Holly Horror #1

Description

“Playmate, come and play with me…”

A beloved classic reimagined with a dark twist.

After her parents’ painful divorce, Evie Archer hopes that moving to Ravenglass, Massachusetts, is the fresh start her family needs. But Evie quickly realizes that her new home—known by locals as the Horror House—carries its own dark past after learning about Holly Hobbie, who mysteriously vanished from her bedroom one night.

But traces of Holly linger in the Horror House and slowly begin to take over Evie’s life. A strange shadow follows her everywhere she goes, and Evie starts to lose sight of what’s real and what isn’t the more she learns about The Lost Girl.

Can Evie find out what happened the night of Holly’s disappearance? Or is history doomed to repeat itself in the Horror House?“Its myriad twists will keep readers riveted all the way to the satisfying climax…Bursting with dark history, ghoulish ghosts, and high-stakes secrets.”—Publisher’s Weekly

“Energetic and colorfully descriptive.”—Kirkus Reviews

“Holly Horror is an absolute blast! Full of thrills, chills, and lacy frills, readers will have fearful fun with every page. I didn’t want it to end!”—Sara Farizan, award-winning author of Dead Flip

“This book should come with a warning label: Do Not Read At Home Alone! With chilling twists and turns, a supremely creepy haunting, and moments of psychological terror that would make Shirley Jackson proud, HOLLY HORROR is that rarest of treats: a genuinely scary ghost story. A must-read for all YA horror fans. I loved it!”—Rob Costello, contributing editor of QUEER BEASTIES: 15 Weird & Wondrous Monster Tales and author of THE DANCING BEARS: Queer Fables for the End Times

“Michelle Corpora has taken the country cute gingham of Holly Hobbie, and reimagined a fabulous patchwork of nightmares. You’ll never look at that bonneted silhouette the same way again!”—Ann Dávila Cardinal, author of BREAKUP FROM HELL and contributing author of OUR SHADOWS HAVE CLAWS: 15 Latin American Monster StoriesMichelle Jabès Corpora is a writer, editor, community organizer, and martial artist. In addition to working in the publishing industry for more than a dozen years as an editor and concept developer, she has ghostwritten five novels in a long-running middle-grade mystery series. American Horse Tales: The Dust Bowl was Michelle’s first novel under her own name. Her second novel, The Fog of War: Martha Gellhorn at the D-Day Landings (Pushkin Press), published in 2021.1
The little silver car darted down the country roads like a minnow, cresting the hills and dipping low into the valleys, carrying three new souls into western Massachusetts. Evie Archer sat in the passenger seat, watching the first few rust- and honey-​colored leaves begin to fall. Beyond, the sun was low on the horizon, setting the mountaintops ablaze with golden light. Evie knew she should have appreciated the sight of a sky unbroken by apartment buildings and skyscrapers, but all it did was make her feel small.

She fingered the cream-​colored lace of her favorite shirt—​an old maroon cotton tee that she’d found thrifting and upcycled into something more fashionable. She’d cut off the sleeves and snipped the bottom into a wavy asymmetrical line, then sewed about a foot of vintage lace to the bottom to create a dramatic hem. A bit more lace around the neckline completed the look. She’d laid it out on her bed with a pair of comfortable jeans last night as her traveling outfit.

“So listen,” her mother, Lynne, was saying as she took another tight turn. “You guys know that Hobbie House needs a lot of work, and I can’t afford to have the whole place professionally cleaned right now, so we should start by fixing up the rooms we’ll need right away.”

“Sure, Mom,” Evie said, wondering what her friends back home in New York were doing right now. Were they thinking about her? She checked her phone for messages, but there were none. She reasoned that it was still a school day; they were probably just busy. She put the phone facedown on her lap and tried not to think about it.

In the back seat, huddled among the duffel bags and suitcases, her younger brother, Stan, said nothing. Evie glanced back to see him hidden deep inside his black hoodie, playing some stupid game on his phone.

“Stan, honey, are you listening?” Mom said.

Stan grunted, just loud enough to be audible by human ears.

