When the Ghosts Come Out to Dance By

Sitting on a rickety boat in the middle of a dark river, with only a full yellow moon to give off any light, could be considered lovely or terrifying, depending on who you ask. Factalactus: When you are the one sitting on an

old boat, on a dark river, underneath that harvest moon . . . and the night in question just happens to be Halloween . . . well, it’s easy to get a little worked up. Take Jonah Pickett, for example. He gasped and grabbed my arm, which nearly made me scream. "What’s wrong?" I asked, scratching my beard.

Good grief, beards are itch-tastically annoying. Jonah swallowed, loudly. His hand trembled as he pointed toward the misty river twisting ahead of us. "Felicity, I don’t think that’s fog . . ."

One week earlier . . . So basically, this whole mess got started one fine October morning when Frannie Jo and I (plus our dog,

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Biscuit) were walking down the streets of our new forever home: Midnight Gulch, Tennessee. My word, I love this town. October made the leaves on Main Street fit for a crown. They dripped from the trees in jewel-toned shades: yellow and orange and fiery red. The cool wind sent a confetti-cluster of leaves down around us. Frannie Jo let go of my hand and spun around in circles beneath the flutter. Biscuit sniffed the wind and wagged her tail. I couldn’t blame her. The air smelled like caramel and pumpkin, thanks to the new batch of fall flavors at Dr. Zook’s. Main Street stores and sidewalks were full of happy chatter, and folks hollering "Hello!" to one another. The whole town was getting ready for Halloween. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned since moving here, it’s this: The residents of Midnight Gulch take Halloween very seriously. "Morning, girls!" Ponder Waller called out as she

propped open the door of her pie shop. The warm smell of fresh-baked pumpkin pie drifted out into the street. "Don’t forget to come by on Halloween night! Costume

contest starts at seven!" 2

Frannie freaked. She has a standard reaction to the word Halloween: She bounces around and claps her hands and squeals very high-pitched-ly about how it’s the best day of the year. Frannie wears Halloween costumes all year long, in any season. But she gets especially

excited

for

Official

Halloween,

when

everybody else dresses up, too. "I need an epic costume," Frannie Jo said. "This is

my moment." I nodded. "We’ll talk to Aunt Cleo. She’ll be able to put together anything you can dream up." (This is saying a lot; my sister can dream up all kinds of craziness when it comes to costumes.) We walked past Abigail’s Bench, where Ramblin’ Rose was giving Toast Terry guitar lessons. Past the creamery, where people piled cones high with brightcolored scoops of ice cream. And then we turned at the stop sign and headed for our apartment. Two blackbirds sat squat and fluffy-feathered on the sign. I imagined the conversation they’d had while flying over the mountains—where every hollow holds some little town like this, bright and sweet and sad sometimes, maybe. But always wonderful, too.

3

"There’s something about that place," one bird

might have said to the other. "That little town right . . . there." "Ah, you’re right, of course," the other bird would

squawk. "That place is special. That’s Midnight Gulch." Just one town in a million. Just my heart. Just my home. "This is going to be the best Halloween ever,"

Frannie squealed. "I can feel it." My heart kicked yes . . . because I could feel it, too.

* Aunt Cleo lives in our same apartment complex, directly across the hall from me, Mama, Frannie Jo, and Biscuit. If Cleo’s working—constructing her famous quilts—she keeps a sign on the door that reads JOB IN PROGRESS

in all caps, so Frannie and I know to come

back later. It’s a good thing Cleo wasn’t busy that morning, since Frannie Jo was in Halloween mode. I knocked on Cleo’s door and waited. "For Halloween, I will be the Fairy Queen of

