Wicked is the Hollow Sample

About This Book:

Ever since her mother vanished, Selah Whitlock has been drawn to the unexplained. So it feels almost fated to live in Foggy Hollow, a place where mystery abounds. Even more so when her father accepts a job at the Vandenberg estate, the epicenter of the town’s most infamous cold case.

Moving into the estate’s carriage house pulls Selah into the orbit of the Vandenberg cousins: Jude, the brooding heir with a tragic past, and Rafe, effortlessly charming and undeniably dangerous.

Then a centuries-old portrait surfaces bearing Selah’s exact likeness. Suddenly, she isn’t just chasing a mystery. She’s caught in the heart of one. As the town prepares to celebrate its bicentennial, Selah and Jude are pulled into a secret that spans generations. Something sinister is stirring beneath the golden leaves and carved pumpkins. And the deeper they fall, the deadlier the consequences.

 

Try Before You Buy:

Prologue: The Dream

When I was eight, I watched my mother disappear in fading pixels. I remember it clear as day. My frantic hands trying to plug up those tiny square holes as she begged me to hurry. 

Hurry, Selah. Hurry! 

But there was nothing I could do. How do you put a person back together when the pieces are gone? Then the monster came. It descended like a windstorm—spidery tendrils of swirling darkness that swept her off her feet and dragged her away. I grabbed onto what was left of her arm as she screamed for me to save her. 

Save me, Selah. Save me! 

But I wasn’t strong enough to save her. Those spidery tendrils gathered into a black mouth that sucked her up. Then she was gone. The black hole vanished and I bolted upright in bed, my pajama top sticking to my back. 

“A monster ate Mommy! A monster ate Mommy! A monster ate Mommy!”

I screamed the words over and over, macabre images flashing through my mind like vignettes on a broken film reel. 

My mother, disappearing in bits. 

My mother, swept off her feet. 

My mother, gobbled up by a terrifying, bodiless mouth. 

I screamed until Dad crashed into my room, and not until his calloused hands clamped over my small shoulders did that scream finally die in my throat. 

“Selah, sweetheart,” my father cried, his eyes wide, his grip firm. “It was a dream. You were just having a bad dream.”

But I couldn’t stop seeing it. 

I would never be able to unsee it. 

That broken film reel played on and on as I whimpered in the dark.

Dad sat beside me, the mattress springs squeaking as he wrapped me in a hug and rubbed soothing circles onto my back. “It’s okay, peanut. Mommy’s fine. It was just a dream.”

His words were a lie.

Mommy wasn’t fine. 

I knew this at eight. Heck, I’d known it at five. 

My mother had been anything and everything other than fine. And that nightmare? I couldn’t let it go. It became a fixation. I was so convinced in the truth of it, so stalwartly adamant that a monster had, in fact, eaten my mother, Dad took me to a therapist named Dr. Penny—a soft-spoken woman with skin like papier-mâché. She said things like, “That must’ve been very scary, watching your mom disappear like that.” 

I thought she believed me. 

Then I overheard her talking to Dad after one of our appointments. She called my nightmare a trauma dream—a vivid, disturbing dream related to a past traumatic event. Or, in my case, multiple traumatic events. She said it was my subconscious way of processing my mother’s unreliable presence, which was true enough. My mother’s presence was unequivocally unreliable. The thing is, she always came back eventually. 

Until that nightmare. 

At first, nobody was surprised. She’d left before. So often, in fact, it had become a predictable, normal thing—my mother leaving. Usually for days. Sometimes weeks. Once, when I was five, she stayed gone for three whole months. So when one month turned into two, no one panicked. When two turned into three, nobody sounded an alarm. By the time eleven months slipped into twelve, Dad had grown silently resigned. A year had passed without a glance or a peep. There were no staticky phone calls filled with apology. No tear-stained postcards promising to see me soon. From the moment I woke up screaming like a banshee, we never saw her or heard from her again. 

She vanished into thin air. 

Dad decided I didn’t need a therapist anymore. Or maybe he just couldn’t afford the copays. What I needed—what we needed—was a fresh start. A place where I wasn’t the drug addict’s daughter and he wasn’t that “poor man.” He found himself a landscaping job two states away in the town of Foggy Hollow, West Virginia, where, unbeknownst to him, an entire family had vanished just like my mother. 

It should surprise nobody that such a disappearance would capture my imagination so thoroughly. Dr. Penny would probably blame it on trauma. Maybe she’d call it a trauma obsession. Maybe she would’ve been right. Whatever the case, whether from trauma or some invisible force drawing me in, I took it upon myself to learn everything I could about the Vandenberg family cold case, having no idea that several years later, my life would intertwine with theirs in the most astonishing of ways.

 

The Foggy Hollow Tribune

NO BODIES, NO CLUES, JUST QUESTIONS
By Walt Jensen, Staff Writer
April 17, 1995 | Foggy Hollow, WV

In a case that has authorities baffled, the prestigious and enigmatic Vandenberg family—John, Maureen, and their children, Simon (16) and Lily (15)—have disappeared without a trace from their historic estate on the outskirts of town.

The family’s longtime butler, Mr. Denis Tulane, left the estate shortly after 7:00 p.m. Thursday evening to run errands just as the family was sitting down to dinner. Not long after, a 911 call was placed from the residence. Though patchy and brief, the caller—believed to be Maureen Vandenberg—sounded distressed.

