced he was going to make the long walk across the marsh that night, Thomas said, “I’ll come, too.” But the words had no sooner left his lips than Thomas found himself consumed with dread.

  After that evening’s last bunk check, Thomas and Skeeter snuck out of their beds, walked the camp’s gravel road to the derelict highway, then hopped a split rail fence into the pathless marsh, on the other side of which sat Blackwood’s cabin.

  Trudging through the marsh, the boys felt their shoes sink into the mud deeper and deeper as they swatted away the waist-high grass, which seemed to grow higher with every step. The ground beneath them was soft, so soft that—if you stood still for too long—you’d sink right into it. Thomas looked around and realized that he couldn’t tell which way they’d come from.

  “What if we get caught?” whispered Thomas nervously.

  “We’re not gonna get caught,” said Skeeter, as he marched confidently ahead. “And you don’t have to whisper. Go on and scream if you want. Nobody can hear us.”

  Thomas gulped. The fact that no one could hear them made the boy even more nervous.

  The boys walked for what seemed like hours. Tired and muddy, Thomas became certain that they would never find their way out of the marsh, but just as it seemed he could not take another step, Skeeter pointed through the trees, exclaiming, “Look!”

  The full moon illuminated Old Man Blackwood’s cabin, a decrepit, crumbling structure. The wooden planks were dried and cracking; the tin roof was rusted with holes. The foundation was sinking into the swampy earth below, so much so that the cabin tilted slightly on the right side. Though Thomas had never laid eyes on it before, there was something very familiar about the rickety old home.

  Skeeter rapped his knuckles against the cabin’s door. The boys waited, but there was no response and they heard no one stirring inside.

  “Too bad!” said Thomas. “He’s not home. I guess we should head back to camp, huh?” But just as he said it, the door swung open.

  Standing in the doorway was an old man with long, thin, grey hair, a splotchy, bristly beard, and—hanging from his right elbow—a flesh-colored prosthetic arm and hook.

  Thomas held his breath as Old Man Blackwood stared down at him, both eyes clouded over with cataracts. After what felt like an eternity, the man said with a sneer, “You’ve come for the stories?”

  Thomas somehow managed to nod. Old Man Blackwood snorted and then walked back into the cabin, leaving the door open behind him.

  Thomas turned to Skeeter, seeing for the first time that his friend was now as scared as he. But before Thomas could suggest that they both run, Blackwood snapped at them, “Hurry up. And don’t forget to shut the door behind you. Yer letting in a draft.”

  The interior of the cabin was dimly lit by a single hanging gas lantern. The walls were covered with the dried skins of squirrels and rabbits. Deer antlers hung from the ceiling, suspended by thin strands of animal sinew. The room smelled sour with the rotting flesh of dead things.

  The chair creaked loudly as Old Man Blackwood lowered himself into it, taking a seat at a small table in the center of the cabin. He picked up a tin cup and spit tobacco juice into it. Thomas watched, disgusted, as Blackwood wiped brown saliva from his lips with the sleeve of his torn flannel shirt.

  The grizzled groundskeeper nodded to two open seats at the table. Thomas started to move toward a chair, before noticing that Skeeter had remained motionless, too paralyzed by fright to do anything. Thomas grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into a seat.

  “There are only thirteen true ghost stories in this world.” Blackwood shifted, leaning forward in his chair, the candlelight reflected in his smoky eyes. “Tonight, I’m gonna tell you them all.”

  Written by Jesse Reffsin

  Illustrated by Chris Sasaki

  Reflection

  Rain whipped at Kathryn Halton’s window as she huddled frightened in her bed. Though the power was out, and wind howled fiercely outside, Kathryn’s fear was not from the storm. It was from a single, methodical noise that punctuated the room—the insistent tap of a finger on glass. Not from her window. From her mirror.

  TAP TAP TAP

  The room was dark, but there was just enough light for Kathryn to distinguish the gleam of the looking glass across the room. There, she could make out faint movement. Just her reflection.

  She reached for the glass on her nightstand, hoping the water would calm her shaky nerves. But at that same instant, a crack of lightning filled the sky. In the momentary flash, Kathryn caught a glimpse of her reflection, this time glaring out from the surface of the glass, its grin stretched wide with malice.