Raincloud Cavern," Frannie Jo declared as she unzipped her hoodie. It wasn’t until the sound of the 4

zzzzzzrrrrp that I noticed my little sister’s full ensemble: zebra-print hoodie, leopard-print leggings, and white, fringed boots. "Snazzy outfit, Frannie Jo." I grinned. My sister

definitely inherited Cleo’s sense of style. "Is the Fairy Queen of Raincloud Cavern in a book you read?" "No, I just made her up." Frannie pushed a pair of

heart-shaped sunglasses over her eyes. One thing I’ve always loved about my sister is that she’s brave enough to be her weird self. But since we started living here, Frannie’s confidence has bloomed like a wild and funky flower. She speaks up more. She’s way less clingy. She no longer wants to be carried everywhere either; she prefers to walk in front of all of us now, leading the way. "I see the queen clearly in my head," Frannie said. "Cleo can help me." Her nose crinkled. ". . . Uh-oh." "Uh-oh, what?" I asked as Biscuit stood on her

hind legs and pressed her paws against the door. Frannie sighed. "Take a deep breath, Felicity." So I did, and my nose crinkled, too. Uh-oh, for sure. The air in the hallway of the Sandcut Apartment Complex was permeated by a familiar odor of smoke

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and bacon grease. And burnt. The kind of burnt that comes when you toss food into a pan and forget to check on it. When a formerly fine and crispy piece of deliciousness has been cooked too long and thus reduced to black, crispy char-bits. In other words: Aunt Cleo was trying to cook breakfast. A cluster of words slid out from underneath Cleo’s door and wafted through the air: Frantic Flames Fiasco Tobacco

I banged harder on the door. "Don’t smoke, Cleo! You don’t need a cigarette! Persevere!" Aunt Cleo’d been trying to quit smoking for a few weeks, and she was doing a fine job. I love my aunt with all my heart; I love her regardless of whether she smokes or not. But I was still proud of her for trying to quit. Cleo’s great at taking care of other people. She has a harder time taking care of herself. Frannie knocked on the door again. "We gotta find her a better hobby than cooking." Cleo thinks the only way she’ll ever be able to move on from her smoking days is if she can find something 6

to do with her time that’s as soothing as a cigarette. So she’s taken up all manner of hobbies in the last month. For a time, she did tai chi in front of Jewell Pickett’s Lube & Dye. She quit due to all the noise and traffic. She also quit because her fiancé, Day Grissom, nearly crashed into the building when he saw her. He says that he was so overcome by her beauty that he forgot to hit his brakes. Another day, Cleo asked Mama to teach her to paint, which seemed to be a spindiddly endeavor at first. Then Mama realized Cleo was painting a carton of cigarettes. "That’s not going to be effective," Mama barked. And Cleo told Mama to buzz off, that she needed freedom to create, and it all ended in an uproar. Lately, Cleo’s tried her hand at cooking. She does not have the knack. "We better just go in," I told Frannie as I fished

through my backpack for the key to Cleo’s door. As soon as we walked in the living room, I heard several distinct noises: First came the sound of Cleo’s hypnotic therapy CDs. "Repeat after me: I will never smoke again, unless I am on fire," cooed a voice that some people

7

apparently find very soothing. But I think it sounds darn-near creepy, if I’m just being honest here. Nevertheless, I heard Cleo holler those words of affirmation: "I will never smoke again, unless I am on fire." Then she shouted an unsavory word. Right after that, I heard the PFFFFFFT!!!!! sound of the fire extinguisher. "Are you okay, Cleo?" I hollered anxiously. "Back here!" Cleo called.

We found Cleo leaning against the sink, a grapescented pencil tucked between her teeth. This is another of Cleo's theories: If she chews on a pencil, she believes she'll trick her brain into believing it's a cigarette. Frannie Jo hopped up onto the counter and started riffling

through

Cleo’s

plastic

pumpkin

full

of

Halloween candy. I stood beside my aunt, surveying the snowy wasteland formerly known as her stove. "I could try tai chi again, I reckon," Cleo mumbled.

I nodded. "That’d probably be best." Before we could discuss other options, the door flung open again and in marched Day Grissom. Day Grissom is my bus driver, and he also happens to be the great love of Aunt Cleo’s life. These days, he’s 8

her fiancé, too. He used to have a long, gnarly beard but he shaved it off, because that’s what Cleo prefers. At present, he’s scruffy-faced—a "com-pro-mise," he calls it. The scruff is still so short that you can see the dimples in his cheeks when he smiles. Today’s smile was very deep-dimpled. Cleo narrowed her eyes. "What are you so happy about?" "Oh, I’m about to tell ya." Day grinned even bigger. "But you might want to sit down first because . . ." Day

crinkled his nose. "Is something burning?" "Say what you need to say," Cleo huffed as she

flopped down in the kitchen chair. "Ladies." He nodded to Frannie and me. "Miss

Biscuit." He nodded. She flicked her ear, happy to be noticed. Then he propped his hands proudly on his hips and looked at his beloved. "Cleopatra Harness NearlyGrissom . . . We just won the lottery."