“It cut out before we could get a clear read,” said Sheriff Doyle Whitmore. “By the time deputies arrived, the house was empty. Dinner still on their plates.”

There were no signs of forced entry. No indication of struggle. The only unusual detail noted at the scene was a fallen candelabra near the dining room table. 

“Smells like a cover up, if you ask me,” said longtime resident Opal Farnsworth. “People don’t just vanish into thin air. Something horrible happened to that family. And whatever it is, the people of this town deserve to know.” 

The estate, a prominent fixture in Foggy Hollow history, has stood for over two centuries and has long been the subject of local legend and lore. Now, it’s the center of a real-life mystery.

The investigation is ongoing. Authorities urge anyone with information to contact the sheriff’s office.

 

Chapter 1: The Stakeout

“Today is Saturday, August ninth. I’m positioned one hundred yards southwest of our trail cam. The time is ten-oh-six p.m. So far, no signs of paranormal activity.” 

And no sign of Twig, either.

Which could be considered paranormal, as Twig is nothing if not punctual. 

I push pause on the small recording device and swat at a mosquito buzzing by my ear. A lock of auburn hair falls in front of my eye. I blow it out of the way and peer through my binoculars. They don’t have night-vision, so all I really see is the dark outline of trees, and if I squint really hard, the vague impression of headstones poking through fog.

The scent of damp moss and decaying leaves hangs in the air. Thin shafts of moonlight poke through the canopy above. They trickle through what’s left of the windows, empty eye sockets of shattered stained glass, and stretch down charred beams and crumbled stone. Crickets chirp uneasily, occasionally interrupted by the haunting hoot of an owl. 

This is where we do our stakeouts—inside the ruins of St. Fortuna’s church, a once-sacred space that’s being slowly consumed by time and the Monongahela National Forest. Foggy Hollow is nestled in a valley of the Allegheny Mountains. The ruins sit on the outskirts of town and offer an elevated view. 

I lay on my stomach, elbows propped on the tarp spread beneath me, peering at the cemetery in search of my target, the Woman of the Woods. A ghostly figure with long, raven hair and a white flowing gown who has been rumored to wander the cemetery on nights when the moon is full. Over the past two years, Twig and I have made it our mission to capture her on camera. 

A bat flits through St. Fortuna’s skeletal frame. I’m not afraid. I welcome the bats. I would prefer more, honestly. Anything to get rid of these mosquitos.

I swat at another. 

I’m wearing a long-sleeve dry-fit top, black leggings, and black combat boots. Everything is covered, except for my hands and my neck and my face, which would maybe be sufficient at any other time. But this is August, peak mosquito season, and they’re especially bad in these particular ruins, where puddles of water sit stagnant. 

I could use some bug spray.

At the moment, I could also use a Xanax. 

“There has to be a solution,” I mutter to the night.

One that doesn’t involve moving.

Away from Twig.

Away from this town.

The knots in my stomach tie tighter. 

Foggy Hollow has been my home for seven years. And while I didn’t move here willingly—my nine-year-old self convinced that leaving Ohio would mean losing my mother forever—it took no time at all to fall head over heels in love with the town and the boy who introduced me to it. It felt like destiny, coming here. Like Twig and I were meant to be best friends, and Foggy Hollow was meant to be my home. But now, I might have to leave. Right on the cusp of my favorite season, too. 

Fall in Foggy Hollow is a magical time any year. But this year, we’re celebrating our bicentennial. Not its birth, but its rebirth, when the town rose from the literal ashes of a devastating fire. Which means all the festivities will be bigger and better. The reenactment, the lantern ceremony, the Phoenix parade, the fire festival, the masquerade ball. Not to mention Halloween, which will occur under the blaze of Dante’s comet—an astronomical event that only comes once every two hundred sixty-eight years. There’s a distinct possibility I won’t be here for any of it, which makes me want to stand up and scream into the void. 

My rage toward Evergreen Landscaping Solutions swells. 

Due to the company’s mismanagement and mounting debt, they went under. And my dad’s paying the price. I’m paying the price. Seven years as a faithful employee, and not even a severance package to show for it. Bills are piling up on our kitchen counter and our landlord keeps lurking like a vulture. Yesterday, I offered Dad my car money. I’ve been working extra hours at Evermore Books to save up. It’s not much, but it could buy us some time. Pay some of the bills. 

I should have kept my mouth shut. The offer only seemed to make Dad more desperate, because tonight, after dinner, I overheard him conversing with his cousin on the phone. 

He needs a job.

His cousin offered him one. 

In Illinois. 

I bite my lip and scan the tops of the tombstones.

“Think, Selah. Think.”

But my brain boycotts. It’s done nothing but frantically think for the past few weeks, ever since Dad came home with the awful news. Now it’s exhausted and desperate and filled with panicked static. A hard lump settles in my throat as a red-eyed glow bounces through the fog. 

Not the Woman of the Woods, but Twig with a headlamp on his forehead. The red light bobs up and down in rhythm with his tall, gangly frame as he weaves his way toward our hiding spot in the ruins. His face materializes beneath the headlamp’s glow, which turns his brown skin into molten copper. 

The lump in my throat tightens.

I can’t bear the thought of leaving him. Twig Calloway has been my best friend since my first day at Riverbend Elementary. 

