Ghost Hunter's Daughter

by Dan Poblocki

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hello. Everything okay?”

  “Just thought I’d say … hi.”

  He grinned. “You did a very good job.”

  She chuckled. “Can I come in?”

  It had been a difficult season. When he had first returned from the Holler, he hadn’t spoken to Claire for a long time. He’d wanted to, but she wouldn’t leave her house. And she hadn’t wanted visitors—not even Clementine, her father’s assistant, who’d tried several times since the trip to make contact. Claire’s aunt, Lizzie, had become like a bodyguard, turning away friendly phone calls as well as requests for interviews, keeping gawkers off their front lawn, and shouting at people who walked by the red Victorian just a little too slowly. He’d kept his distance.

  He didn’t blame Claire for wanting to keep to herself. He couldn’t imagine what she was feeling.

  Besides, he was struggling with his own stuff.

  Everything that had happened on their trip had felt like a dream. And still, there were nights when the dream continued. Lemuel Hush would show up when Lucas was on the edge of sleep and grab at him. Even in his most ordinary dreams, waves would suddenly rise from nowhere and wash everything away.

  Gramma had explained that there were different kinds of dreams. Sometimes spirits used them for communication. But most times, they were just our brains trying to process our lives, our fears, our disappointments, our joys.

  He often wondered what Claire’s dreams were like now. And Dolly’s, for that matter.

  Dolly had written him several kind letters. And he had surprised himself by writing her back. He liked Dolly. Despite everything she had been through, she managed to seem upbeat. Happy. It was like her skin was bulletproof. It was admirable. He was still trying to work up the courage to ask her how she did it. Maybe it was all that Dolly Parton music. He’d promised himself he would give her a listen sometime soon.

  After school ended for the year, his parents had come to visit. It was awkward at first, since he hadn’t seen them in such a long time, and he had so much to talk to them about, but they eventually settled into a family routine for the duration of their stay. Breakfast. Walks around the neighborhood. Even folding laundry together was fun. He hadn’t felt that safe in a long time. And when they had to go back to the coast, it took several days for him to wake up in the mornings and not feel afraid that he’d never see them again.

  Halfway through that summer, Claire had shown up at his house. She’d apologized for being invisible lately. He’d hugged her. They sat on the steps quietly and just listened to the wind. Then she said she had to go.

  Next time, she stayed a little longer.

  The time after that, she actually stepped inside Gramma’s house, sat on the couch, and watched some television.

  Soon, Claire was visiting regularly. She liked to ask him about his gift—about hearing the knocking. She wanted to know how it worked, what he felt, what he saw. He did his best to explain, though he was still trying to figure it out himself.

  One morning, after he’d heard a knocking and had answered the door, he’d shown up at Claire’s house and asked if she wanted to join him in delivering a message. She’d smiled, her eyes going wide with excitement, and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Now, they went back to the kitchen. He took two cans of Coca-Cola from the fridge, and they sat on the high stools at the center island, cracking open their drinks and swigging deeply.

  “I wanted to ask you a question.” Claire placed her can down on the counter. It clinked softly.

  “Shoot,” he said.

  “I understand that your visitors come to you. They’re the ones who knock.”

  Lucas nodded patiently. They’d been over this several times.

  “But I was wondering if it could work the other way around. Like, can we knock too?”

  Lucas sighed. “Well, isn’t that what your father used to do on his show? He’d reach out to the other side. Make them answer?”

  “I don’t like how my father did it. Irritating the spirits so they’d respond. It never felt right to me. I was wondering if you knew a different way?”

  “I can ask my gramma.”

  Claire shrugged. “I just thought, if there was something simple that you knew of … something I could do myself, whenever I was feeling, you know, alone.” She was quiet for a long time. “I was hoping … even though I’m not special like you and Mrs. Kent … that I might find a way to talk to them again. My parents.”