“Anyway,” her mother continued as they approached another hairpin curve, “we’ll tackle the bedrooms first, then the kitchen—​oh, probably a bathroom we can all share, and—”
There was something in the road. Some lumbering, dark thing. Mom didn’t see it because she was too busy talking about the house, but Evie saw it.

“Mom! Watch out!” Evie shouted.

“What?” her mother gasped, wrenching the steering wheel and slamming on the brakes. The little silver car swerved wildly, skidding to the side of the road. Evie shrieked as a rock was thrown up and hit the windshield like a bullet. The car came to a stop, and for a moment there was no sound inside except ragged breaths.

“What’s wrong?” Mom exclaimed.

Evie turned to look behind them, certain she would see a small, bloodied corpse.

But there was nothing.

“I saw an animal in the road,” Evie said, suddenly uncertain. “Like a small dog, or a cat or something. I thought we were going to hit it.”

Mom eyed the tiny crack in the windshield where the rock had hit and sighed heavily. Evie noticed that despite the hours of packing, loading, traffic, and nearly crashing the car just now, her mother’s wavy, caramel-​colored hair still looked perfect. “Evie, I was watching the road. I didn’t see any animal. You’re lucky we didn’t hit a tree or something. That wouldn’t be a great way to start our new life here, now, would it?” She put the car back into gear and started driving again without another word.

“Sorry,” Evie said after a moment. She ran her fingers through her hair. It was a little greasy.

“It’s fine,” Mom replied, in a tone that clearly said it wasn’t. “Look! We’re almost there.” She pointed to a green road sign that read Ravenglass, 2 miles. “Are you excited?”

Evie nodded, pasting on a smile. In the back seat, Stan hadn’t moved. Incredible . . . she thought.

“Sometimes your eyes can play tricks on you, you know,” Mom said, her voice softer now.

“Sometimes we think we see things that aren’t really there. Like a mirage in the desert.”

“I guess so,” Evie said, not wanting an argument.

But I did see it, she thought. She had seen it walk, seen its fur, seen its flashing eyes as it looked up at the car speeding toward it.

Didn’t I?

Her mouth was dry, so she grabbed the Big Gulp of Coke that they’d picked up at a gas station and took a long drink. Something was stuck to the sweaty bottom of the plastic cup. Evie peeled it off and peered at it. A small yellow sticky note with four words written in pen: KEYS, CELL PHONE, WALLET. It was her father’s handwriting. It must have been inside the cup holder when she’d set the Big Gulp down. He was always forgetting things—​his lunch, his wallet, his children’s birthdays—​so he’d often write them down to remind himself. Artists were forgetful like that, he’d always said. Like that made up for everything.

Evie stared at the note for a moment before crumpling it up in her hand, opening the window, and throwing it out.

As they crested the next hill, an old wooden sign with gold letters came into view.

WELCOME TO RAVENGLASS, MASSACHUSETTS
EST. 1856

The local road they were on dropped them right at the center of Main Street, in the middle of a town that looked like the cover of an old Saturday Evening Post come to life—​pure Americana, stars and stripes, and apple pie. A neat line of colonial-​style buildings—cream and pale yellow with shutters painted in red and green—​nestled under the far-​reaching boughs of black oak trees, resplendent in their autumn colors. There were a few little shops and cafés, a redbrick church with a real bell in its belfry, an inn, a fancy restaurant, and a little place right at the edge of town called Birdie’s Diner.

Evie sniffed the air, which smelled like a combination of fried chicken and something spicy. Her stomach growled. They hadn’t eaten since leaving the city. “I’m hungry,” she said.
“Have a granola bar,” her mother said. “We’ll pick something up after we get everything inside and settle in. Isn’t the town lovely? It’s just so . . .”

Evie went ahead and supplied the correct word. “Quaint.”

She pulled a couple of bars from their snack bag and tossed one into the back seat, feeling a little bit satisfied when it bounced off Stan’s head. It must have momentarily roused him from his phone coma, because a moment later, she could hear him munching.

“We’re going to live here?” Stan asked, pressing his face against the window. “In the Land That Time Forgot? If they don’t have Wi­Fi, I’m hitching a ride back home. Seriously.”

“They have Wi­Fi, Stan,” Mom replied smoothly. “And you can’t hitchhike back home. This is our home now.”