  Kathryn dropped the glass in fright. It shattered against the room’s aged oak floorboards, and water cut a jagged puddle across the floor, dark as blood in the dim room.

  Kathryn silently cursed as she ran to her bathroom for a towel. She was careful to avoid the bathroom mirror, but she couldn’t help catching the erratic movement of her reflection in the corner of
her eye, beckoning her to look back.

  As she hurried to her bed, the same insistent tapping followed her from the bathroom.

  TAP TAP TAP

  Kathryn moved quickly to sop up the spill, but even here she found her reflection staring back menacingly from the dark pool of water. Kathryn tossed the towel down to cover it.

  She’d never before realized how unavoidable her own reflection was—mirrors, glass, water. There was no escape from the dark double, wordlessly stalking her while the storm raged outside.

  What did it want?

  TAP TAP TAP

  The noise floated to Kathryn across the deep shadows of the room in response. There was no way around it. She took a deep breath and looked up at the full-length mirror opposite her bed. Her reflection loomed in the glass, almost ghostly pale in the dim moonlight. It crooked a finger at her, motioning her over.

  It dawned on Kathryn that the only peace she’d find that night would be in doing as it wanted. She walked slowly across the room. The floorboards creaked under her weight. The storm pelted the window in a torrent of rain.

  Up close, Kathryn’s reflection was identical to her, except for the sinister look on its face. It was deeply unnerving. Kathryn thought of all the times she’d examined her reflection, unaware that it might be staring back at her.

  The reflection brought her back from the unsettling train of thought as it pantomimed touching its finger to the glass. It wanted her to tap the mirror.

  At Kathryn’s hesitation, a clap of thunder drew her attention to the window. Her reflection was there as well, staring out from the glass pane, a reminder that there was no escape.

  Kathryn made up her mind and slowly raised her trembling hand. The reflection nodded approvingly as Kathryn’s finger struck the cold mirror.

  TAP

  Wind pounded insistently against the side of the old house, as if trying to draw Kathryn’s attention, too. The reflection stared. Kathryn brought her finger down again.

  TAP

  The storm outside intensified, the sky splitting wide to bleed its contents down against Kathryn’s window. Perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed her reflection licked its lips in anticipation of her finger contacting the glass one last time.

  Kathryn brought her finger down.

  TAP

  Lightning CRACKED, giving Kathryn one last look at the deep hunger stretched across her reflection’s face. Then, as quickly as it had come, the light vanished.

  The next morning the rain had given way to sunlight, now filtering warmly into the room. A slender, brown-haired girl slept peacefully in the bed. But Kathryn, hoarse from screaming through the long, dark night, was not at rest.

  Though her fists were bruised and bloodied, she pounded hopelessly on the thick surface of the mirror. No matter how she tried, she could produce only the slightest noise in the world beyond the glass.

  TAP TAP TAP

  Written by Blaise Hemingway

  as told by Scott Turley

  Illustrated by Jeff Turley

  The Old Pond

  Samuel picked at his food, the sharp sound of fork scraping porcelain echoing in the small kitchen. Dinner was a silent affair. The boy’s parents rarely spoke these days. Then again, they didn’t have to; the signs of grieving carved deeply into their faces did all the talking for them.

  Though two years his junior, Emily had been in the same grade as Samuel. The year he was held back, Emily skipped, so Samuel had to suffer the humiliation of repeating the fourth grade in his little sister’s class. School—like everything else in Emily’s life—had come easy for her. Emily was smart. She was beautiful. She was popular. And she never hesitated to remind Samuel that he was none of those things. Emily teased Samuel both day and night, at school and home, in front of friends and family, always finding new ways to embarrass him.

  But there was one place where Samuel could escape his sister’s taunting. One place where Emily floundered and Samuel thrived. The old pond. While Samuel would swim every day until winter’s chill froze the pond over, Emily kept her distance. Not a strong swimmer, Emily never ventured deeper than into waist-high water.

  But that was what made her drowning so suspect. What possessed Emily to swim out to the deepest part of the old pond? What was she thinking? Why would she do it? The question lingered.

  Samuel excused himself from the table and went upstairs, climbing beneath the woolen covers of his bed. As he laid his head to the pillow, Samuel turned to the large window facing the backyard. Through it, the boy could see the moon reflecting on the still water of the old pond, the same way it had the night Emily drowned. The boy shivered, trying to push that horrible memory away. Samuel turned to face the ceiling, holding his stare on it until his eyelids finally grew heavy and he slowly drifted to sleep.