  Lucas didn’t have an answer. He took another sip of his cola. The bubbles burned, then tickled the back of his throat. Something came to him. Something he was pretty sure would work. “You could always just … talk to them. You don’t need any special training to do that. Do you?”

  Claire’s expression fell. It wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear.

  “I’m still waiting for them to visit me,” he said. “I’m sure they will sooner or later.”

  She stood. Her smile was worn, showing the sadness hiding underneath. “I’m sure they will too,” she answered. He didn’t need to be psychic to know she didn’t mean it.

  Lucas walked her back outside. Claire lifted her bike from the porch steps. “Are you excited for school to start up again?”

  She sniffed, then rolled her eyes. “I already spent half the summer making up what I missed after our trip. I think I need a longer break.”

  “Keep wishing.” He laughed.

  “I will.” She swung her leg up over the crossbar, then settled onto the bike seat. “See you later, Lucas.”

  “See you.”

  She waved goodbye, then turned and glided off down the long driveway.

  From Claire Holiday’s personal video journal

  [Image—Claire appears on screen. Leans back in her desk chair. Her bedroom comes into focus behind her. She smiles.]

  Claire—Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.

  I’m putting your camera to good use again, Dad. You’d be proud.

  Just wanted to check in with you guys. Give you an update.

  School’s going well, I guess. I got a B on that math test, which Aunt Lizzie says is great, but I’m not so sure. I thought I studied harder than for just another B!

  Lucas says hi. He’s still waiting for you to come knocking. So am I. But I guess for now, this is good enough. [pauses] His gramma Irene says that maybe you’re not knocking because you haven’t stuck around. Like, you don’t have any “unfinished business” here on earth … which made me slightly angry because … Hello! [points her fingers at herself] I am your “unfinished business.” [laughs] But I guess if I think about it, it’s a nice thing. A good thing. Because that means you’re both happy where you are. And I … feel better knowing that.

  I mean, I miss you so much. But … Lucas was right. It’s so easy to reach out to you. And I’m pretty certain that you’re listening. So thanks for that.

  I only wish … I wish you would send me a little sign. Like Mom did with the stars that night. It doesn’t have to be much. A touch on the cheek. Finding my book bag on my desk chair in the morning after I left it on the floor. A sputtering candle would make me happy, especially on the nights when my feelings come like giant waves. I never thought I’d say this, but I’d love to sense that you are watching. Do you think you can make that happen?

  [pause, eyes skyward] I guess if I think about it, maybe things like this have already happened.

  In fact, I’m pretty sure they have. I’m sorry.

  I’ll pay closer attention from now on.

  Okay, that’s all for now. I have to get up early for school, but what else is new? I miss you. I love you. But what keeps me going and gets me through the times that feel sticky and rough is knowing that you loved me too, and you love me still, forever and for always.

  Good night.

  [Claire kisses at the camera lens. She reaches toward it. Flips a switch.]

  [The screen goes black.]

  EVERY TOWN HAS its share of se
crets. And when whispered by children in the dead of night, some secrets become stories. Sometimes, under special circumstances, the stories become legends, destined to survive even as the children who share them grow up and move on.

  In a town called Hedston, a ruined building called Graylock Hall stood in the state forest like an enormous funeral monument. It had once been a notorious psychiatric hospital housing almost one thousand patients. Local kids referred to it as “the asylum in the woods,” and most of them knew well enough to stay away. Since its closing, the secrets contained within the hospital’s walls had given rise to a frightening legend of madness and murder. If you’d grown up nearby, the subject of that legend—a nurse who had worked the graveyard shift—would have haunted your nightmares from an early age.

  It started with a storm.

  Late one night while the hospital was still in operation, the building lost electricity during a thunderstorm. In the blackout, one of the patients from the youth ward went missing. The next morning, the staff found the girl’s body—drowned, bloated, and blue—facedown in the reeds at the water’s edge.