* Now, before you think our luck changed, I’ll remind you of this fact:

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We are Pickles. Well, Pickles and Harnesses. And Grissoms, too, since Day’s about to be part of the family. I frequently see words stampeding around Cleo's kitchen that describe my family. Flamboyant Funky Fabulous Wackadoodle

But I’m quite certain lucky is a word I’ll never ever see floating above any of our heads. So don’t go thinking Day’s lottery win changed the course of our days. What happened is this: Day Grissom stopped by Gas Up & Get Out, a new fuel station downtown. While he was there, he bought a can of squirt cheese, a bag of beef jerky, a bottle of root beer, and a carton of Beth’s Caramel Apple Collision (a new flavor at Zook’s). Day was feeling lucky, he told us, because the squeeze cheese turned out to be "buy one get one free". So he bought a scratch-off lottery ticket, too. "Fate smiled down upon me," Day said, and he

opened his arms wide, as though he wanted to hug the whole world. Turns out, Day won three thousand dollars. "And so," he told us, "I decided it was time to fulfill one of my lifelong dreams." 10

Cleo pulled the scented pencil from her mouth and blew imaginary smoke into the air. "You finally painted your initials on the water tower?" Day shook his head. "Ladder’s too rickety. I'll have to borrow Virgil Duncan’s forklift for that endeavor. I’m referring to the other dream." Frannie climbed up into Cleo’s lap. "My dream is to be the Fairy Queen of Raincloud Cavern." "My dream is to cook a pancake," Cleo mumbled. "Just one blasted pancake—without setting the kitchen

on fire." "WOOF!" Biscuit barked from the floor, then spun

around in a circle. "Everybody

hush and let the man talk," I

volunteered. "Go ahead, Day. Sit down and tell us how you spent your lottery bounty." "Get your life jackets on, girls." Day nodded as he

settled into the empty seat beside me. "Because I bought us a pon-toon." "A pontoon?" Cleo said, and her eyebrows slowly

drifted closer together. "You mean like a boat? You won all that money and you went and bought a boat?"

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"A custom boat!" Day beamed. "That’s how I got it

so cheap. Elvis Phillips made it! He used barrels to make it float, instead of a pontoon part. And then built the platform on top and added a nice tarp. It’s got seats, sturdy rails, headlights, even a motor. Might take two people to steer though. Pulls to the left a smidge when the motor’s going." Cleo drummed her bright-red fingernails against the table. "You’re not the kind of man who makes impulse purchases. What possessed you to buy a boat?" Day propped his elbows on the table and looked at my aunt with so much sweet affection I’m surprised bubbly-hearts didn’t shoot out of his eyes. "Do you remember what I promised you, Cleopatra? Back when I was a young buck and you were a wildwood flower and we drove around playing music in that old truck I had? Remember what I used to say we’d do together someday?" Cleo sighed and shook her head. "She’s had a lot on her mind." I patted Cleo’s arm

and jumped for the freezer. Cleo usually keeps a pint of Blackberry Sunrise on hand. She claims she mostly eats it when she can’t remember where she puts her keys. But I think Cleo’s given over to nostalgia more than she 12

lets on. I pulled two spoons—one for Cleo, and one for Frannie Jo—to save myself from getting up twice. At the first bite of ice cream, Cleo closed her eyes and a contented smile settled over her mouth. A locomotive-string of words chugged down her shoulders and onto the table: Cobblestone Lantern-light Autumn wind Kiss goodnight

Cleo looked across the table at Day. "It was Halloween night, twenty years ago." Day grinned and nodded, just once. "Day’s truck broke down," Cleo said. "So we walked

to the closest city on the map to catch a bus back to Midnight Gulch. We found the sweetest little town, and it sat right on the edge of Wisteria Lake." "Sugardaisy, Tennessee," Day volunteered. "That

was the name of the town. A full, yellow moon was rising over the rooftops . . ." "The

streets

downtown

were

made

of

cobblestones," Cleo said. "And I remember the sidewalks had such pretty lampposts—warm firelight flickering inside each one. The lamplight and moon