Evie swallowed a lump of granola and chocolate as the full impact of those words hit her. Everything she knew—​her entire loud, crowded, messy life back in New York—​was gone. Divorce had snuck up on her life last year and swallowed it whole, like a snake, leaving nothing behind but pain and memory.

After the settlement, her mother realized that they had a big problem. Mom’s old job at the Hyatt didn’t pay anywhere near enough for their three-​bedroom apartment, not even with the child support payments, and especially not after all the legal fees. She had about two months’ rent left in her savings, and then they were going to be living hand-to-mouth. Things looked grim until the night Evie overheard Mom call her sister, Martha Hobbie, and ask her a question that changed everything.

“Martha, do you think we could move to Hobbie House?”

Hobbie House.

Those words had been spoken in hushed tones throughout Evie’s life, like a curse. The house, a place that had been in her mother’s family for about fifty years, was up in a small town in the Berkshires called Ravenglass. Aunt Martha lived in an apartment in town there—​and was the official caretaker for the house. Evie always wondered why her aunt didn’t just live at Hobbie House. After having spent her whole life in cramped apartments, Evie could hardly imagine what it would be like to have all that space. Why would anyone choose some tiny apartment over an entire house?

Then again, Aunt Martha was a superstitious sort of person, and Hobbie House did have a certain . . . reputation.

Evie shivered, the breeze suddenly chilling her. She closed the window and pulled her dusky pink cardigan close around her shoulders. Regardless of the house’s history, her mother saw it as their salvation. “A fresh start, a big bedroom for each of us, and best of all: It’s free!” Mom had announced this to Evie and Stan after hanging up with Aunt Martha. Stan had immediately made it clear how much he hated this idea by going on a hunger strike and slamming doors, but Evie had just nodded and smiled. “That’s great, Mom,” she’d said.

“Isn’t it?” Mom had replied. “Just what we needed. Some good news.”

That night was the first time Evie let herself cry.

But now, surrounded by the stunning beauty and tranquility of Ravenglass, a tiny ray of hope pierced through her inner gloom.

Maybe life will be good here, she allowed herself to think. Maybe it will be okay.

The GPS on her mother’s phone started to act funny once they left the town behind and went in search of Hobbie House. Because it was nearly two hundred years old, the house wasn’t on Main Street, and it wasn’t part of either of the two planned communities built in Ravenglass over the past sixty years. They followed the GPS down a one​­lane street called Knickerbocker Road that dead­ended at an overgrown field, where a single, tumbledown shack stood, its broken windows glinting in the setting sun like jagged teeth.

“Well,” Mom said, putting the car in reverse. “It’s been forty years since I’ve been here, but I’m pretty sure that isn’t the house.”

“God, I hope not,” Stan said, peeking through the space between the front seats to stare at the shack.

“We passed a mailbox a little while back,” Evie said. “It was kind of hidden by some bushes. Maybe that was it?”

Once Mom turned the car around, she went along the little road slowly, and all three of them peered through the thick trees on both sides, looking for an opening.

“There!” Evie exclaimed, pointing. Sure enough, there was a rusty white mailbox, almost completely engulfed by creeper vines, next to a clearing in the trees and a narrow lane, leading up.

Mom rolled the car to a stop next to the mailbox, and Evie stuck her head out of the window to study it. Along the side, written in cracked black paint, were the letters HH. There was something else, too, something scribbled in faded red ink above the two letters. It looked like someone had tried to wash it off, with little success. Evie squinted. What did it say? After a moment, the words became clear.

HORROR HOUSE.

“This is it,” she said, her voice dry. “We’re here.”

Her mother pulled the car into the narrow, winding lane and started to climb. A row of elm trees stood like sentinels alongside them, and once or twice Evie could have sworn she saw the flash of a white­tailed deer darting away at the sound of their approach. It wasn’t until they’d reached the top of the hill that the trees cleared and they got their first glimpse of the house.

The house had two faces. One faced them, and the other looked away, as if staring into the distance back toward town. It had been white once, but time had erased all that, leaving most of it gray and rutted. Burgundy shutters framed the windows, which covered both faces and all sides of the octagonal tower that made up the left part of the house. Both sides boasted a wide porch, leading to doors painted blue. The place looked untouched by any living thing, aside from the bittersweet vines that grew everywhere, strangling porch posts and creeping like spiderwebs up as far as the two brickwork chimneys. Next to the house, a large apple tree stood alone, its trunk thick and twisted, its branches heavy with fruit.