A book  brought us together. Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz. Not the tattered copy I had at home, with my mother’s name scrawled inside the cover. But a newer version from the school library. All the fourth graders were selecting books for silent reading after recess, and we were the caboose in a very long checkout line. Me, the new girl in Ms. Lyman’s class. Him, the Black kid in Mr. Brunson’s. 

He kept casting furtive glances from my hair, which had been cut painfully short two days earlier, to the book I clutched in my hands. Perhaps, if a group of girls hadn’t taken cruel turns making fun of my hand-me-down clothes at recess, I would have introduced myself. Instead, I was trying very hard to keep the tears at bay. To this day, I can still remember how lonely I felt, how very out of place. Perhaps this was why I’d opted for a book I already had—the familiarity of it brought a sense of comfort. 

Sometimes I wonder how things would have panned out if I’d chosen a different book, one that wouldn’t have caught his eye so determinedly. As shy as he’d been back then and could still be to this day, would he have struck up a conversation if I’d been holding a copy of Nate the Great?

Whatever it was, whether the book or destiny, the next time our eyes met, he pushed his glasses up his nose and blurted out, “My name’s Spencer. But everyone calls me Twig.”

The nickname was unusual enough to distract me from the mean girls at recess. When I asked why everyone called him Twig, my chin only wobbled a little.

“Because I look like one,” he said, looking down at himself. And it was true. Twig was as stick-thin then as he is now, with knobby elbows and ashy knees. 

“Do you like to be called Twig?” I asked. “Because if you don’t like it, I can call you Spencer.”

He seemed to seriously consider the question, as though nobody had ever asked him before. After a moment, he gave his head a singular, decisive nod. “I like the way it sounds.”

I introduced myself then, officially with a handshake. His was a bit noodle-like, but I didn’t hold it against him. 

As we shuffled forward, he peeked at my book. “Do you like scary stories?”

“I love them.”

That’s when he told me all about the Woman of the Woods, and when he finished, he told me he liked my hair, too.

Normally, I didn’t mind my hair. But something about the haircut made it look extra red. I looked around at my new classmates—the ones in front of us still waiting in line, and the rest quietly scrambling for the limited selection of bean bag chairs. “I think I’m the only ginger in our whole grade.”

“I’m the only one with brown skin,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t match anyone. Not even my family.” At my puzzled expression, he told me he was adopted. And as we made our way to a table—by then, all the bean bag chairs had been taken—he invited me to ride bikes with him after school. 

He brought me to the Vandenberg Estate. 

I remember peering through the wrought iron bars of the black gate, beholding a home that might as well have been a castle while he told me about the family that went missing. When he finished, I told him about my mother.

A sting pinches my temple.

I smack the spot. My hand comes away with a smear of blood and a smushed mosquito, injecting me with a momentary surge of vindictive glee. I’m not normally a murderer of living things. If I find a spider and don’t like where it is, I’ll catch it in a cup and move it elsewhere. If I’m put in charge of a plant, I’ll go through extra pains to ensure it doesn’t suffer under my watch. Once, I accidentally ran over a squirrel and assigned it an entire human life, complete with a squirrel husband and squirrel daughter waiting for its squirrel mother to come home. I spent the rest of the day in mourning. But I draw the line with sanguinivores. 

I wipe its guts on the tarp.

Twig ducks under a crumbling archway and slides the proton pack off his shoulders. It’s not really a proton pack. It doesn’t suck up ghosts like the one from Ghostbusters. But it does house our most important supernatural gear—a full-spectrum camera, a night-vision camcorder, an EMF meter, and a temperature gun, along with glow sticks and flashlights and an air horn in case of emergency. This was Carl Calloway’s idea—Twig’s dad—who isn’t nearly as concerned with ghosts and cryptids as he is about a potential run in with a territorial bear or a mean coyote. 

I unzip the front pouch, where Twig keeps our non-paranormal essentials. He apologizes about being late and takes a seat beside me. The tarp rustles beneath him. I dig past spare batteries, a power pack, a Swiss army knife, a first aid kit, some granola bars, and grab the can of bug spray. Squeezing my eyes shut and holding my breath, I spray my face, my hands, and the air around us with no sympathy at all. 

Die, bloodsuckers. Die. 

When I’m finished, I wave my hands through the toxic cloud.

“Any sign of her?” Twig asks with a cough.

“Not yet,” I reply.

He removes the night-vision camcorder from his bag, along with a folded up tripod. 

I tear open a granola bar. “So, why the late arrival?”

“Mom needed help cleaning up after the parade committee meeting, and I got cornered by Mrs. Tibbs, who went on a full tirade about her workload.” He lifts a finger and launches into the perfect Mrs. Tibbs impression. “There’s only so many pioneer frocks one retired teacher can sew! By the time we got her out the door, Dad was just getting home from his bowling league. And get this.” He pushes his glasses up his nose, a habit leftover from elementary school. “He told me that Denis Tulane is looking for a groundskeeper.”

I nearly choke on a bite of granola bar. “What?”

“He heard it from Red. Apparently, he did some repairs on the estate a couple days ago, and Mr. Tulane asked if he knew of anyone who might be interested in a groundskeeping position. Red mentioned Benny, but of course, Benny already has a job working for the city. So Benny told Red to tell Mr. Tulane about your dad.”

My mind has gone spastic—a swirl of chaotic energy. 

