Author's Note: Happy spooky season

When you die

People stop talking about you

They say you were lovely

You were kind, you were beautiful

WERE

They stop talking about you as you are

They talk about you as you were

Because they would rather talk

About you as they remember you

Than you as you are now

They say, "I miss her;"

But they don't

They miss who you used to be

They don't miss the decaying flesh

That sits inside your coffin

Or the ashes sitting in your urn

Betty was the first ghost I ever met, and doubtlessly the most headstrong. She was certainly pretty, not that she didn't know it.

She had long, brown curls, which she said her mother set in curlers every night so she would look like a little doll every morning. Appearance was important to her mother, she told me. Her hair was always tied up in a pretty green ribbon that matched her eyes, and freckles dotted her cheeks. Her face was thin, but it made her all the prettier, and her dress went down just past her knees, and it was all made of white lace, with a green satin ribbon around the waist that matched the one in her hair. The top was one of those drooping triangle ruffly things, and the sleeves were puffed out and loose and ended in cuffs. She wore stockings and boots with little heels, though she couldn't have been older than ten, perhaps eleven.

I told her about this book, before I left. How I'd written her story inside, and everyone else's. She asked me, as a final favor, to omit the story of her death from this chapter. She was perhaps the only one in the house who didn't want her story to be told.

I will grant her her wish, take her secret to my own grave. She also wished to include a few words of her own.

Hello. This is Betty, Rosie's friend. Rosie and I had great fun while she lived here, and I hope she'll come back soon so we can have more fun.

She even made my old room look like it used to. She's very nice and it would also be nice if you read her book and told all your friends it was really good so they'll read it too.

My mother would be furious with my penmanship. It's atrocious. Hopefully, you can read it.

Sincerely,

EAF

Hello. My name is Rosalind Harper. At least, that's my first and middle name. My last name is confidential information, for the purpose of this book, of course.

I decided to move into the house, which I will call the Old Farmhouse, with the intent to discover within the aged walls the inspiration for my first full-length novel. I'm not sure what I ever saw in the wallpaper that curled up at the edges, the old-fashioned radiators in almost every room, the mysterious stains on the ceilings and floors.

I spent a total of three months living inside that house, and despite being a rather skeptical person, found myself face-to-face with supernatural forces unlike anything I'd ever witnessed. The house was built in the 1790's, a few years after the Revolution had been fought and won. I met a total of twenty different ghosts, ranging in age from young to old, natural deaths to violent ones, and all of them remained there, inside the house, growing bored as the years marched on, and their lives didn't. They never aged, never hungered, trapped inside that house.

I promised to go on and tell their stories. These are all of the ones I collected, plus more that I heard about from the ones I spoke to.

Without further ado, these are their stories.

When they said the zombies were coming, everyone on the East Coast evacuated.

I was living in North Carolina when it happened. It started in New York, and the virus supposedly spread there in a matter of hours. The island was quarantined, so even if there were survivors, they were trapped. And based on the radio reports and the news, their weren't many. Still, we were supposedly safe.

But everyone’s seen the movies, the books, the tv shows. We knew what was going to happen, and better yet, we knew how to protect ourselves.

I decided to go West. My family and I headed for the Rockies. The area was remote, and it would be difficult to infect, especially if we were isolated. Perfect.

We made it up to an old cabin, abandoned a long time ago. Almost Donner-Party-esque. But, it suited our needs. Two bedrooms, one for me and my wife, and another for the kids.

We've been living up here ever since, our radio the only connection to the world. Sometimes, the phones work, and we get internet. We can see the news, then. We were right, the island didn't stay quarantined for long, but nobody seemed to know much else. Just that the zombies were headed in our direction. We would call family members, too, when the phones worked. Sometimes, it would work, but most times, we couldn't get through.

It would still be safe, we reasoned, as long as we stayed in the mountains. There was nobody, for miles around, and we could even go out every day and hunt for food. No danger there.

Then, about a month in, the internet cut out.

We were limited to the radio, after that. News reports, mostly speculation. As it turned out, we didn't get many current reports from the towns that were being infected. They would just go dark, without a word. That's how fast it happened.

Which brings me to the reason I'm writing this story. To get the word out. It's important, I promise, you just have to keep reading.

Earlier today, I was out hunting, as usual. We were running low on food. I was up in a tree, scouting, when I saw something odd.

It was a buck, limping through the trees. Its fur was dirt and matted, and its limbs were like knobbly sticks, bony and weak.

As it grew closer, I saw more. Its skin, under its fur, was a sickly gray. Blood coated its front legs. Even worse, its flank was littered with bullet holes.

It looked like its eyes were gone. No, not gone, just white. Couldn't see the irises, or the pupils. And the whites of its eyes were bloodshot.

I stayed in the tree until it passed, and then I ran home. I had to warn my family.

I was too late.

The cabin had been broken into by force, and the windows were cracked, some were broken. The door had been knocked off its hinges, and there were deep scratches in the wood. Like a bear's claws.

