Ghost Read online

  “Mother, may I have this doll?”

  “Over my dead body.”

  The girl was scolded for what Mother called

  a total lack of taste.

  A horrid doll, a horrid girl.

  To buy it? “What a waste!”

  The mother showed her own blonde hair

  and dress with pale plaid print,

  as two examples of true beauty,

  of which the doll bore not a hint.

  The girl had no recourse,

  there was nothing she could say.

  Her mother’s mind was set in stone,

  so they went on their way.

  Back at home, the girl’s bedroom

  stood just off the hall.

  And there she found, wrapped in a box,

  the gaudy, hairless doll.

  She looked around and puzzled how

  the doll had come to be

  in her room despite the fact

  her mother had not agreed.

  But soon the worry left her,

  and to a smile it gave way.

  The doll was now hers to have.

  Her mother had no say.

  To her delight, she also found

  some trimmings that came with it:

  a blonde-haired wig to change its look.

  A pale plaid dress to fit it.

  She dressed the doll and placed its wig,

  and prized it like no other.

  But oddly enough, in dress and wig,

  it looked quite like her mother.

  The difference was the doll could not

  say stop or don’t or no.

  In fact the doll spoke not at all.

  The girl did love it so.

  And perhaps it did look horrid,

  that doll in pale plaid prints,

  But the girl heard no more about it,

  for she hadn’t seen her mother since.

  Written by Blaise Hemingway

  Illustrated by Jeff Turley

  Point Whitney

  The deafening hum of his snowmobile rang in Max’s ears. Across the frozen lake to his right were dotted hundreds of multicolored shacks of varying shapes and sizes. Ice shanties, he remembered hearing the locals calling them, shelters to protect the ice fishermen from the winds that came in from the west and sped with a piercing chill over the lake.

  Ahead, Max noticed Tyler’s brake lights glowing. The older boy’s snowmobile stopped at a small shop off the country road that ran the perimeter of the lake. A wooden sign hanging from its porch read: Whitney’s Bait & Tackle.

  The bell tied to the door rang as Max followed Tyler into the shop. Tyler marched to the refrigerators in the back of the store, whose shelves were piled high with Styrofoam containers of black soil and squirming earthworms.

  To the left of the refrigerators, Max saw an old, framed photograph of a man mounted to the wall. The man in the picture looked like the kind who thrived in these harsh New England winters. He was tall, bulky, and stoic. His index and middle fingers were hooked deep into the gills of a gigantic fish that stretched nearly the entire length of the man’s body. Large chunks of bloody fish innards were frozen to his jacket sleeve. If Max didn’t know better, he’d have thought the man in the photograph was staring right at him.

  “That’s Charlie Whitney,” called out the elderly shopkeeper to Max. “This used to be his shop, ’fore he fell through the ice.” Max’s eyes went wide and he turned to face the shopkeeper, who was now pointing out the window at a barren peninsula jutting into the lake. “He was fishing north of the point. Went through the ice and never came up.”

  With a gulp, Max asked, “They never found him?”

  The shopkeeper shook his head. “He’s still out there. On a quiet night, you can hear Charlie Whitney’s boots crunching against the ice. That’s why no one fishes north of Point Whitney anymore. Them fish belong to him.” The shopkeeper looked up at Max, who could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

  Tyler rolled his eyes as he set three containers of earthworms on the counter. “Nine dollars,” said the shopkeeper and placed them into a large brown paper bag, the containers making a shrill sound as they rubbed against each other.

  Tyler threw the money on the counter, took the bag, and pushed open the door. He turned to Max impatiently. “Well? You coming or aren’t you?”

  Max mumbled a thank-you and turned to go. The shopkeeper leaned over the counter and grabbed Max’s arm. “Don’t go north of the point.” He stared intensely at Max. “Them are Charlie’s fish.”

  Max could see the shopkeeper’s heavy lower eyelids hanging slack under his spider-webbed, bloodshot eyes. He felt a nervous pang in his stomach and squirmed out of the shopkeeper’s grip, scurrying through the door to catch up with Tyler, who was already on his snowmobile, heading toward the frozen shore.

  The boys had to slow as they drove out onto the frozen lake, the engines quiet enough to hear the muffled cracking of ice below. Max shivered, though not from the cold.

  They closed in on the makeshift village of ice shanties in the bay of the lake. Max passed fishermen by the dozens in frosted-over orange snowsuits, densely packed and huddled over small holes in the ice. The men looked as if they’d been waiting an eternity to make their catch, but their buckets were empty, not a fish to be seen.

  “Screw this,” said Tyler as he revved his engine, turned left, and sped away from the shanties. Though confused, Max followed Tyler north, straight for the peninsula the shopkeeper had told them to avoid, the ominous point where Charlie Whitney had fallen through the ice to his death.

  When Tyler finally stopped and parked at the tip of the point, Max looked back at the shanties that were now just specks in the white distance. “We’re fishing here?” asked Max uneasily.