Mr. Denis Tulane is the recluse I’ve been pestering with emails and handwritten letters ever since Twig and I started our podcast, Accounts of the Uncanny. He’s the former butler for the Vandenbergs, the last known person to see the family of four alive before they vanished without a trace thirty years ago. For five years after, the estate sat abandoned. Then reports of trespassing and vandalism had Denis moving back in. And there he has lived ever since. All by himself for the past two and a half decades. 

“Why would he be looking for a groundskeeper now?” I ask. 

“Because,” Twig says, his eyes twinkling in the dark. “A new Vandenberg family is moving to town.”

Chapter 2: Moving Day

I step out of Dad’s Ford Bronco beneath a moody sky, feeling like a princess in a dream. Up until now, I’ve only ever seen the Vandenberg Estate through the gaps of its black iron fence. This evening, I’m standing inside that fence, unable to take a proper breath. Judging by the look on Twig’s face, he can’t either. 

Dad lets out a low whistle. 

It isn’t directed at the gothic manor looming before us—a sprawling mansion with stone gargoyles, lancet windows, and towering turrets. It’s directed at the grounds. Two thousand, five hundred acres of them, most of which have gone wild and overgrown. Caring for them will be a massive undertaking. So massive, in fact, Mr. Tulane requires his new groundskeeper to live on site. Which means we said arrivederci to our dingy doublewide and buongiorno to our very own carriage house, with walls of gray stone covered in creeping ivy, and a set of old-fashioned carriage doors that are no longer functional but offer plenty of charm. 

My new home.

Dad walks around his Bronco to the small trailer hitched to the back, gravel crunching beneath his work boots. He slides open the hatch, revealing the sparse interior. 

The carriage house comes fully furnished, which means we didn’t have to bring any of our derelict furniture. Twig and I sold it all in a yard sale last week. Unpacking should be a breeze.

We each grab a box.

Inside, the main level is wide open—one giant room with a kitchen, a dining area, a living area, and a ceiling two stories high. My attention travels up the staircase, where the bedrooms are. 

Dad gives the first stair a test with his boot, like he’s checking its sturdiness, then turns to me with a fond tip of his chin, his brown eyes soft with amusement. “You know I don’t care where I sleep.”

The invitation is clear.

With matching grins, Twig and I clamber up the stairs.

Of the two options, I know which one I want immediately. The floorboards creak as I set the box on my new daybed and tiptoe past the antique furniture, to the mullioned window on the far wall. I unlatch the brass fastener and push it open, letting in a soft breeze that stirs lace-trimmed curtains. I imagine sitting here in the window seat, staring out at the misty grounds with a stunning view of the manor—my own private stakeout every single night.

With a happy sigh, Twig and I rejoin my dad. 

In short order, the boxes are unloaded and we’re back in my room. I close the door behind me with a soft click. Twig catches my eye, and we start laughing. Actually laughing. Because how is this real life? A month ago, I would have given anything to stay in our trailer home. Today, I’m standing in the guest house on the Vandenberg estate. Inside my new bedroom. Our fourth-grade selves would never believe it.

“Imagine if we could tour the manor,” Twig says, gazing out my window. 

“You’re getting greedy,” I reply, opening the wardrobe. Warped mirrors line the inside of the doors, and a row of hangers dangle from a bar. It smells like cedar and dust.

Twig opens one of the boxes. “It’s not farfetched.”

He’s right. It isn’t.

The new Vandenberg family has a son our age. And instead of getting private tutors, like the Vandenberg teenagers before him, he’s officially enrolled at Foggy Hollow High, information Twig gleaned from his mother, the high school secretary. We searched for a picture of him online. It shouldn’t have been difficult. Surely he’d be on social media. But no. Jude Vandenberg remains a complete enigma. We only know that he and his stepmother have spent the past several years overseas—she in France, and he in England at an elite all-boys boarding school. He’s also the great nephew of John Vandenberg, the patriarch of the Vandenberg four who vanished thirty years ago.

On Monday, we’ll get to meet him.

One more unbelievable fact in a long line of them.

I start unpacking my clothes.

Twig takes out a stack of books from the box. The one on top is my journal. I’ve been using it to record my dreams, which have been wild and vivid ever since I found out I was moving here. 

“Did I tell you about the dream I had last night?” I ask, hanging up a jean jacket that once belonged to my mother. It’s one of the few items of clothing I own that doesn’t come from The Lucky Penny, a consignment shop downtown.

“Not yet,” Twig says, opening the top drawer of my new writing desk.

“There was fire everywhere. I was trapped inside The Silver Lantern. Some man outside kept screaming for a woman named Florence. And then I realized it was me. I was Florence.” I hang my cream-colored turtleneck and move on to my collection of grunge band tees. “It makes a person wonder. What if these dreams are me in past lives?”

“Or rehearsals are getting to your head.”

He’s referring to the reenactment. The Burning of Foggy Hollow, a Living History, performed every September in town square. An ode to our tragic past, when fire consumed the town in 1822. Dozens died. Those who survived lost nearly everything. But the town would not be broken. Led by Amos Vandenberg, Kit Bogaard, and Alexander Doorn, the people rallied, and three years later, Foggy Hollow rose again like a phoenix from the ashes.

“I’m not playing a woman named Florence, though. And what about the dream I had a few nights ago?” Bombs raining from the sky. Alarms blaring. “I was hunkered in a basement wearing a ruby necklace and a utility dress with a CC41 label, clutching a little boy to my chest. How do you explain that?”