They were wrong. In all the movies, the books, the tv shows. It was never the human zombies we had to fear.

It was the animals.

Do you know what my name is?

Well, yes, everybody calls me Tess, but that isn't my legal name.

My legal name is Theresa-May Appolonia Banks. Theresa-May.

Sounds like the main character of a YA novel, or maybe a romance. Except I'm not.

I'm asexual, not that it's anybody's business.

The family vacation was a surprise. I mean, we always go on vacation for a week during the summer, but this year's vacation is for the entire summer.

In Hemlock Harbor, New Jersey.

Supposedly, it's this cute little beach town that's kind of secluded. Meaning they won't have a whole lot to do other than...the beach. Not like Ocean City, where we usually go.

Josh, my little brother, isn't too happy with this development, either.

The house we're staying in is this old Victorian mansion place. Big enough for everyone to have their own room.

I claim the tower room fairly quickly (yes, the house has an ACTUAL TOWER...a really small one...) and put my stuff in there.

It looks like it used to be a child's room. The walls are painted a pink color, there's a vanity that matches the bed. A little girl's room, maybe.

I've only been in the room five minutes when I feel a cold hand on my shoulder. When I turn, there's nobody there.

Whatever. I'm determined not to turn this summer into a ghost-hunting tour.

Mom pops her head in. "Ready to head to the beach?"

I shrug. "Sure, why not?"

May 1907

It's twilight.

From my bedroom window, I can see the sky over the water, a purplish-blue. The first stars dot the clouds, pinpricks of white light shining through the darkness.

It's 8:00. Nearly time for bed, after a considerable amount of reading, of course. I've already changed into my nightdress, and am sitting in bed when something hits my window.

I sit up, straight as a board. A million possibilities run through my head, from thieves to pirates, before something else hits my window. A pebble, just lightly enough to get my attention without breaking the glass.

I run to the window, pressing my fingertips to the glass pane. To hell with the fingerprints!

And there he is, on the grass outside. Miles, tall and dashing, dressed in work clothes. A buttoned shirt, thick pants, suspenders, and durable rubber boots. He may have just come from the docks, I'm not sure, but I smile at him, and indicate that I'm coming downstairs.

We meet outside, and he embraces me warmly. "Gretchen."

"Miles." I breathe back, hugging him tighter. "My God, shouldn't you be at home? Resting up for tomorrow?" I ask.

Miles chuckles. "Well, I couldn't leave without saying goodbye."

"We'll be there to see you off in the morning!" I argue, trying not to smile.

"That's not quite what I meant;" Miles says with a grin. "Come on, let's head down to the beach!"

We run down the dirt road, my bare feet and his boots kicking up dust as we did so. After a few minutes, we reached the beach, and slowed to a walking pace.

"I'm going to miss you, Gretchen;" Miles says sadly.

I take his hand. "Think of it this way. You wish to marry me, but I'm not old enough yet to be engaged. But I'll be sixteen by the time you get back. And I'll wait for you;" I insist.

Miles rubs my hand between his thumb and forefinger absentmindedly. "And I'll be eighteen, too. It's so long, a whole year away from you, and this place..."

"This place will be the same when you return;" I say, laying my head on his shoulder, "as will I."

You.

How did this happen?

We knew each other in high school, college. Wound up working at the same place, too. Soemtimes, you would follow me, other times, I would follow you.

We wanted to be together. Can you really blame me for that?

I mean, if we were pointing fingers, you would take the blame. This whole disaster is your fault.

But it's okay. I forgive you. I'll always forgive you.

You asked me for that favor. That was how it all started.

You wanted to bring me back to life. Like Dr. Frankenstein, but really closer to Flatliners. We watched that movie together, don't you remember? You were scared, but inspired too, I guess.

And I volunteered. I trusted you.

Maybe we're both at fault.

When I woke up, everything was smoky. Like something in the room had exploded. Something had gone wrong.

Something was wrong with me.

My skin was gray, and mottled. I was slow. Every movement made my joints feel like they were inside out, everything hurt so badly.

But I had to find you.

The lab was abandoned, but outside, I saw others like me. The same gray skin, the same shuffle to their step, the same moans and groans of pain as they walked. Blood leaking from their mouths, their eyes.

I found my way to your house. Many a movie marathon were held in that very living room, the one you were sitting in.

When I knocked, no answer came. And then I looked in the window, and there you were. But you were crying.

And you had a respirator. Why did you have a respirator? Was it in the air?

I tapped on the window, and you screamed. I saw the barrel of a gun, and then it lowered. And you started crying more.

Suddenly, the sound of breaking glass. Three more of those things, the things like me, crashing through. Hungry, unable to stop themselves.

They were after you. They wanted to kill you. And I couldn't let that happen.

My instincts took over. All I saw was red, and then it was over. All three of them, dead, in that living room.

