Season's Eatings

CHAPTER 1

ZUZU

Dear Jōurnal,

I hurt your feelings. I can tell.

When I opened you, your spine was stiff. Your pages have yellowed like an old man’s fingernails.

That’s how you get when you feel neglected.

And, yes, I did neglect you. For three whole weeks. And I’m super sorry.

But it wasn’t my fault.

Mōm and Dād made me spend every second of Thanksgiving break modeling the Jōhin Holiday Collection for their socials.

And before that, I was possessed.

Oh, you forgot that little detail?

Glance back at my November entries.

Start with the Sunday-night spirit-board sesh with the Graveyard Girls. You know, the one where Ginny Baker’s spirit slipped inside my body and wore me around town like a Zenati suit?

For, like, fourteen days?

It’s okay, Jōurnal. That time was a blur for me, too. I no-remember November, either.

But today is a fresh month and a fresh start.

Today is the first day of December.

And there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here at good old Crimson Creek Cemetery, journaling under the full moon’s light—legs stretched out on the damp grass, back pressed against Ginny Baker’s cold tombstone, admiring my work.

I just decorated some plots.

A little holiday spirit for my favorite spirits, if you will. To wit:

Silver tinsel on Helen Fulwig’s moss-coated obelisk. (Something shiny to help her forget how she was trampled to death by her horse in 1902.)

Red-and-green twinkle lights for pro baseball player Boris Leadbetter. (A distraction from the ouchy memory of getting his skull cracked by a fastball pitch in 1983.)

A menorah with blue-and-white candles for Obert Starr. (Something pretty to erase the recollection of being smeared between the cars of a roller coaster in 1961.)

Ornaments on the vines above Johnny Johnson’s tombstone. (Hopefully the shiny ornaments won’t remind him of the swarm of bees that stung him to death at summer camp in 1974.)

Snowflake lights and a Santa hat covered in gold sequins on the angel statue cradling a sleeping girl that marks Ginny Baker’s grave. (Silas Hoke took her leg and then her life in the 1920s—but there’s nothing gold sequins can’t fix.)

Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to bestow Ginny with the special hat but, come on. We literally shared a soul last month. Annnd I kind of need her help.

I’ve been trying to summon Ginny for days, but that troublesome jane has been giving me the silent treatment ever since Gemma, Sophie, Frannie, and Whisper ganged up on her at the mortuary and whipped insults (and metal eye sockets) at her (us) until she left my body and returned to her grave. Let’s not forget that Ginny also had to sit through my math class for two weeks, which is even worse than Death by Hoke. So I get why she’s leaving me on read. But I keep trying. Old obsessions die hard.

You know what else dies hard?

Silas Hoke.

Or maybe he didn’t die at all. I have no idea what’s real anymore because I’m staring at a fresh patch of grass where his grave used to be.

His cracked rectangular tombstone? GONE! The graffiti that said: ROTTEN AND FORGOTTEN, MAGGOT FOOD, REST IN PIECES? GONE! The six-foot hole someone left behind when they recently dug up his bones? GONE!

Silas Hoke, town legend and Ginny Baker’s murderer, is enog. (FYI: Enog is gone spelled backward because everything feels backward right now, and I’m honoring that.)

Ginny, do you know why Hoke’s grave and all signs of it ever existing are gone? I keep whispering that into the fog because if anyone knows what happened, it’s Ginny. No one wanted Silas Hoke out of Crimson Creek Cemetery more than her. Would you want to spend eternity a few yards away from your murderer? Didn’t think so.

But Ginny didn’t answer.

I tried touching the stone angel above her grave. If she can’t hear me, maybe she’ll feel me. Now I can’t stop yawning. Maybe Ginny wants to rest.

Just tell me if you saw anything, and I promise I’ll leave you alone.

Nothing.

Ginny, please!

Nothing.

There’s zero info online. No one in town is talking about it. It’s as if Silas Hoke never existed, and I know you know what’s up.

Nothing.

What about the rest of you? I asked my Spirit Squad of Helen Fulwig, Boris Leadbetter, and so on.

Like Ginny, they are dead quiet.

I took out a compact mirror, hoping they’d cast a reflection that might give me a clue. I turned on Criss Borderlyne’s famous G-Tone ghost recording device in case my Spirit Squad is trying to communicate but can’t be heard. (It can’t be easy, what with their decomposing jawbones and all that rotten soil between us.) But all I hear is the tinsel rustling in the chilly breeze. And all I see is a cluster of fireflies two rows over and—

Wait.

Fireflies? In Misery Falls, Oregon? In December?

Come on, Jōurnal. We’re going to investigate.

I know it’s just one line later, Jōurnal, but I’ve walked all the way over there already. And OMG. Get this. The fireflies? They’re hovering over Aimee Zwick’s grave. She’s the preacher’s daughter who got struck by lightning during Hoke Week two years ago. She was only a year older than us when—

Jōurnal, did you see that? A snap of yellow light just lit up the sky. Jagged as claw marks and quick as a whip, it just flashed—

There’s another one.