“What’s Langley teaching in U.S. History?”

“Not World War II.”

Twig’s phone vibrates.

His mom is here.

Outside, Dad is conversing with an old man dressed in a black suit with a waistcoat. I take in his hollow cheeks and neatly combed snow-white hair—a jarring contrast to the unruly state of his eyebrows—and I have to intentionally avoid eye contact with Twig lest the two of us geek out.

Mr. Denis Tulane, in the flesh.

Dad calls us over.

“This is my daughter, Selah,” he says, “and her friend, Spencer. This is Mr. Tulane, the estate’s caretaker.”

Oh, we know. 

We’ve only been pestering him for an interview the past two years, which is probably why he’s looking at me so strangely now, like I’m the paparazzi ready to bulrush him with a microphone and an onslaught of questions. 

Mr. Tulane bows in our direction, then continues his conversation with Dad like Twig and I never interrupted. “As I was saying, everything should be in order. The cleaning crew attended to the carriage house earlier today. The beds have been made. There are fresh linens in the closet. The bathrooms have toiletries, and you will find your refrigerator stocked with the basics.”

“That was very generous of you,” Dad says.

“Yes, well. I expect you will be busy clearing out the overgrowth along the front drive so it’s presentable when the family arrives on Sunday.”

Dad flattens his palm over the crown of his head, his cheeks puffing with air. Today is Friday, and the front drive is massive, with a lot of overgrowth.  

I nod toward the front gate, where Mrs. Calloway idles in her Honda Accord. 

Dad’s cheeks deflate with an exhale. “You’re not joining us for dinner?” he asks Twig.

“Kate’s singing the National Anthem at the football game. My parents want to grab dinner downtown before we go.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Dad says.

Twig nods enthusiastically before casting one last longing glance at the manor. He obviously doesn’t want to leave. I’m thrilled I don’t have to. 

As I walk him out, Mrs. Calloway rolls down the passenger side window and waves cheerfully. She’s a tiny white woman with a big smile, an older version of Twig’s sister, Kate. Twig looks nothing like either of them, just like he told me the day we first met. He doesn’t match his family because he’s adopted, a story he would elaborate upon later in our friendship—how as an infant, he was left on a doorstep in a basket without any information at all, leading us both to wonder, where exactly did Twig come from? We’ve brainstormed origin stories ranging from wizarding worlds to fae kingdoms to alien planets.

“This must be so exciting for you two,” Mrs. Calloway says, her narrow shoulders lifting toward her ears. 

Dad might not fully appreciate how big of a deal living here is to me, but Mrs. Calloway does. She also knows how close we were to moving. Given the fact that I’m Twig’s best and oldest friend, she really didn’t want that to happen. Mrs. Calloway dotes on her son. And by proxy, Mrs. Calloway dotes on me.

Almost like a mother.

Twig opens the door and folds himself into the car. After a bit of small talk, I watch them drive away, then turn back to the gate. Not closed, but open. Because this is where I live now. I trace my finger along the Vandenberg Family crest, branded into the black iron—a shield with two crisscrossing keys at the bottom. In the center, a sun with thorny rays is cradled by what could be mistaken as a crescent moon, but is actually a claw.

A breeze swirls around my ankles and flutters through my hair. With it comes a vague whisper, like breath on the back of my neck. My skin prickles as I turn toward the house. And there, framed inside a window on the second floor, is a shadowed silhouette. Not a profile, but someone facing the grounds. 

As though watching. 

Staring. 

At me. 

My prickling skin turns into a full battalion of goosebumps as my attention darts to Mr. Tulane, still conversing with my dad. Then the circular drive, which is empty. No cleaning vans. No work trucks. By the time I look back at the second floor window, the shadowed figure is gone.

Chapter 3: Keepsakes

Our new home smells like pizza, even upstairs in my bedroom. Dad ordered out from The Ember Oven. We split his favorite, the Phoenix Special—a spicy pepperoni with roasted red peppers and a drizzle of hot honey. Now he’s downstairs, hunting for the antacids. Unfortunately for him, his tastebuds and his digestion don’t see eye-to-eye. 

I curl up in my window seat, listening to the night sounds outside. A chorus of cicadas and crickets. The soft chirping of tree frogs. The rustle of leaves. The creaking of branches. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls at the moon. 

Fog rolls over the unkempt grounds. Ground lights shine through the mist, casting eerie shadows up the manor’s front. I stare at the window that caught my attention earlier this evening, now dark and empty. The Vandenbergs aren’t arriving until Sunday. So who was that, watching us move in? 

The question sends a tickle up my spine.

I’m itching to explore. 

But first, I must sleep. 

I pull the window closed. As much as I’d love to leave it open, there isn’t a screen. Bugs will get in. So I secure the latch and face my room with a smile. I’m all finished unpacking. Every box has been broken down and neatly stacked. Except for the one on my writing desk, set atop a tattered copy of Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak and an equally tattered copy of the book that brought Twig and I together, Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. 

I sit down at the desk and open the box. Years ago, it held a brand new pair of light-up Sketchers, a Christmas gift from Dad. Now, it houses an assortment of odds and ends, carefully curated over the years. A few faded postcards. The front page of a tabloid folded into a small square. A pair of movie ticket stubs. A meager stack of photographs. An antique necklace my mother never took off, more relic than adornment. A tiny hospital bracelet that once fit my wrist. A beaded rosary. A half-used tube of lipstick. A Chinese finger trap. And an old sour cream container.  