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reflected so pretty off all those shiny streets, remember? It looked like the roads were made of gold. And, goodness, there were hundreds of kids running around, all out to trick-or-treat. Wicked little angels. Sweet little witches. Astronauts and cowboys, and a fairy queen, probably." Cleo leaned down and gave Frannie a quick kiss on top of her head. But Frannie didn’t notice; she was concentrating on her ice cream. Day looked at me. "We stepped into a little café and sat near the window, so we could watch all the hubbub outside. And that’s when the waitress told us the story of Wisteria Lake. About the tragic day when—" Cleo cleared her throat. "Maybe now’s not the time for that story." She tilted her chin toward Frannie Jo. "Might be too scary for this one." "I’m not afraid of anything!" Frannie yelled,

hoisting her spoon in front of her like a sword. "Let’s go draw a picture of the Fairy Queen," Cleo

suggested. My aunt must be a master of distraction, because Frannie squealed and ran for the art supplies in Cleo’s craft room. Cleo sighed as she followed. "A pontoon," I heard her mumble. But I could hear a smile in her voice. 14

"Halloween night," Day said, clapping his hands

down on the table. "Mark it on your calendar, Fliss-tee. We’re going to Wisteria Lake." "Can Jonah come, too?" Jonah’d already asked me

to go trick-or-treating with him downtown, an adventure he said was not to be missed. But a leisurely pontoon ride would be a fine way to end the night, I figured. "Sure thing!" Day said. "And tell your Uncle Boone

to come along. The boat’s got a motor but . . . just in case something goes wrong, I might need him to help me row. If I ask your Aunt Cleo to do that, she’s likely to push me right over the edge." "You bet she will!" Cleo yelled from the craft room. "You won’t even give me a clue about the story?" "Not even a clue." Day grinned, and then stood up

and surveyed the kitchen with a sigh. He removed Cleo’s charred pans from the stove and set out to make us a breakfast that was edible. Day’s a great cook, but my favorite thing about a Grissom Breakfast is that he sings while he cooks. The man can carry a tune.

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Not a clue, he’d said. But I smirked as I watched him work. One of the perks of being a word collector is that I have access to plenty of clues. The words came from his shirt; the plaid lines across his back vibrated, then twirled. The words looked like bugs escaping from a spiderweb, finally breaking free . . . and floating up into the air. Eerie Shadow Tragic HAUNTED . . . Haunted? My heart sped up at the revelation.

The idea of exploring someplace haunted made me feel excited, a little bit. But nervous, most of all. In a town like Midnight Gulch, with a magical history . . . not to mention a sad history . . . I had no idea what story I might stumble into on Halloween night. I couldn’t wait to find out.

* On Halloween night, Mama let me hold the map while she drove the Pickled Jalapeño toward the river. 16

"I want to make sure this boat looks safe before

either of you get on it," Mama told me. "Got it?" "Aye-aye!" I saluted. "Yes ma’am," Jonah said from the backseat. His

head was leaned down over a newspaper, so all I could see was wild, white hair. Miss Lawson gave us extra credit for dressing up like famous historical figures. Jonah’d let his spikes grow into more of a shaggy hairdo, so his mom could spray in temporary white paint and he could go as Albert Einstein. As I said, people in Midnight Gulch take Halloween very seriously. Inspired by our boating adventure, I’d decided on Edward Teach, alias Blackbeard the Pirate. Cleo helped me put together a swashbuckling outfit. I pulled my hair back with one of her most colorful silky scarves, and Mama let me borrow her eyeliner to draw a beard on my face. "Day wouldn’t take us out on a boat unless it was

safe," I reminded Mama as she zoomed toward town. "I know," Mama sighed. "It’s just for my own peace

of mind." And then Mama turned onto Main Street.