Technically, it’s lightning. But how? The sky is clear. Unless …

Gemma recently told me that electricity and spiritual energy have similar vibrational frequencies. That’s why some spirits communicate through technology, lights, and electronics. Since Aimee was literally killed by lightning … what if …

Another flash.

I lifted my face to the sky and called, Aimee, is that you? Are you trying to tell me something? Do you know where Hoke is?

Suddenly, the sound of bells chimed, and a distant girl’s voice began to sing: You can hear me in your mind … over and over again. Her tone was breathy and haunting. It trailed along my goose-bumpy skin like talons slowly scraping stone. You can hear me in your mind … you can hear me in your mind … you can hear me in your mind …

Oh. It was just my ringtone. NIVIRO’s The Ghost.

My hands were shaking when I pulled my phone from the pocket of my coat. Did, uh, Aimee Zwick have my contact info?

Turns out it was Gemma, which terrified me more than a spirit ever could. I totally lost track of time, Jōurnal. I was supposed to be at the Spirit Sanctuary thirty minutes ago!

I accepted the call, ready to blow Gemma’s mind with my creepy excuse, when ZAP!

A lightning bolt struck my phone.

My phone, Jōurnal. It flew out of my hand with a pop of pain and crashed right into Aimee Zwick’s tombstone.

Time to get out of here. For the first time in a long time, I’m actually freaked.

CHAPTER 2

GEMMA

Gemma Garrett wagged her phone in frustration.

Straight to voicemail! she reported to her friends, as if it were Apple’s fault Zuzu was thirty-seven minutes late for tonight’s life-changing event. Where was she?

Smile! Sophie trilled as she aimed her fancy-pants camera at Gemma’s scowl.

Gemma managed an expression that more closely resembled gas pain and searched the crowd of Criss Borderlyne fans gathering inside her mother’s shop. Zuzu was very good at hiding, so maybe she was hiding in the crowd? The Spirit Sanctuary hadn’t been this packed since, well, ever, and the place was on its last leg. Kind of like Silas Hoke.

Ha! she said, amused by her own joke.

What’s so funny? Whisper asked as she, Frannie, and Sophie continued stacking the final three G-Tone boxes on the precarious display tower to the side of the presentation area.

Nothing, Gemma mumbled as she straightened their boxes. She could easily picture the collapse of all those G-Tones, which had been nothing but trouble since all one hundred of them had arrived.

She shook her head, ridding herself of the negative thought. Unfortunately, her negative thoughts were as thick as the crowd inside the store. What if Zuzu got murdered on her way here? What if Criss Borderlyne doesn’t show? What if no one buys this stack of G-Tones? How will I repay Mom for accidentally ordering them on the company credit card?

Gemma shook her head again; this time, she shook it so hard she lost her balance and almost stumbled into the G-Tone tower. Maybe she wasn’t getting enough protein. It had been a month since she’d eaten any meat. Zuzu’s vegetarianism had inspired her. Partially, anyway. The other part had been the cadaver stink of the Ultimate Rest Mortuary basement. Focus on what’s in front of you, she ordered herself. Six rows of chairs, GhostQuest fans taking their seats, a podium to your left, the G-Tone tower on your right, your best friends looking at you with severe concern.

What? I’m fine, Gemma insisted, before taking a step back and admiring their architectural work. Then, with a genuine smile, she admired her friends. They were wearing purple eyeliner in honor of YouTube sensation (and purple eyeliner devotee) Criss Borderlyne, who was going to be at the Spirit Sanctuary any minute! Ex-clam-ation point! Beyond that, each of the Graveyard Girls looked exactly like herself, only better.

Instead of a beanie and running attire, Whisper’s tangle of brown hair had been wrestled into a (somewhat) tidy ponytail, and she was wearing a dress. Was it an oversize striped sweaterdress? Yes. Did she have jeans on underneath? Double yes. But A for effort! Surprisingly, Frannie, Queen of Drama and all things extra, was the one in running attire—if people ran in silver sequin joggers adorned with colorful stars and matching bomber jackets. As usual, Sophie had flat ironed her curls and held them in place with a preppy, plain hairband; her light blue button-down was tucked and belted inside dark denim jeans, and her chunky black loafers gleamed. She did, however, DIY the first-place ribbon she won at last year’s Misery Falls photography contest onto a camera strap in hopes that Criss would want pics of the event. It was both functional and stylish. If Criss wasn’t impressed, Zuzu definitely would be.

Worried, Gemma glimpsed the door again.

Click!

"I’m going to caption this one Stressed to Impress," Sophie said. Then she ahem-ed.

Gemma. Stop worrying. You look fab.

Gemma glanced down at her long, turquoise beaded necklaces, white lace crop top, peasant skirt, and the hand-me-down moccasin booties from her cousin Luna. Her go-with-the-flow outfit was perfect. It was the rest of the night she was worried about.

Last she checked (exactly eighty-seven minutes ago), Criss Borderlyne had over four million followers, which was over four million more followers than they had at the Spirit Sanctuary. Gemma’s mother, who everyone in town called Layla, and Aunt Harmony, co-owners of the store, hated social media, technology, and anything else that separated