Once upon a time, containers like these lined our windowsills. Mom would rinse them out and fill them with soil and seed, then set them in the sun and wait. She didn’t have a green thumb. Not like Dad. But she didn’t let her lack of natural aptitude stop her from trying. My mother loved to plant. She loved the miracle of something sprouting up from the soil when nothing had been there before. She loved waiting for new life—the anticipation, the possibility. 

Of fresh vegetables. 

Flowers. 

Me.

I touch the tiny wristband.

Selah Mae Whitlock.

A name from the Bible. Found in the Psalms, mostly—breaking apart songs and poems, denoting a peaceful pause. A moment of reflection. According to Dad, my mother battled demons all her life. Most times, the demons won. But for awhile, when Mom found herself pregnant, the demons let go. Her life entered an extended moment of peace and reflection. For the first time since she could remember, she was clearheaded enough to think about the life she had lived and the life she wanted to live, and she felt hopeful that it was all possible. So, when she gave birth to a healthy baby girl, she named her Selah. 

Her own peaceful pause.

The problem is, hope of a thing is different than the thing itself. She intended to take care of the plants in those sour cream containers, to nurture them and watch them grow, just as she intended to be everything a little girl might need a mother to be. But keeping life alive proved a task too arduous for my mother. 

I pick up the ticket stubs, from a theater in Ohio that played old films on the big screen. Mom took me to one on my seventh birthday—Little Monsters, a favorite from her childhood—and I was only a little bit scared. But it was the fun kind of fear, like riding a roller coaster at an amusement park. A jolt of adrenaline. An exciting thrill. It left such an impression, I made Twig watch it in fifth grade. From there, we discovered Labyrinth, Gremlins, and every other supernatural cult classic from the 1980s.

I unfold the tabloid, the front page of an old National Enquirer. The headline is in bold caps, Vampire Baby Born in Idaho, Doctors Baffled. It still smells of cigarettes. I picture her at Save-A-Lot, snagging a copy to read while waiting in the checkout line. Every now and then, she’d splurge and buy one and read it cover to cover, then set it on our coffee table next to her ashtray while reruns of Unsolved Mysteries played on our television. Perhaps this is where my obsession with the strange and mysterious comes from—she was always drawn to it, too. And then I had that dream …

I shuffle through the meager stack of photographs, pausing on a glossy 4x6—a picture of my parents when they first started dating. Unlike Twig, I bear a strong resemblance to my mom. I have her auburn hair, thick with a slight wave. I wear mine long, halfway down my back or up in a messy bun. In this picture, hers is cut just above her shoulders with the kind of layers popular in the nineties. We share the same eyes—wide set and deep blue. The same straight nose with a spray of freckles across the bridge. The same petal pink lips and pointy chins. 

I’m so locked in, so utterly focused on the photograph in front of me, the loud thwack against glass sends a strangled scream up my throat. Staticky adrenaline zips through my veins as I send the photographs flying and duck for cover, arms covering my head like they might protect me from whatever just hurled itself at my window.

What was that?

Slowly, I lower my arms and come out of my chair. With one hand set over my chest, I unlock the latch, push open the window, and look down at the grounds. 

A crow struggles in the grass, its right wing bent at an unnatural angle. 

My thudding heart twists. 

That poor bird!

Unwilling to let it suffer alone, I hurry downstairs and out into the night where the grass is damp beneath my bare feet. But the bird isn’t there.

A shadow slips across the yard, fast and wrong. A branch snaps behind me. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls. The sound lifts the hair on my arms, and I bolt back inside, heart hammering.

Chapter 4: DG + DB

The next morning, the bird remains a mystery, only not such a frightening one in the light of day. I search around the spot where it fell. There’s not even a vague imprint. It’s as gone as Dad’s Bronco, but at least he left a note.

Went to Home Depot. Will bring home biscuits from Tudor’s. 

I swipe at the dewy grass with my tennis shoe, wondering if it somehow hobbled away. Surely it didn’t fly away, not with how bent its poor wing was. I imagine it slowly dying somewhere under a bush, then shake the image away with a shudder. I refuse to let the fate of a bird dampen my first morning as an official resident of the Vandenberg Estate.

I pull my hair into a ponytail and slip my phone into the side pocket of my leggings. The summer heat is finally relenting, Hollowed Grounds Cafe has rolled out its pumpkin spice latte, some leaves are just beginning to change, and pale fog stretches across the landscape. Soon, the sun will rise over the manor and chase it away. For now, mist floats over the grass like a blanket spun from gossamer, wrapping the property in sleep. 

And it’s mine to explore.  

With an excited inhale, I roll my shoulders and jog up the service road, around the west end of the manor until my heart is pumping. Typically, I record voice memos when I jog—verbal notes almost always related to Accounts of the Uncanny. An idea for an episode, edits for an episode, cuts to an episode, additions to an episode, my favorite cult classics to mention in an episode. 

Today, however? 

I jog in silence, soaking it all in. 