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Yes. My heart gave a happy thump. Yes, Yes, Yes. I blinked away a few tears brought on by the sparkly sweetness all around me. Midnight Gulch on Halloween night is a lovely sight. I know I’m biased because this town is my home and all. But factofabulous: The sun was sinking down into the mountains, leaving behind a sky layered in orange-pink and dreamy blues. During the day, the leaves might be at their bright-colored peak. But when the sun sets, a different kind of beauty unfolds. The mountain stretches its shadow over the town so sweetly, as though it longs to keep this corner of the world a secret. Tonight, jack-o’lanterns sat flickery-eyed and snaggletoothed on porches and storefront stoops. Window displays were strung with sparkly spiderwebs. Every store was open, with cauldrons full of free candy in front of each doorway. We waved to Ponder Waller, who stood on the street handing out free caramel apples, and then Oliver Weatherly, who’d parked one of the Zook’s delivery trucks in front of Jewell Pickett’s. On Halloween night, everybody in Midnight Gulch gets free ice cream. "Maybe we should have just

trick-or-treated

instead," I said, glancing back at Jonah. Day said we 18

needed to leave early so we didn’t get back too late. So trick-or-treating was out. Jonah smiled at me. He shrugged. "As long as we’re hanging out together, it’s cool. We can trick-ortreat next year." My face flamed, warm and prickly. I turned so Jonah wouldn't see me blush. I rolled down my window so I could hear all the happy sounds: The squeals of trick-or-treaters as they skipped down the sidewalks. The laughter coming from people who stopped to chat with friends they hadn’t seen for a while. Swirls of yellow leaves blew down the streets, their tips clicking soft and pretty against the pavement. Home. It was a word I’d longed to see for so long. Now I know, the only thing better than seeing that word . . . is feeling it.

* "Cleo said to meet her at Lookout Point," I said,

glancing down at the map again. Lookout Point isn’t far from Midnight Gulch, and it’s the place where most people slide their boats into the Tennessee River. From there, Cleo says it’s about a thirty-minute boat ride to

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Wisteria Lake. We didn’t have any trouble finding her. Turns out, we were the only family taking to the wild seas on Halloween night. "So I guess that’s it," Mama said. At the end of the

dock, bumping up and down quite happily on the river, was Elvis Phillips’s homemade pontoon. I had no clue what a pontoon boat was supposed to look like, but I would estimate Elvis’s boat looked halfway decent. Or maybe not halfway. More like half of halfway. But then, I’m not good at fractions. Uncle Boone was already there with Frannie Jo. He’d taken her trick-or-treating that afternoon, and told Mama they’d meet us here and swap out. Day needed Boone to help him co-pilot our new sea vessel. And Mama said there was absolutely no way she would let my sister bounce around on a rickety boat. "It’s actually sturdier than it looks," Boone said as

he opened Jonah’s door and helped him into his wheelchair. "I mean, don’t get me wrong, I can think of about a thousand things I’d rather do on a Halloween night than row a dumpy-looking boat around Wisteria Lake but that’s okay." "It’s not just any lake," I reminded Boone. "It’s—"

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The words smooshed to a stop in my mouth when I saw my uncle’s clothes. Clearly, this was Frannie Jo’s doing. Boone was wearing a black, button-down shirt, black pants, and black combat boots. He was also sporting a set of flimsy black wings and what appeared to be, at least from this distance, heavy black eyeliner. "Let me guess," I said. "She made you be the Fairy

King of Raincloud Cavern." Boone

sighed.

Nodded.

Somehow,

he

still

managed to make the crazy ensemble look kind of cool. With his blond hair and scruffy face, Boone could pass for the lead singer of a punk band. Miss Lawson would probably lose it if she saw him right at this second. "I told Frannie I’d take her trick-or-treating,"

Boone sighed as he shrugged out of the wings and tossed them into the Jalapeño. "But that I would not dress up." "And yet"—Mama patted his shoulder—"Frannie

talked you into it, just like always." "Arrrgh, Blackbeard!" Frannie squealed, running

up behind me and grabbing me around the waist. She climbed up on me until I gave in and hoisted her up on my hip. "You’re too big to be carried around," I

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reminded her. But then she tucked her face into my shoulder and giggled, and I was kind of glad that I could still hold her, for now. We waited while Day gave Mama a proper tour of the boat. As I helped Frannie buckle into the backseat, she leaned up and whispered in my ear: "You’ll have the best time on the boat, Felicity." "You think so?" "I know so." Frannie nodded. And then she leaned

up and whispered. "I can hear the music when I’m down by the river."