  “There’s too many people in the bay,” snapped back the older boy as he removed the bungee cords holding a large gas-powered drill to the back of his snowmobile. “We’ll catch way more fish here.”

  Tyler violently yanked on the starter rope on the drill to get it spinning. Max watched as Tyler jammed the drill into the ice, quickly chewing through the layers of frozen lake. It wasn’t long before Max heard the drill break through underneath.

  “But the guy at the tackle shop said we weren’t supposed to go north of Point Whitney,” Max protested.

  Tyler grabbed a squirming earthworm from a Styrofoam container and jammed the hook of his fishing line into it. “I don’t care what he said. My dad says that old man’s nuts.”

  Tyler pulled a milk crate to the edge of the hole, sat on it, and then cast his line in. Max stood unmoving for a long while, contemplating what to do.

  “You’re such a freakin’ baby,” said Tyler disgustedly. “I can’t wait to tell everyone at school that you were scared of some stupid frozen fisherman.” Max got enough grief from the boys back at St. Andrews; he didn’t need more. He baited his hook, cast his line, and waited.

  Max was scanning the frozen lake, watching swirling wisps of snow float past, when he heard the sloshing of water. Tyler yelped with joy as he pulled a flailing fish from his hole in the ice.

  Tyler proudly tossed his prize into a five-gallon bucket of water, where it continued to thrash. The older boy looked up at Max with a self-satisfied smile. “What’d I tell you? This is the spot.”

  Tyler was right. Soon the boys filled their bucket to the brim with trout and pike. As the sun started to set, they sealed the top of the bucket and lashed it to Tyler’s snowmobile.

  Max hurried to get his snowmobile started as the inches of snow quickly accumulated around Point Whitney. While Max fumbled with his ignition, Tyler took off. The older boy sped over the ice, laughing. Tyler had been coming to this lake his whole life and knew it well, but this was Max’s first time, and he was less than certain how to find his way back. Max shouted, “Wait up!” as the snow flurries began to fall more thickly.

  Finally, his chilly engine roared to life. Max put the sled into drive and to
ok off, hoping to catch up with Tyler before full dark.

  But Tyler’s tracks disappeared beneath the freshly fallen show, which was now coming down hard. Max cursed himself for not wearing goggles as snowflakes pelted his face, his lashes becoming so laden with ice that his eyelids stuck together.

  Just as the fear that he would never find his way off this frozen lake started to overcome him, Max saw the red brake lights of Tyler’s snowmobile in the distance. Max twisted the accelerator and drove as fast as he could to catch up.

  He was surprised by how quickly he was able to close the gap between him and his companion, but—as Tyler’s snowmobile came into full view—Max saw that it was parked . . . and Tyler was nowhere to be seen.

  “Tyler!” Max stopped the snowmobile and ran, frantically shouting the older boy’s name as the winds howled. In his panic, Max lost his footing on the snow-slicked ice and fell, his face smashing hard against it. He tasted something warm and metallic filling his mouth. He spit, seeing his two front teeth and blood splatter in the snow.

  As Max wiped the blood from his lips, he heard a scratching sound and a muffled scream coming from beneath the ice. Max dragged his body closer to the sound and then started digging through the snow, pushing the thick powder away from the frozen lake.

  As Max swept away the last bit of snow from the ice, he found himself staring at someone trapped inside it. It was Tyler, his body fully encased under two feet of frozen lake water as he clawed and scratched, trying to get out. The panic-stricken older boy screamed for Max to help him.

  Max banged against the ice as hard as he could until the knuckles inside his gloves were raw and bloody. But the boy’s efforts were in vain. Max watched helplessly as Tyler’s skin turned blue and his mouth froze, twisted and open in mid-scream.

  Max now felt his own body freezing solid, almost like the frozen lake was trying to take him, too. Max tried to stand, but couldn’t. And it was at this moment, the boy lying there on the frozen lake, mouth dripping with blood, that he dimly started to hear the crunching of boots in the snow.

  Max knew in an instant whose boots they were. He remembered the warning of the shopkeeper as he quietly said to himself, “Them are Charlie’s fish.”

  Max turned to see the bucket strapped to the back of Tyler’s snowmobile. The boy rallied every ounce of strength to get back on his feet as the bitter wind and snow relentlessly pounded him.

  Max pulled the starter rope on the motorized drill. It roared to life and he set it to the ice, burrowing into the frozen lake. Max leaned his full weight against the drill and—when it finally broke through—he fell, losing the drill to frigid lake waters below.

  Max dragged himself back to retrieve the bucket of fish. With fingertips that had by now succumbed to frostbite, Max tore the lid of the five-gallon bucket off and towed it back to the hole he had drilled in the ice.

  He dumped the fish through the hole and back into the water, then collapsed into a heap. His eyes were frozen shut. He had no feeling in his extremities. Max lay helplessly as the winter storm that would soon take his life howled around him.

