I shiver.
The ghost I saw…was he real? The way he looked at me felt real.
Maybe he lived here.
Maybe he was a Campbell.
I step into what was probably the dining hall. A massive, charred alcove marks where the fireplace once stood. And there, in the corner, a strange patch of green, perfectlysquare. It’s too smooth. A trapdoor maybe? I step forward to test it—and keep going.
A hole.
I flail, lurching back just in time, and crash onto my butt with a gasp. Then, breathless, I crawl forward again, tearing at the grass.
The pit is deep, its walls sharp-edged, carved from stone. Not a hole.
A dungeon.
At the bottom, a manacle lies black with age. A slow, sinking dread creeps through me. I pop to my feet, eager to get away from here. “Yeah, I’m done.”
The Campbells lived and loved here.
But did they also torture and murder?
A pit. Just off the dining room. Prisoners, trapped for someone’s evening entertainment.
No wonder this village hates the Campbells. Isthisthe blood that runs in my veins? The blood of people who dropped their enemies into a pit so they could hear their screams over dinner?
I picture that well-sculpted tombstone.
Hamish, Pride of Campbell. His enemies shant live to tell.
I’ll bet.
A shudder rolls through me. I start to jog, imaginary ghosts at my back. Cold air whooshes around me, whipping my hair into my eyes, turning my mom’s ring into an icy lump against my chest.
“Screw this.” I break into a run. I don’t know if I’m heading the right way—all I know is I’m putting as much distance as possible between me and thatBurrying Place.
Finally, I spot the trailhead and push into one last burst of speed. As soon as I cross into the shadowed woods, Istumble to a halt, folding over a cramp in my side. Hands on my knees, I catch my breath and let out a shaky laugh. Running from a graveyard like some scared little kid.
I press on. The trail bends and jags in familiar ways, but something feels…off. The foliage seems thicker. The light somehow different. I tamp down my nerves. If I can navigate Grand Central Station, I can handle a stupid hiking trail. And sure enough, the light shifts, growing brighter—and my mood with it.
Maybe this whole episode is good for me. For once, I’m finding my way without relying on my dumb GPS.
I step into a clearing, and the sun-dappled glade is straight out of a fairy tale. A lone tree stands guard, its leaves glowing in the sunlight. The sight loosens something in me. Maybe good things happen when you wander without a plan. I smirk, unbuttoning my sweater. “Who needs a phone?”
I head for the tree and plop down. Leaning back, I let it support me as my fingers trace the deep grooves of its bark. It feels ancient, older than old. Rough and real. Rooted in the earth. Solid. Safe. And so completely soothing.
I sigh deeply, and the scent of apples hits me. A grin bursts across my face as I look up.An apple tree.Can there be anything more reassuring?
I’m such a dork. Drop me in a graveyard with a creepy dungeon, and suddenly I think I’m in aScooby Dooepisode. This tree is real. Predatory ghosts and cursed woods aren’t.
“They say dead men tell no tales.” The voice comes from nowhere. I shriek and jerk upright, cracking my head against the bark with a sharp thunk.
A man is there. Smiling. It’s not necessarily kind.
I wobble to my feet, rubbing the back of my head, andglare at him. I keep the tree close behind me, just in case he has friends. “What?” The word comes out hard and demanding.
I’m tall, but this guy still looms over me, big and burly. It’s more than his size that sets me on edge though. And more than the gruesome scar running from eyebrow to chin like a twist of pale, lumpy cord stitching the two halves of his face together.