It took me a while to realize you had gone, and even longer to see the blood trail.

I followed it back to your room. When you saw me, you smiled that time. Like you knew I could see you, I could understand you. I wasn't a monster.

You were injured, bad. A piece of glass. We both knew what it meant.

So, we sat together.

You cried, and apologized, and I nodded in response, unable to form words.

And then, you were gone.

I've left you in the house. You always loved that house.

But I had to leave. Because you were my best friend, and I forgave you.

And I'm hungry.

June knows.

June’s father knows.

But neither one knows the other knows.

The truth, that is.

June doesn’t know the whole story, but she knows what she saw. She knows that there can’t have been a girl down in the well, unless she wasn’t a girl at all, because the well was boarded up. Ordinary girls can’t teleport into wells, or phase through solid wood planks without breaking them first. And she’s never had a particularly overactive imagination.

June’s father has seen ghosts before. He knows what they look like, he’s seen his wife more times than he can count. But he also knows that they aren’t real. And yet...it’s nagging at him. There’s a possibility, he knows, because he knows what happened here.

And so, they eat their Cheerios in silence.

Until.

“June, what exactly did you see down there?”

June looks up, confused. “It was just my imagination, you said.”

Her father shrugs. “Just...what was it?”

June sighs. “A girl, older than Lottie. Dark hair, all wet.”

“Are you sure?”

June nods.

Her father pulls out a picture. “Is this the girl?”

June squints at the photo. It was taken a long time ago, definitely, but the girl is unmistakeably the same one. She is young, maybe seven or eight. Dark curls frame her face, and she's smiling. She stands next to another girl, closer to June's age, with blonde hair and a serious expression. A woman and a man stand behind them, all in old-fashioned clothes.

“Yes.”

Her father tucks the photo into his pocket. “Well, you must've seen the photograph, then. It was hanging on the wall when we moved in."

On second thought, June realized, she had seen the picture on the wall. Her cheeks burned red. "Sorry, it must've been my imagination then...excuse me."

"June-"

But June was already running for the well.

The grass pulled at her feet, trying to anchor her to the ground, but she kept going. She had to see the girl again.

Instead, she fell.

I’m in the dark again.

Mama always said that when I was scared, all I had to do was sing.

I had a beautiful singing voice, she said.

Maybe I could grow up to be a famous singer.

But I didn’t. I ended up here.

I sing, anyway.

Mama and Papa never talk about Jesse, and Lanie told me never to ask them.

We lived back in Kansas when I was a babe. Jesse was older than Lanie, he was 7 when she was 6 and I was 2. I don’t even remember it.

It was six years ago, then. He would be 13 now, if he was with us.

It was 1930, during the Dust Bowl. The dust storms came all the time, and Lanie and Jesse knew never to go out in one, because they would get lost and breathe in the dust and die.

But Jesse was out playing when one came out of nowhere.

They found him later. Buried under the sand dunes. We put him in the ground, gave him a nice gravestone, and left for Oregon, where there were no dust storms.

Mama and Papa found this place, and I grew up here my whole life. I didn’t remember my brother, it was just Lanie.

Lanie told me that Jesse was in heaven, probably, and maybe he was an angel, too.

I always wanted to be an angel, to be able to fly with white-feathered wings, and a little golden halo.

Mama had the prettiest voice, just like mine.

She always wanted me to use my talent, but I never got to. I sang in the church choir, but Mama always wanted me to do more.

She wanted something better for me and Lanie than spending our lives on the farm.

I had watched the sun rise and set in the sky countless times before I realized that I wasn’t hungry. Just cold, and tired. I want to go, but I can’t get out.

June has lived in exactly 8 homes.

6 of those were after her mother’s death, the ones her father renovated and flipped, crumbling at the seams.

Most of the houses had been relatively isolated, but never so far into the country as this one. When she spent her first night in the new house, it felt like she was being suffocated with the silence.

It was, however, pleasantly cool.

Still, June finds herself unable to sleep, and decides to sit in the bay window (definitely her favorite part of her bedroom) and look at the stars. Instead, she hears someone singing.

Confused, she opens the bedroom window, chipping some of the white paint on the windowsill.

She can hear it clearly now, someone singing in a high voice. They’re singing a lullaby.

June shuts her window, slipping her shoes on and tiptoeing down the creaky stairs.

Suddenly, she is outside, her hair blowing in the breeze, and she can still hear the song. The same one June’s mother used to sing.

She follows the voice, all the way to the well, the boards sharp and jagged like broken teeth, revealing the gaping black hole beneath.

The lullaby is loud, now. The voice is young, soft, lined with tears. Like the singer is about to cry.

June peers into the hole, and there’s nothing there.

Suddenly, a scream erupts from beneath, and June stumbles back, landing in the dewey grass. The well falls silent. Upon a second look, the well is still empty.

June walks back to bed, and changes into a different set of pajamas, hiding the grass-stained ones under her bed.