* "It’ll take about thirty minutes to get to Wisteria

Lake," Day told us as we finished zipping our life jackets. He turned up the Coleman lantern and settled it in the middle of the boat. Finally, we were river bound. The motor whirred for a good while, carrying us over the river while cool wind blew in our faces. But eventually, Day cut the motor off so he and Boone could row. The sun had set, but the sky was still dimly lit. The first night star was visible, prickly-bright overhead. Day looked at Boone, who was seated beside him, both of 22

them rowing the oars on the front of the boat. "Full moon tonight," Day told him. "It’s a good thing; the story claims you have to have a full moon or you won’t see anything." "What are we supposed to see?" Jonah asked as he

dug through Cleo’s snack bag for some Zook’s, "What’s so special about this lake?" "Oh," Day said, matter-of-fact. "Lake’s haunted."

Boone jerked his head to look at Day. He looked over his shoulder at me. "You didn’t tell me that." "I wasn’t sure exactly what we’d see." I confessed. "I mean, I guessed it’d be haunted but that can mean

lots of things." "No, it can’t," Boone said flatly. "Haunted means

ghosts. I have no desire to visit a haunted lake. I have no desire to visit a haunted anything." "Don’t worry." Day chuckled. "The ghosts are

harmless, according to the story we heard." He smiled pleasantly as he rowed his side of the boat. "And what is the story?" I asked.

Day cleared his throat. "In the thirties, the Tennessee Valley Authority decided to build a dam on the river for flood control and electricity. The only

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problem is that building a dam where they wanted would cause the lake to flood down into the valleys. And one valley, in particular, was home to a thriving little town called Wisteria Cove. Hundreds of people lived there. They tried to convince the residents they’d be better off in more fertile lands, higher up the mountain. But that’s easy to say when it’s not your home that’s about to be buried underwater, ya know? The town put up a fight, but lost eventually. They were forced to leave. Legend says that they all stood on the mountain together, held their lanterns high, and sang ‘Amazing Grace’ as the water rolled in. They treated it like a funeral, ya see. They watched until their homeplace was buried forever underwater. Wisteria Cove was a hundred years old, even then. And in a day, it was gone. And if I gauged the coordinates correctly, it was right . . . about . . . here." Day tapped Boone on the arm so he’d stop rowing. "Somewhere directly down below us there are houses,

churches, a general store. A little school. A meeting hall. An empty graveyard." "Empty?" Boone asked quickly. "They moved all the graves before they flooded it," Day clarified. 24

"Let me get this straight," Boone said. "We’re

floating over a town?" "An abandoned town," Day explained. "Nobody died, right?" I said sadly. "When it

flooded, I mean?" Day shook his head. "Nobody died when they flooded the town. But it had to feel like a kind of death, when the water came rolling in. When they watched the only place they’d ever called home just disappear." I shivered when I looked out at the water. Words were all around us; I knew it. I couldn’t tell what they were yet. The words weren’t floating to the surface or splashing around. But maybe it was the stories of people who’d lived in these mountains that carried our boat this far. Maybe their stories kept us afloat even now. "Timing is a strange thing," Cleo said. "When the

town was founded, back in the eighteen hundreds, they had a celebration dance on Halloween night. Every year after that, they danced on the same night, just to celebrate. The whole community would show up for it. Even folks who’d left Wisteria Cove came back home for

25

the Halloween dance. Guess what day the town was flooded?" "Halloween?" Jonah’d guessed correctly. He shook

his head sadly. "That’s tragic!" "And so the legend goes," Day Grissom cleared his

throat. "On Halloween night,

If the moon is bright, Wisteria Lake is a mysterious site. And where the river flows deep and wide, The ghosts still dance upon the tide." Jonah looked at me. I looked at him. He stuck out his fist, and I bumped it. "Spindiddly," we mumbled, at the same time. "This," Boone drawled, "was a horrible idea." "Oh, hush," Cleo told him. "This will be fun. We

probably won’t see any ghosts, anyhow. We’ll probably just sit in the middle of the lake on this boat and eat candy. But you never know!" Day smiled back at her. "We’ve wanted this adventure for twenty years, haven’t we, Cleopatra?" "How’d the two of you find out about it?" Boone

