Prologue
The Ghost
Everyone in Orion, Michigan, knew about theghost, but no one could agree on where it came from, who it was, or what it wanted. Some said that it was the soul of a long-dead camper from Orion’s Belt Hockey Camp (the owners of the camp would vehemently point out that never in the camp’s history had a camper died during a session). Others said it was the angry spirit of a lover abandoned by his beloved (who, though, no one could agree). Others said the “ghost” was just a series of pranks played by kids. Whatever the truth was, everyone could agree on one thing: the ghost was officially back this summer, and causing more havoc than ever before.
All summer, there had been issues in and around Orion’s Belt Hockey Camp. Things that no one could explain rationally, though people certainly tried. The local conspiracy theorists had been going wild, and the volunteers and staff who ran the town's ghost tours were having a field day—at least a teenager almost drowned trying to investigate what they claimed was a ghostly apparition on the water. Then the campers’ parents started intervening, someone got the mayor involved, and the local police had some questions.
No one had answers, or if they did, they weren’t saying anything.
The ghost himself certainly wasn’t talking.
It was early August, halfway through the camp’s second-to-last session of the summer. There hadn’t been any issues, haunting or otherwise, that session, and the people at the camp were starting to get more relaxed and at ease. It was nighttime, and everyone at the camp was gathered in the mess hall for a lively dinner. Everyone except the ghost. The ghost had a plan for the night. After tonight, there would be no denying his presence at the camp. The people of Orion, Michigan, would know that the hockey camp was haunted, and the campers would finally leave, and he would be able to rest.
He wouldfinallybe able to rest.
The ghost had a plan, and it was a good plan. Everyone was exactly where he wanted them, together eating dinner. They weren’t worried about anything. They seemed happy and at ease. They wouldn’t be, not for much longer. His plan was simple. No one would see him, but when he was done, they would have no choice but to acknowledge that he was real. People might get hurt, but he didn’t think so. And if they did, it was a small price to pay for him finally being free.
Part 1
Chapter 1
Drew
Two months ago
Drew Moreau felt he was the most alive when hewas playing hockey. It was what he was meant to do with his life. He had always known this, from when he was a kid skating on the frozen ponds in the New Hampshire winters, to now as a thirty-one-year-old winger playing for the NHL team the Boston Minutemen. Hockey was home.
But today, he didn’t feel at home on the ice.
It was mid-June: the Crawford Cup Final. The Boston Minutemen against the Detroit Motors at the Minutemen’s home rink—the Regency Insurance Arena.
The Minutemen had entered the game leading the series three games to two. The Motors’ hope was to force a Game 7.
Drew Moreau would normally be invested in the game. Hockey was his life, and had been for as long as he remembered. He’d played almost ten seasons with the Minutemen. They’d won the Crawford Cup twice in that time, and they were looking for a third. In the games leading up to the Final, he had been one of the strongest voices encouraging his team to give it their all.
Now, he was silent.
The game was loud—all hockey games are loud. This one seemed louder to Drew, but he knew it was just his senses, heightened to the aggression of the noise. Even six hours ago, he would’ve given his left testicle to be out here, giving the game his all. Now he just wanted it to be done.
Third period. He was up again.
He hopped the boards and got on the ice. Boston led 3-2, with six minutes remaining.
Boston dumped the puck into the Detroit zone, and Drew skated to retrieve it along the half wall. The motors closed in quickly. Drew’s eyes narrowed as adrenaline warmed his body and fueled his concentration.
He pivoted, his back to the boards, and surveyed his options. He needed to pass the puck—defensemen were closing in.
There were two options open for Drew: first, there was Dorsey, the weak-side winger, drifting into the left circle. Dorsey’s stick was open, and he called for Drew to pass.
Then there was Quentin Hartley, one of the Boston centers. He’d maneuvered around Detroit defensemen and was in the slot, wide open for a goal.
Drew hesitated.
Hartley was the safer play. It would be a shorter pass, and it was the sort of shot that Hartley could make in his sleep. Detroit had already anticipated the pass to Dorsey, and defensemen were moving to intercept.
Drew knew he had seconds—if that—to make his decision. If this had been a different game, or even if it had beenthisgame and thingsbeforethe game had gone differently, he would’ve made the right choice and passed to Hartley.
But it wasthisgame. And the terrible things that had happened before the game couldn’t be undone.
