The Ghosts of Bitterfly Bay

Mayflower Cottage isn’t a welcoming place. Maybe the name sounds sweet, but that’s where it ends.

I’m sitting with Scratch on the porch on a hot June afternoon, waiting for a storm to roll through. The air is thick and boiling like the clouds. There’s nothing but dark in all directions. Dark sky. Dark pines. Dark mountains. Brochures call Mayflower Cottage a lakeside getaway, but that’s a barefaced ­lie—​­we’re miles away from the water, nestled into the mountainside where everything is drowned in shade. Even the birds avoid us. Today the woods are quiet as usual, except for the creak, creak of the swing chair as I rock my heels against the porch’s peeling paint.

“We’re in for a big storm,” I say. “Those clouds look mean.”

Scratch frowns. “I hate storms.”

I wrap an arm around my little brother’s shoulders. “You aren’t afraid, are you?”

“Course not,” Scratch says, too quickly.

Clouds darken and darken. The swing chair creaks. The chains are rusty, and the beam they’re attached to is probably rotten. I used to worry that if I rocked too hard, I’d end up pulling the whole cottage down on our heads. But those were the old days. Now it takes a lot more than some ­rickety porch to scare me.

“I’m glad you aren’t afraid,” I tell Scratch. “Weather is just weather. There are much worse things lurking in the woods.”

Scratch’s frown deepens. “What sort of things?”

My lips quirk, but I turn my head so he won’t notice. “Oh, you know,” I say casually. “Old things. Dead things. Once I heard a lady talk about a deer that got pancaked on the highway, only to stand up and walk back into the woods with half its guts left behind.”

“That—​­that’s not true, Maudie.”

I shrug. “One time I saw a fallen tree come back to life. Grew new roots and hauled itself up right in front of me. When springtime came, its leaves were white. And poisonous.”

“How come I never heard of this?”

“You gotta pay better attention, ­Scritch-​­Scratch.” I playfully flick his nose. “All I’m saying is that regular rules don’t apply around Bitterfly Bay.”

He flicks me back. “I know that.”

“Well, genius, I guess that means you’ve also heard of Longfingers?”

He blinks, and I know I’ve got him. This is my favorite part of telling creepy stories: the moment when someone’s attention gets hooked. Doesn’t even matter if the story is bad. Brains are especially talented at filling in gaps if you feed them the right words. And this ­word—​­Longfingers—​­comes alive the second I speak it. Trees seem to lean closer. A group of carpenter ants pauses partway through chomping on the porch stairs.

Listening. Waiting.

“Longfingers is like a ghost,” I say, “but worse. Imagine a person stretched until they’re tall and thin as a lodgepole, with fingers like spiders’ legs. No shadow. No heartbeat. He’s only got one purpose: to snatch.”

Scratch’s eyes have gone wide. “What does he snatch?”

“Kids,” I say. “Mostly.”

“How come?”

“He’s a ­dark-​­magic creature. If you summon him, he’ll snatch anything you want. Back in the old days, parents used him to retrieve runaway kids.” My heels rock faster. “But there’s payment, see. Longfingers doesn’t trade in money. He’d sooner have your soul.”

Scratch’s expression tips between delight and doubt. “Why would he come here?”

“Search me. Guess Bitterfly Bay is the kind of place folks run away to.”

“Like us?”

I stiffen. “No. We’re—​­no.”

“Wait,” Scratch says, “are you scared of Longfingers, Maudie?”

I pull a face. My little brother has always been too good at reading people. Truth is, Longfingers isn’t something I conjured from nowhere. He’s a regular character in my nightmares. Too tall. Too thin. Stringy hair down to his ankles. Grinning mouth like a ­paper-​­cut slash. When my nightmares started, I used to wake up in a panic, convinced he was about to pluck me from my bed with his cold, spidery fingers.

That’s the thing about scary stories. The best ones aren’t supposed to make you fearful. They’re supposed to make you braver. If you’re afraid of the dark, Mama used to say, the best thing to do is blow out the candle. No matter how scary real life gets, you can always imagine a story that’s scarier. And stories can be controlled. Once you give something a name, once you speak it aloud, it loses its power.

“What are you two clowns doing?” a boy calls.

Scratch and I both jump. There’s no mistaking Kit as he saunters up the gravel driveway, bone pale against the dark woods. He’s smiling, as always. Doesn’t matter if he’s made a joke or said something ­gut-​­curdlingly mean (which is pretty often); Kit’s smile is part of him, same as his overgrown white hair and the way his pants are never long enough for his beanpole legs.

“Maudie told a ghost story,” Scratch says. “You missed it.”

Kit’s smile twitches. “Ah, well. I’m already an expert on ghost stories.”

“Har, har,” I say. “Where have you been?”

“Lookout. There’s a car headed this way. Should be here ­in . . . oh, ten minutes?”

I launch myself out of the swing chair in alarm. Visitors don’t usually stay at Mayflower Cottage until July, when the lakeside cabins are booked up. I figured we’d have at least another few weeks to ourselves.

“No way!” I say. “Who are they?”

Kit shrugs. “Beats me.”