“Look at that,” Mom breathed. She glanced over at Evie. “What do you think?”

Evie stared at the house. For some reason, she was reminded of the scene where Pinocchio went deep into the ocean to save his father and was swallowed by the whale. A huge, ancient thing that had lived for centuries past, and would live on centuries more.

“Everything comes in,” said Geppetto. “Nothing goes out.”

“Evie?”

She was being ridiculous. It was just an old house that needed a few coats of paint and some pruning shears. Nothing more.

“It’s amazing,” she finally said. “I wonder what it looks like inside.”

“Probably wall­-to-­wall rats,” Stan said. “Black mold, definitely ghosts—”

“Shut up, Stan,” Evie muttered, elbowing him in the chest.

“Ow! Mommm, she’s hurting me!” He poked Evie in the ribs.

“Stan, stop annoying your sister. Oh! Look, there’s Martha.”

Up ahead, in a circular paved area in front of the house, a woman in a deep purple shawl stood watching them pull in. Next to her, a rickety hatchback sat idling, its engine burbling with effort.

Mom parked the car in front of the house and jumped out. “Sis,” she said, opening her arms. “It’s good to see you.”

Evie hadn’t seen her aunt in years, not since the last time she’d come to visit them in New York. She was like a Wonderland version of her mother. Instead of Mom’s neat, wavy bob, Aunt Martha wore her hair long and silver gray. They were both thin, but Aunt Martha was gaunt, whereas Mom was slender. Next to her mother in her tan capris and tasteful turquoise blouse, Aunt Martha looked like a fairy-​tale witch in her shawl, long black skirt, and tall leather boots. Mom wore only simple silver hoop earrings, but Aunt Martha looked as if she were wearing every piece of jewelry she owned. Gold bangles jingled on both wrists, rings studded with semiprecious stones adorned every finger, and around her neck hung a glass blue amulet of the evil eye. Despite the past year of trouble, Mom still looked vibrant, whereas Aunt Martha looked as if she had seen things she would rather not repeat. She had a certain feral wildness about her that was as different from her mother as Evie could imagine.

Aunt Martha smiled and embraced Mom, but Evie noticed that the smile did not reach her eyes. “Have a good trip?” she asked.

“Getting out of the city was a nightmare, obviously—​but other than that, smooth sailing,” Mom replied.

Aunt Martha turned her eyes to Evie and Stan, who had gotten out of the car and stood a little distance away. “Hey, kids,” she said. Stan offered an awkward, one-​armed hug. Evie, on the other hand, wrapped both her arms around her aunt and squeezed. She smelled like a smoky mixture of sandalwood and clove, and when she pulled away, Aunt Martha looked at her with a mixture of affection and something else that Evie couldn’t decipher. “Well, I’m sure you’re all tired from your journey and have a lot to do,” she said, pulling away. She rummaged in the brown leather purse at her side and handed Mom a set of keys she found there. “Here you go. Those should open both front doors and the shed in the back. If you need anything, you can just—”

Mom blinked down at the keys that Aunt Martha had given her. She laughed. “You—​you’re not thinking of leaving, are you?”

Aunt Martha stood as rigid as the elm trees that surrounded them. She took one step back toward her rumbling car. “Well, yes. I have some clients coming in this afternoon, and I thought you’d want your space—”

Mom’s nostrils flared. “Oh, I see. You have clients.”

“Yes, I do.”

Evie looked away. She knew that her mother’s relationship with Aunt Martha was tense, at best, but Evie had hoped that things would be different now that they were moving to Ravenglass.

“I thought you’d at least come inside, catch up—”

Aunt Martha’s face turned to stone. “I don’t go inside, Lynne.”

Mom stared at her. “What do you mean, you don’t go inside? You’ve been the caretaker for this place for years.”

“I hire people to keep up the place, just basic stuff. I don’t go in there.”

“But—​why?” Mom sputtered.

“You know why.”