The orchard on the northwest lawn boasts row upon row of gnarled apple and twisted pear trees, their branches tangled like skeletal fingers, the ground thick with rotting fruit. The black iron fence gives way to low stone walls and iron posts with missing chains. The gravel road narrows and turns to dirt. I follow its winding path to a large paddock choked with weeds. Beyond it, a long wooden barn sits weathered and still. 

With my breath coming in quick puffs, I stop in front of the barn’s massive double doors. They’re marked with the faded insignia of the Vandenberg crest, just like the front gate. I give them a push. They don’t budge. Panting, I lean my whole weight against them. The hinges groan. I give another shove, and with a shuddering creak, one door gives way just enough for me to slip through.

Inside, the air is stagnant. Nameplates mark empty stalls where prized horses once lived. A splintered ladder ascends to a hayloft. In the back, something hides beneath a tarp. I pull it away with a flourish and a cloud of dust to find a carriage underneath. In the wooden panel of the door, someone has carved a heart around a pair of initials. 

“DG + DB,” I whisper. 

I snap a picture with my phone and send it to Twig, imagining a stablehand enamored with a chambermaid. Star-crossed lovers who died tragically and now haunt this very stable. We could make it into a Valentine’s Day special on Accounts of the Uncanny. 

Stretching out my muscles, my attention wanders to the hayloft, where dust motes float in the sunlight. And perhaps, a lovelorn specter or two? DG + DB. Maybe I could dig up their identities on the second floor of Evermore Books, where my boss, Maggie Henshaw, runs the town’s historical society. 

I resume my jog, following the dirt path to the back of the estate, where a service gate opens to a road I didn’t know existed. By now, my legs are fatigued, and I’m so removed from everything, it feels like I’m the only person in the world. Two paths stretch before me. The dirt road that goes all the way around the estate, which would equate to the longest run of my life. And a trail that cuts through the woods toward the back of the manor. 

The path is dark.

The trees, dense.

The fog, stubborn. 

A chill races down my spine. 

I can’t help but think of Episode 8, Cryptid Craze, the only one that has ever kept me up at night. If I had to choose between a ghost and cryptid, I’d take the ghost every time. My thoughts drift to the Nachtdier, otherwise known as the Night Beast, rumored to have slaughtered two girls in these very woods back in 1832. The story gave me nightmares for days. 

For a moment, I consider option three—turning around and going back the way I came. But then, how can I call myself an expert on all things supernatural if I can’t handle jogging through the woods in the morning?

I set my hands on my hips. 

Muted light glistens off dew drops, which have gathered on leaves and spiderwebs. It’s a beautiful scene, not a scary one. 

“C’mon, Selah,” I say to the trees. “Do it for the pod.”

With that, I take off, hopping over fallen branches and jutting tree roots. Not until I’m properly winded, do I reach something worth stopping for. A murky pond with statues of nymphs half-submerged in the mossy waters, and a rotting rowboat tied to a wooden post. I imagine DG + DB taking a moonlit boat ride, kissing under the stars. I take some more pictures, then continue around a bend. 

An old well comes into view—cracked stone creeping with ivy, the rope and bucket long gone. Maybe DG + DB tossed in coins and made wishes. I set my hands on the rim and lean over to look into its depths when something flies at my face with such velocity, I lurch backward, stumble over a rock, and land flat on my bottom. 

The terrifying something flaps its wings with a shrill screech and lands on a low branch hanging over the well’s mouth. I glare at it, my heart pounding, my breath ragged. It peers at me over its sharp beak, like it knows about the other bird from last night, like I’m to blame for the slow, agonizing death of its brother. 

I scramble to my feet and wave my hands.

With a loud caw, it flies off, along with a flock of others I hadn’t noticed before. They cry at the sky in high-pitched unison, and when they’re gone, there’s nothing but quiet. 

I tilt my head. 

No, not quiet. 

The complete lack of sound. 

Alarmingly unnatural, because nature is never silent. Nature always has at least something to say, something to whisper. The only sound right now is my own panting.

A gust of wind tears up the path. So strong, the branches groan and sway. It rips leaves from limbs. Strands of hair from my ponytail. It roars through the trees like an angry beast coming. Coming for me. 

I pivot on my heel and run. 

I sprint like the wind is chasing me. Like it’s going to grab me. Like it has matted fur and massive claws and gruesome fangs and it’s going to get me. I stumble into a clearing and whirl around, expecting to see it.

The Nachtdier.

The Night Beast.

But there’s nothing.

Just the trees, standing straight and still.

The wind is gone. 

The sun is shining. 

Birds chirp.

Squirrels scamper. 

A bee buzzes nearby.

I set my hands on my knees and laugh at my ridiculousness. Just like last night, I allowed my imagination to go as feral as these grounds. With a shake of my head, I turn around to see what I’ve stumbled upon. 

Headstones. 

My breath goes still. I stare, open-mouthed, unable to believe what I’m seeing. This isn’t just a clearing. This is a graveyard, with fourteen, no fifteen headstones. 

I creep toward the nearest one.

Daniel Vandenberg, 1912 - 1993.

He died two years before John and Maureen and their teenage children vanished without a trace. I fumble for my phone and take more pictures. I turn the camera to the headstone beside Daniel’s. 

“May I ask what you’re doing?”

I spin around. 

A young man leans against a tree with one dark eyebrow quirked in amusement.

My pulse stutters. I have no idea how long he’s been watching.