asked. 26

And so Day told him the story of how he and Cleo wound up in Sugardaisy, Tennessee, listening to ghost stories. Cleo propped her arm around the back of my chair. "All those years ago, when we came here together, Day promised he’d bring me back someday, to find the dancing ghosts." "Why’d it take y’all so long to do it then?" Boone

asked. Day and Cleo looked at each other, communicating more in a glance than most people say with words. Sometimes words are too little to communicate feelings so big. I know that as well as anybody. "Some dreams take longer to come true than

others," Cleo finally said, her voice catching in a funny way. She wiped something out of her eye, quickly. "But that doesn’t make them any less wonderful, when they finally do. That’s what I think, at least."

* For the rest of the night, we took turns telling stories and passing around the snack bag. Finally, Cleo checked the time on her phone and decided we should head back for Midnight Gulch.

27

"I guess the dancing ghosts were only a myth after

all," Cleo sighed, stretching her arms out long in front of her. "But I must confess: I am a fan of this ridiculous boat." "Knew you would be." Day grinned. "Hey! Did you

bring your banjo, Boone?" "Of course," my uncle replied. "Then why don’t you play us a tune as we head

back? So we’ll have a song to remember this occasion by? I’ll keep the motor off, and we'll just let the water carry us a ways.." Boone scooted back on the pontoon and reached for his banjo case. After a few tuning plinks, he began strumming a sad and pretty song. Our boat rolled steady down the river. Jonah’s voice was barely a whisper. "Flea . . . I think I hear something." "Besides the banjo music?" I asked.

Jonah nodded. Boone’s hands stilled on the banjo. "Do y’all hear something?" "It’s just the river you hear," Cleo answered

quickly. "Keep playing." Boone played again, softly at first, working his way back to full pitch. Thanks to the moonlight, I could see 28

the outline of his profile. He sat near the front of the boat, bobbing slowly up and down like the rest of us. I couldn’t see the look in his eyes but I could tell how nervous he was by the tremble in his voice when he said, "Maybe you should, uh, row a little faster, Day." "Hush,

Boone," Cleo snapped. "We’re fine."

Regardless of how scared Cleo is, she only has one volume, and it’s loud. She yelled, "Day Grissom! Turn right, or you’ll steer us into that fog up there." "I’d be easier to steer," Day said, "if people’d quit

hollering over my shoulder, telling me what to do . . ." A sudden wild and chilly gust of wind rolled down from the mountain, shaking the tall pine trees. Leaves turned loose of their branches, scattering across the water. Each leaf scrawled a new word across the surface of the lake. I rummaged through Cleo’s bag for a flashlight so I could see. I didn’t bring my blue book, so I whispered all the words I saw in the water around me, hoping I could commit them to my memory: Remember Remain Celebrate Settle down Defy

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And then the words began to dissolve suddenly, scattered in the middle. At first I thought I was seeing ripples, just blooming out wherever leaves happened to fall and touch the water. But then I looked closer. And I realized that the ripples were actually . . . footprints. I saw them all around us, everywhere the moonlight touched, stepping all across the lake surface. One, then another. Two, side by side. Then gone. "That fog up there." Day cleared his throat. "Looks

funny, don’t it? The fog . . . it’s . . . breaking loose. Can y’all see what I’m talking about?" Jonah Pickett gasped and grabbed my arm, which nearly made me scream.

"Felicity," he whispered. I

glanced at his face, pale and shadowy in the light of the moon. Jonah’s hair was white, sticking up every which way. And his eyes were wide and round, as big as shiny new quarters. "What’s wrong?" I asked, scratching my beard.

Good grief, beards are itch-tastically annoying. Jonah swallowed, loudly. His hand trembled as he pointed toward the misty river twisting ahead of us. "Felicity, I don’t think that’s fog . . ."

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Boone made a funny squeaking sound. The banjo plinged, off-tune. "Keep playing." Cleo knocked him on the shoulder.