Mom laughed, a harsh, humorless laugh. “Are you serious?”

Aunt Martha said nothing.

Mom shook her head. “You are unbelievable. You know that?”

Aunt Martha turned back to her car and stopped with her hand on the door. “I’m sorry, kids,” she said to Evie and Stan. “Come and visit me in town after you get settled, okay? My door is always open.”

Evie nodded and raised a hand in farewell as the old hatchback struggled back down the narrow lane.

“Unbelievable,” Mom muttered, shaking her head with a sigh as she walked back to the car and popped the trunk open.

“Which way is the front?” Stan asked, staring at the two faces.

“I don’t think it matters,” Mom replied. “Looks like the movers used the north entrance, so we will, too. Here, honey.” She tossed the keys to Evie. “Go ahead and open the door. Stan and I will start bringing things in.”

Evie nodded and turned to the house. The western face was bright with sunlight, while the north face that she approached was in deep shadow. The porch groaned under her feet as she tried a couple of keys until one slid into the lock smoothly.

When she opened the door, the house seemed to exhale, as if it had been holding its breath, waiting for them to come.

Evie stepped into the gloom of a large farmhouse kitchen. A heavy wooden table dominated the middle of the room, which was lined with open shelving weighed down with piles of plates and bowls. A large, old-​fashioned stove skulked in the corner, and everything in view was covered in a thick layer of dust. Against one wall, and trailing out into the hallway beyond, were neat piles of moving boxes, left behind along with a pink invoice by the moving company. A yellowing plastic telephone sat on the countertop next to her, its coiled cord sagging limply by its side like a sleeping snake.

“Hey!” Evie looked up to see her mother stumbling through the door, carrying two bulging duffel bags. “What are you doing standing around? Come outside and help!”

Nodding, Evie went back out to the car to grab whatever was left in the trunk. After three more trips, they had brought everything into the house. Mom stood in the center of the kitchen, hands on hips, surveying her new home. “Well,” she said crisply. “The place needs a lot of work, but it’s got good bones. Don’t you think?”

“It sure is big enough,” Stan said, pulling off his hoodie to look around. His dark hair was messy and hung over his eyes. “Our entire apartment could fit in this kitchen.” He glanced down the hallway. “Looks like the other door leads into a living room. There’s stairs over here going up.”

Evie had an odd sense that the house had gotten stuck in time—​not once, but twice. Remnants of the 1980s—​thick yellow phone books, copies of the TV Guide, and a grimy radio-​cassette player with a bent antenna—​were strewn throughout a room that looked like it had been designed in the 1800s. In one corner, hanging over a wooden butter churn, Evie saw a framed needlework sampler dated 1851. Colorful flowers and trees surrounded a quote stitched in careful lettering:

The year rolls round, and steals away
The breath that first it gave;
What e’er we do, where e’er we be,
We’re trav’ling to the grave.

Evie felt her mother behind her, also reading. “Not exactly my taste,” she said. “But it is very authentic.” She coughed. “Whoo! I’d better start airing this place out and cleaning up so we can unpack. Why don’t you kids go up and pick your rooms?”

Stan was pounding up the stairs before Evie could even pick up her duffel. “I call first dibs!” he shouted.

“Stan! Wait!” Evie shouted back, grinding her teeth in annoyance. She shouldered her bag and went through the hallway into the living room. Rays of sunlight pouring through the windows illuminated legions of dust motes floating through the air in Stan’s wake. With only a cursory glance at the squashy armchairs and fireplace that dominated the room, Evie climbed the staircase to reach the second-​floor landing. Stan poked his head out of one of the doorways to look at her.

“This one’s mine,” he said. “It’s the biggest. Mom’s going to want the one at the end of the hall that has its own bathroom.”

“And why do you get—?”

“Bye now,” he said, and slammed the door in her face.

Evie stifled the hot rush of irritation rising inside her. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. She continued down the hallway to the last door and pushed it open.