Chapter 5: The Family Graveyard

He’s the kind of person you might see on the cover of a magazine, with flawless bone structure and eyes so blue they match his oxford shirt. His dark hair is thick and neatly styled, with one rebellious lock falling over his quirked eyebrow. But even that looks intentional, as though his imperfections have been meticulously arranged. The corner of his mouth curls into a crooked grin as he stands there at the edge of the clearing, leaning against a tree like an exquisite painting, every stroke designed to draw the eye exactly where he wants it to go. 

I’m so caught off guard by his presence, it takes me a minute to register how intensely he’s staring. At some point, his languid demeanor has shifted, only I’m not sure when. I’m not even sure how. He hasn’t moved. He’s still leaning against a tree, his attention traveling upward—from my second-hand running shoes to my wind-tousled hair—with such fervor, my cheeks turn warm. 

I tuck a loose strand behind my ear, trying to get my voice unstuck, when he steals my line. 

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Who are you?” I retort. This is a private estate. A gated estate. People aren’t allowed to just come inside.

He smirks impishly. “My name’s Rafe.”

“Well, Rafe, this is private property.”

“Vandenberg,” he finishes.

The surname hits me between the eyes.

Vandenberg.

I blink several times. “But I—I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow.”

“That would be my cousin, Jude. And his mother. Or rather, his stepmother.” He leans forward slightly, and says in a low, conspiratorial voice, “I don’t think he’s very fond of her.”

A cousin.

My sleuthing never mentioned a cousin.

“Your turn now,” he says, his arms still crossed.

“I’m Selah.” I lift my chin, annoyed by the flood of heat in my cheeks and the pounding of my heart. “Selah Whitlock. My father is the new groundskeeper. We just moved into the guest house.”

“Ah,” he says. “Interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?”

He cocks his head and continues to stare in a way that makes breathing difficult. When it becomes obvious he’s not going to answer, I fold my arms, too, and just as I’m searching for a quippy reply, I remember the shadowed figure I saw in the window yesterday. “When did you get here?”

“Yesterday afternoon. I figure Yale can wait. But the 200th celebration of a town that owes its existence to my ancestors? That only comes, well, every two hundred years.”

“You’re here for the festivities?”

“Amongst other things.” He lets the cryptic words hang in the air with a slightly amused, slightly condescending smile. He uncrosses his arms and prowls toward me like a predator on the hunt. With my heart galloping the way it is, I feel every inch the prey. 

The closer he comes, the more gorgeous he gets. High cheekbones. Well-defined jaw. A faint cleft in his chin. When he strolls past, he smells as expensive as he looks. 

I turn my head to track his movements—my muscles tense, my breath shallow. 

He stops at a tombstone and sets his hand on top of it. 

Amos Vandenberg.

The star of the reenactment.

The town’s very own hero.

“He was an amazing man, Uncle Amos.” The words are respectful. Deferential, even. But there’s a wicked gleam in his eye, and that whisper of a grin, like he’s privy to some kind of secret that is both awful and delightful. He resumes his prowl, winding his way in and out of the tombstones. 

I fix my attention on his shoes. 

Patent leather. 

Much too expensive to be wearing on a walk through the woods. 

“Did you follow me here?” I ask.

I expect him to deny it. Scoff at the accusation. Instead, his barely-there grin widens into a wolfish smile. The gap between us shrinks until he’s standing so close, I’m leaning back on my heels, tilting my head to look him in the eye. His are even bluer up close, not a trace of any other color in them. Rimmed with eyelashes as dark as night. 

His attention dips to my lips. “Would you like it if I had?”

My body is trapped. Stuck like my breath. My heart a caged bird as he brings the tip of his pointer finger beneath my chin and dips his mouth toward mine. Like he intends to kiss me. 

I lurch backward. “What are you doing?”

His eyes remain fixed on the spot where my lips once were. He stays like that for a frozen second. Then he blinks lazily and cocks his head, as though perplexed by my rejection. Sure, the guy is drop dead gorgeous. But that doesn’t give him liberty to go around kissing strangers.

“Seriously,” I say, voice rising. “What were you trying to do?”

“Have a little fun?”

I take another step back. 

The audacity. 

The entitlement. 

The sheer arrogance. 

It’s all so … outrageous. 

“I can assure you, I’m not that kind of girl.”

My words make his expression go expressionless. Completely deadpan, like an invisible switch has been flipped. He studies me for a drawn out moment. “You look like someone.”

“Excuse me?”

“You look like someone,” he repeats.

When he makes no attempt to elaborate, I lift my eyebrows in clear agitation. “Who?”

“A girl I … sort of know.”

“Well, I’m not her.”

“Obviously.”

“Don’t follow me again.”

“You’re a guest on my property,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. 

A retort lashes across my tongue. I’m not a guest. I live here, too. But even if I were a guest, that doesn’t give him the freedom to follow me or kiss me. I swallow the words. Rafe Vandenberg could very well have a say in my father’s job. As much as I might want to bring him down a peg or two, I want to stay here more. I clench my teeth to keep the retort inside.

He looks amused, and maybe a little disappointed. Like he would have enjoyed a verbal spar.

My phone dings. 

Grateful for the interruption, for an excuse to look away, I slip my phone from my pocket to check the screen. The time comes as a shock. 

It’s five past noon.

I was supposed to be in the basement of Evermore Books, recording an episode for the podcast with Twig five minutes ago.

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