  But then—the winds went silent. The bitter cold evaporated. Max flexed his fingers, the feeling slowly coming back to them. He wiped the melting ice from his eyelashes and opened them to see the night was suddenly clear, the full moon illuminating the frozen lake, the road, and the mountain.

  A gust of snow rose against the dark, and Max momentarily glimpsed what he swore was the figure of a man. A familiar silhouette with piercing eyes staring down at him.

  But as soon as the figure had appeared, it was gone, leaving Max alone on the ice surrounding Point Whitney.

  Written by Jesse Reffsin

  Illustrated by Chris Sasaki

  Fred

  When hiking, Fred

  would always wear

  a pack, quite bright and red.

  The things he’d stow

  would keep him safe,

  at least that’s what he said.

  A knife for bears,

  a match for fire,

  a lantern for its light.

  But the eerie things

  that troubled Fred

  were those that come at night.

  So in Fred’s pack

  he’d carry things.

  Their use I found unclear.

  A strange pendant necklace,

  a book full of symbols,

  an antler from a deer.

  It was with that pack

  we set out one day

  past a river deep and strong.

  And after the river

  we entered a wood

  with trees tall as the river was long.

  The trail was well kept,

  perfect, in fact,

  not a leaf or twig on the ground.

  But strangely enough,

  though we looked and we looked,

  there were no signs of life to be found.

  And when I say none,

  I really mean none.

  Not a footprint. Not a sound.

  It wasn’t just people,

  gone from those woods,

  there were also no animals ’round.

  This got Fred to thinking,

  back then on that trail,

  and his voice took an ominous tone:

  “An entire forest,

  still as the grave,

  is better left alone.”

  Sadly my thoughts

  took the opposite tack,

  and I pushed us to keep moving on.

  The fears gnawing

  at Fred’s resolve

  just served to make mine strong.

  But as we moved on,

  I did wonder aloud

  t the silence that seemed almost dead.

  Fred’s voice from behind me

  sought to give answer

  as he clutched at his bag bright and red:

  “Woods such as these

  are not empty at all.

  This one,” he said, “feels quite packed—

  if you stare off the path

  to the crowds of these trees,

  it’s the trees themselves that stare back.”

  Poor, poor Fred,

  I thought, as I saw

  how his worries trembled his knees.

  He’s walking through woods,

  on such a fine day,

  and all he can see are the trees.

  I gave a quick glance,

  at the forest around us,

  to prove that things were all right.

  And that’s when I saw,

  I’d lost track of the sun.

  The day would soon turn to night.

  How careless, I thought,

  as I looked to my friend,

  intending to turn and go home.

  But to my surprise,

  in looking for Fred,

  I found that I was alone.

  And so I set off

  down the way we had come,

  thinking that Fred had turned back.

  But as darkness rolled

  ’cross the woods that bleak night,

  the path became harder to track.

  What had seemed so straight,

  so wide, so quick,

  now seemed twisted and shrinking.

  It almost seemed

  the path had changed,

  a thought I was fearful of thinking.

  For what is a path,

  when you give the thought pause,

  but a space the trees have gifted?

  So if you’re walking a path,

  and you find it has shrunk,

  it must be the trees that have shifted.

  It was while lost in this thought,

  as I wandered the dark,

  that I found the first sign of Fred’s strife.

  Past a bend in the path,

  there scattered in dirt:

  a lantern, a match, and a knife.

  I lit up the lantern,

  and used its dim
light,

  to follow the serpentine trail.

  But if ever you’ve used

  a light in the woods,

  you know just how it can fail.

  For now with my vision

  blinded by light,

  the forest could do as it pleased.

  And that’s when it started,

  a noise in the woods,

  the whisper of leaves in the breeze.

  I quickened my pace

  as the wind kept on building,

  causing bowed branches to groan.

  The noise from these woods

  howled right through me,

  plaintive and deep as a moan.

  At this point the trail

  had all but closed up,

  so I struggled past rough, mossy bark.

  I could hardly believe

  how right Fred had been

  about the things that come out in the dark.

  Now, perhaps those woods

  had taken offense

  to the things Fred had brought in from fear.

  For past the next tree

  on the ground was a book,

  a pendant, an antler of deer.

  I grabbed them and ran,

  now worried for Fred,

  as the mournful wails kept on calling.

  I dashed for my life over

  branches and roots,

  somehow without ever falling.

  And at last I came

  to the long winding river

  that marked the edge of the trees.

  So I turned and I looked

  at the woods that had held me

  perhaps to confirm I was free.

  But in turning I saw,

  lit by the moon,

  a sight that filled me with dread.

  High at the top

  of an unclimbable tree

  was a bag. Quite bright. Quite red.

  I stared at that tree

  unable to pull

  my gaze away from the pack.

  And as I stared up

  my thoughts were of Fred,

  for the tree, indeed, did stare back.

  Written by Jesse Reffsin