A thrill plucks at my insides. Sure, it’s fun having Mayflower Cottage to ourselves. It’s our own private country, the woods and the crickets and no rules unless we make them. But isolation gets boring too. There are only so many times I can share my stories with Kit and Scratch before I’m ready to climb the walls.

I abandon the porch and climb up the nearest pine so I’ll have a better view of the driveway. Thunder rolls again, deep enough that I feel it under my skin. I crane my neck and say, “Bet they’ll have kids.”

“Bet one of them is an artist.” Kit scrambles into the branches beside me. “No, writer.”

“Bet they have a dog.”

“Bet they only stay five days.”

I bare my teeth in my most terrifying grin. “Three.”

“Please, Maudie.” Kit doesn’t move his eyes from the driveway. “You aren’t even scary.”

Scratch stays on the porch. The swing goes creak, creak as the wind grows fiercer, ripping through the trees and tearing his unruly hair into snarls. But Scratch seems more focused on the woods than anything else. I wonder if he’s thinking about Longfingers. A flicker of worry pulses through me because sometimes I wonder if my stories are too much for an ­eight-​­year-​old kid. But my concerns are quickly overturned by excitement as a car trundles into view.

It’s a ratty old van with dented doors, a cracked taillight, and rust skirting the wheels. I’d guess it’s blue, although it’s hard to tell for sure. My eyes aren’t so good with colors anymore.

For a long moment, the van just sits there. Nobody gets out. Anticipation turns my blood to soda pop, fizzy and bubbling. I’m about ready to open the doors myself when a handle clicks and a girl emerges.

She has a ­heart-​­shaped face, owlish eyes, and wears a woolen cardigan over a ­spaghetti-​­strapped camisole. Her silky hair is bobbed and clipped with three sparkly pumpkin ­barrettes—​­even though we’re nowhere close to Halloween. I’d guess she’s eleven or twelve, around the same age as me and Kit. She peers up at Mayflower Cottage with a furrowed brow. A paper­back book bulges from the pocket of her denim shorts: ­Cryptids of Lake Country by Arthur Edevane.

“I thought this place was supposed to be haunted,” she says.

“Who says it isn’t?” a cheerful grown‑­up voice replies from inside the van. “At least three reviews mentioned unexplained goings‑­on. The internet never lies!”

She tugs her cardigan over her fists. “Sure. It just feels ­too . . . peaceful.”

“How awful,” a third voice says dryly. “A peaceful vacation cottage.”

“Perhaps it’s peaceful and haunted,” the grown‑­up suggests. When he steps out of the car, I see that he’s a ­middle-​­aged man dressed in a baggy tracksuit and sporting a mop of dusty hair. The beginnings of a beard shadow his chin. He has the same wide eyes and narrow shoulders as the girl, so I guess he’s her dad.

“Isn’t this nice?” He stretches and smiles blearily. “You can really smell the forest. Almost makes the drive worthwhile.”

“Except Polly didn’t barf on you three hours ago,” says the third person, still inside the van.

At first, I assume Polly is another kid. Then a dog practically falls out of the van, a ­pug-​­nosed thing with a lolling tongue and stubby legs. It’s followed by an older girl, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She’s wearing a floaty, flowery sundress and plastic sunglasses despite the overcast sky. Headphones dangle over her shoulders like a fancy necklace. She wrinkles her nose as the dog ­barks—​­well, ­coughs—​­and lopes toward the man, who scoops it up like it’s some precious baby.

“You wouldn’t barf on Juno, would you?” he coos. “No, you wouldn’t. You’re a good girl, Pollywog. Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”

“Dad,” the older ­girl—​­Juno—​­says. “Oh my god.”

He laughs but sets the dog down. “We’re on vacation, sweetheart. Don’t worry. Nobody’s around to see your old dad ­act . . . how do you ­say . . . cringe.”

“Spare me,” Juno says.

“This is going to be so much fun,” Kit says from my elbow. I swallow a shriek, not having noticed how close he has moved beside me. He hangs from the branches like some kind of jungle creature.

“Hush up,” I hiss, batting him away. “I’m trying to listen!”

Kit smirks. He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have ­to—​­he knows he made me jump. Of course, that’s when the thunder decides to unleash its loudest boom yet. This time, the clouds also belch green lightning. ­Lime-​­colored light shines through Kit as though his body is made of dirty glass. For a second, his bones become visible through his skin: ribs, femurs, skull. He’s transformed into a skeleton instead of a boy. Then the green glow fades, and he’s back to normal.

“What’s wrong, ­Maudie-​­Bird?” Kit says cheerily. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Yeah,” I shoot back, “and he’s butt-ugly.”

“Hey, don’t insult Scratch like that.”

“Huh?” Scratch says from the porch. “What?”

“Forget it,” Kit says. No matter how he jabs at me, he’s rarely mean to Scratch. Maybe because we’re both twelve and Scratch is only eight. Maybe because Scratch never bites back. Or maybe Kit just isn’t as rotten as he acts, not all the way through. Besides, even though he isn’t related to us, we’re practically family; we became ghosts together almost exactly one year ago.

Because that’s the truth of it. We’re ghosts. Even if we’re not the monstrous kind like Longfingers, Mayflower Cottage is more than just our home.

It’s our haunting ground.