As our boat sailed into the scattered patches of fog, the last gauzy cloud crept away from the moon’s face. The yellow light glowed down over us. Even the waves of the water were edged in moon-gold. And at the same moment the cloud cleared away, the foggy shapes refined into pale, smoke-white silhouettes. Some were sleek, and long. Some were tiny up top, then belled at the ends—the shapes of full, pretty skirts. There were hundreds of them, standing all around us, for as far as we could see. We’d found the ghosts of Wisteria Lake. "I picked a terrible time to quit smoking," Cleo

mumbled, tucking a pencil between her teeth. "No you didn’t," I whispered. Fear’d mostly

swallowed my voice. "Persevere, Cleo . . . and definitely don’t stop playing, Boone." As Boone strummed, the silhouettes began to dance around the boat, and all across the surface of the water. Some were small-sized, no bigger than Frannie Jo. Some danced arm in arm, like they were partnered

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together at a square dance. Others danced alone, their full fog-skirts swirling, reflecting in the wrinkled water. Another zoomed across the lake in a full-on run, splashing up water with every step. One silhouette paused at the lake’s center, just waiting. Soon, another ghost paused directly in front of it, curtsied, and jumped into waiting, open arms. Her skirt reminded me of a spring-white dandelion in flight. They found each other, I thought. Even though I had no clue who they were. As I watched, any fear I had fell away. I wondered if maybe we all find each other in the end: The people we’re missing. The people we’ve left behind. If not in this blink-of-a-lifetime, I wondered if maybe we open our eyes to a better hereafter and see the people we love again, no distance between us, with no disease or disaster or catastrophe to take them away. Maybe you move far away. Maybe your home is taken away from you. Maybe when you get old, you lose so much. Your dancing days fade away. Maybe you lose someone, for a time. But maybe, just maybe, someday when you least expect it, you open your eyes . . . and realize you never lost it at all. It’s all still there somehow. Maybe, someday, we all get to go home again. 32

"Do you think these are ghosts?" Jonah whispered

to me. "Or is this Thistle magic? Just shadows? Or memories, maybe?" "Maybe all of that?" I whispered back. I didn’t

know. I didn’t think too hard on it, after that. I just wanted to see it. Our boat slowly drifted away, and I watched the ghosts dance behind us, around the lake and back down the river, above the watery valley they used to call home. I watched until they were just shimmering mist. And then we were around the bend, and they were gone. We all kept silent for a time. Finally, Day Grissom said, "This reminds me of a poem." "Does it, now?" Cleo drawled. "I never imagined

you one for poetry, Day Grissom." Day flopped his hand over his heart, pretending to be offended. "All gentlemen love poetry. Am I right, Boone?" Boone nodded fast, but didn’t speak. He was still too shook up to say much. Day sighed. "The poem I’m thinking of was a favorite of that moody British feller . . . Keats!" He

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yelled Keats so loud that Boone startled and nearly dropped his oar. Day continued, "That’s the verse Keats wanted on his tombstone, ‘Our names are writ on water.’ Here today, gone tomorrow, that’s what he meant. And nobody remembers you after that." This made sense to me. I’ve seen plenty of words written in water. Names and places and dream-words, even. Sometimes words go limp in water, boneless as a jellyfish. Sometimes they’re star-shaped and sometimes they’re listless, barely a shimmer over river rocks. And people pass on just the same, according to a fine young British poet. He’s partially right, I think. I’ll probably never know the names of most people who lived in Wisteria Cove, whose memories still ghost along the river. But their names were not only written on water. Someone loved them, in the time they had. Somebody said their names in tender affection, felt the weight of every letter written deep in their hearts. "I reckon it’s enough," Cleo said, "to be known in

the time you’ve got. To be loved—remembered—by one other person . . . that’s a powerful thing."

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"I’ll remember you, Cleopatra Harness," Day said,

so softly his words nearly disappeared in the sound of rushing water. "I guess I’ll remember you, too." She nudged him

with her boot. "You crazy old man." Remember me.

Those words were written on the river water. They were spelled out in sparkly stars across the Tennessee sky. "Nobody at school will believe this when we tell

them." Jonah smiled. He pulled a piece of taffy apart and split it with me. "Doesn’t matter," I said. "We’ll believe it."

We would remember—that moment, that night, the smiles on each other’s faces—always.

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Copyright © 2015 by Natalie Lloyd All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. PRESS,

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trademarks of Scholastic Inc. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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