  Then, several months later, a second patient drowned—another storm, another power outage. Some of Graylock’s staff grew suspicious of the nurse who had been on duty during both accidents, but they said nothing. After a third drowning, the staff wished they hadn’t kept their fears secret.

  Three children lost. Three bodies discovered at the water’s edge—small limbs tangled in lake weed, eyes staring blindly at the pale morning sky.

  The people of Hedston refused to believe that the deaths were a coincidence. And so they arrested the nurse who’d worked the graveyard shift, claiming that the madness of the place had infected her—that she had decided death was the only way to end the suffering of the children in her charge. To add to the townspeople’s horror, a day after her arrest, the police discovered the nurse’s body hanging from a bedsheet that she’d tied to the bars of her cell.

  With the nurse’s death, the truth would remain her secret, a secret that became a story, a story that became a legend.

  Within a few short years, the hospital was shut down. Graylock Hall was left to rot, but in the town of Hedston, the tale of Nurse Janet lived on.

  And they say that, inside the abandoned building, a woman in white still wanders the corridors, her thick-heeled shoes click-clacking against the tile as she follows at an arm’s length behind anyone who dares intrude. When she catches you, she sticks you with her needle, then drags you outside to the water’s edge, down to the deep tangles of clutching lake weed.

  They say she smiles as she holds you under—her face blurred as you stare up through the silvery surface, her teeth glistening white—delighted to continue her murderous quest to end the suffering of the insane. For who but those with their own touch of madness would dare enter the asylum in the woods and pursue its terrible secrets?

  Everyone knows you’d have to be crazy to do something like that.

  I would first like to thank the teachers, librarians, and parents who understand why scary stories can be important for young people and who make sure they end up in the right hands.

  Thank you to Nick Eliopulos for signing up this spooky baby. Special thanks to Erin Black for adopting her when she was orphaned and for allowing me the time and space and encouragement to allow her to grow. I’d also like to thank Keirsten Geise, Josh Berlowitz, Jessica White, Courtney Vincento, Taylan Salvati, David Levithan, and every other wonderful person on the Scholastic team for all their brilliant work.

  My agent, Barry Goldblatt, talked me through some difficult moments, spurring me to finish this story when I wasn’t sure I could.

  Matthew Sawicki listened to me read bits and pieces of this manuscript and enthused along the way.

  Thank you to my mother, Gail, and my stepfather, Bruce, for bringing me up to Quabbin Reservoir in Massachusetts for some historic inspiration.

  Thanks to Amanda and Anthony at Rough Draft in Kingston, NY, for allowing me to be part of their creative community. Thanks also to the folks at Writers Speak Easy, especially Matt Clegg, who listened to some early chapters and helped me make them even creepier.

  As always, thank you to my friends and my family.

  And most of all, thanks to all of you for reading my books over these years. I appreciate you more than you know.

  Dan Poblocki is the author of many books for young people, including The Ghost of Graylock, The Haunting of Gabriel Ashe, The House on Stone’s Throw Island, The Book of Bad Things, and the Shadow House series. His stories have thrilled and chilled readers all over the world. In the US, they have won several state reading awards, have been named to the Best Books for Young Adults list by the American Library Association, and have been honored by the Junior Library Guild. Dan lives in Saugerties, New York, in an old house where he tries very hard to ignore the things that go bump in the night.

  DON’T MISS ANY OF

  DAN POBLOCKI’S SPOOKY STORIES!

  Shadow House

  Book 1: The Gathering

  Book 2: You Can’t Hide

  Book 3: No Way Out

  Book 4: The Missing

  The Ghost of Graylock

  The Haunting of Gabriel Ashe

  The Book of Bad Things

  The House on Stone’s Throw Island

  Copyright © 2020 by Dan Poblocki

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered 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.

  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.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

  First edition, July 2020

  Cover background photo © andreiuc88/Shutterstock

  Hand-drawn type by Maeve Norton

  Cover design by Keirsten Geise

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-83005-8

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.