  It was the sound of splashing that startled Samuel awake. His eyes sprang open and he looked out his window. Ripples of water broke up reflected moonlight on the old pond. Something . . . or someone . . . was in there.

  Curious, Samuel rose from his bed, stumbled down the stairs, and stepped out the back door of the house. A thin mist clawed out of the water toward the boy, forming a path that led Samuel right to the old pond.

  Samuel slowly walked toward the silent water, over the dew-covered grass that wet his bare feet and the cuffs of his pajama pants. Samuel stopped at the shoreline, watching and listening carefully, but . . . the splashing had stopped. The old pond was quiet and perfectly still.

  Samuel turned to look back at the house—and the splashing started again. Samuel slowly craned his head around and spotted ripples in the water.

  “Hello?” the boy called out, his voice cracking. “Is someone out there?”

  “Help me! Help me, Samuel!”

  He immediately recognized the voice crying out to him.

  “Emily?” The boy squinted, scanning the surface of the pond.

  “Please, Samuel! Help me!” His sister called to him, voice gurgling as her throat filled with water.

  Samuel looked far out to the center of the pond where he could faintly see his sister, bobbing up and down, flailing and grasping desperately at the surface of the water.

  Instinct took over. Samuel dove into the pond, swimming as quickly as his arms could carry him, stealing glimpses at his struggling sister, making certain she was still there.

  “I’ve got you! I’ve got you!”

  Samuel wrapped his arms around Emily as she coughed up pond water and gasped. She was shaken, but alive.

  Tears rolled down Samuel’s face as he gripped tightly to his little sister.

  “Everything’s gonna be okay, Emily. Everything’s okay,” said the boy with relief.

  Samuel started to swim for shore, towing Emily behind him. With every stroke, the guilt the boy had carried for months began to dissipate. He had been the one to dare Emily to swim to the middle of the pond. He’d only wanted to see Emily struggle at something, the same way he had struggled with so many other things in his life. Samuel never anticipated that she would drown. But now he was given this second chance.

  He continued to swim, but his strokes became slower, and slower. Samuel’s muscles ached. His breathing was strained. Despite his best efforts, he didn’t seem to be moving. He was stuck in the dead center of the old pond.

  Samuel turned to see if he and Emily were caught on something. It was only then that he actually looked at his sister’s face, now fully illumined by the light of the moon.

  Emily’s skin was pale, almost translucent. Raised black veins traced her face and neck. Her eyes were black, and lifeless.

  “Emily?”

  Emily’s mouth curled into a maleficent grin, revealing two rows of long pointed teeth.

  With a violent jerk, Samuel was plunged below the water, pulled with a force that he had no chance of resisting. He screamed and flailed, fighting against it with all his might, desperately trying to make his way back to the surface, but he could not.

  Samuel watc
hed helplessly as the moon’s reflection became smaller and smaller while he sunk deeper and deeper. Finally the moon disappeared from his sight completely. As the last bubble of air left his lips, he knew he would never again return from the black depths of the old pond.

  Written by Jesse Reffsin

  Illustrated by Chris Sasaki

  The Doll

  The girl walked through the storefront door.

  Its antique bell gave ring.

  Her mother frowned, close behind.

  “Don’t you touch a thing.”

  The girl sighed and rolled her eyes.

  She’d heard that one before.

  Her mother always told her no

  when entering a store.

  Her mother’s favorite thing to say

  was no, or don’t, or stop.

  The words were ready on her lips

  at first sight of the shop.

  As usual, this trip was meant

  for Mother’s wants alone.

  She’d never think to buy her “brat”

  a present of her own.

  Though once inside, it mattered not,

  for looking ’round that store,

  she’d found it only full of junk.

  Trash, and nothing more.

  But where the mother saw the bad,

  her daughter saw the good.

  Tucked amongst the rundown shelves

  sat a doll—made out of wood.

  The girl stopped, full of wonder,

  at the doll’s hand-painted face.

  She didn’t mind its lack of hair

  or dislike its tattered lace.

  She plucked the doll from off the shelf,

  its smile cheap and gaudy.