If Stan got the biggest bedroom, it must be huge, Evie thought. Because the room she was looking at was anything but small. Two large windows dominated the back wall, and a double bed with a delicate gold frame sat between them. The floor, like the rest of the house, was hardwood, except for a dingy Oriental rug that must once have been green. The furniture was painted cream, with gold scalloped edges. A few pictures in tiny frames hung on the walls, but mostly they were papered over with pages from Seventeen magazine and Tiger Beat. Advertisements for Maybelline Kissing Potions, and photos of teenaged heartthrobs with mop haircuts, so sun faded that their faces were ghostly white.

Evie touched the bloom of a mummified rose on the dresser, felt it crumble under her fingertips. Next to it lay an old photograph, its corners brown and curling. It was a picture of a girl she’d seen many times before, with a serious face and long, ginger hair. She was sitting in this very room, gazing out one of the windows to the woods beyond.

Evie felt a strange tingling in her stomach as she realized:

This was Holly’s room.

The bedroom of a lost girl.

2

Holly Hobbie. The Lost Girl of Ravenglass.

Evie had first heard the story when she was a little girl, just old enough to be curious about the things her mother talked about behind closed doors. Holly was Mom’s and Aunt Martha’s cousin—​her mother, Elizabeth Hobbie, was their aunt, and Holly her only child. When they were young, Martha and Lynne had sometimes come to Ravenglass for Christmas. Aunt Martha was older by five years, but Lynne and Holly had been close in age.

But that all ended forty years ago, when Holly was just fifteen years old.

Since then, Mom had never returned to this place. Not once.

Eventually, after Great-​Aunt Elizabeth and Great-​Uncle Dan moved away, Aunt Martha came and never left.

Evie looked at the room with new eyes.

In all the years of her life, the few times Holly had come up in conversation between Aunt Martha and her mother, or anyone else, no one ever referred to Holly in the past tense. Since she was never found, and a body never recovered, Holly seemed to exist in a nebulous place between life and death.

Like Schrödinger’s cat, she thought. It was something that her science teacher had told her about once—​a thought experiment about a cat inside a box that is simultaneously alive and dead.

She set her duffel down on the bed and was about to head back downstairs when she heard something.

A soft, rhythmic sound.

It was coming from the closet.

Evie’s heart thrummed, but she moved toward the door. It was already ajar. She pulled it open with a jerk and stepped back. A pair of flashing eyes looked out at her from the darkness within.
Evie sighed with relief. It was just a cat.

“Hello, you. Come on out now. Oh, what have you got there?”

After a moment, the cat padded out of the closet. It was an orange tabby, its long fur matted in parts, a notch missing from one ear. When it saw Evie, it dropped something small and wet at her feet.

It was a dead mole, eyeless and torn almost in two. The cat, its mouth covered in blood, sat with its tail curled primly, and began to bathe itself with its neat pink tongue.

Evie drew back, repulsed. But the cat only purred, winding around her ankles. “Gross,” she said, looking around for something to pick up the bloody bundle. But all the cleaning supplies were still packed. “Don’t go anywhere,” she told the cat.

Downstairs, Mom had finished wiping down the table and countertops and had started to separate the boxes into piles for each room. “These are yours,” she told Evie, pointing to a small mountain. “You can start taking them up.”

Evie opened her mouth to say that there was a stray cat living in her room but decided against it. Her mother had never let them have pets in New York, and Evie wasn’t about to let her kick this one out on day one. “Okay,” Evie said, reaching for a roll of paper towels. “I just need to—”

“On second thought, don’t worry about the boxes right now. The sun’s going down and none of us have eaten dinner yet. Can you pick something up for us from that little place down the street? I think it’s only, like, half a mile away or so.”

Evie shrugged. “Sure,” she said. The best thing about growing up in New York was that parents got used to the idea of sending their kids out into the world without supervision. Evie had started riding the subway alone when she was only twelve. Walking down the street in a small town was nothing compared with downtown Manhattan during rush hour.

“Take your phone with you,” her mother said, pressing two twenty-​dollar bills into her hand. “And don’t get me anything spicy.”
 
The neon sign for Birdie’s Diner glowed like a beacon at the edge of town. Above the name, written in curling red letters, the outline of a yellow bird flicked back and forth—​first at rest, and then with its wings outstretched, ready to fly.

The diner reminded Evie of a boxcar, abandoned by some old freight train, left to sink its wheels into the earth and never move again. The golden stripes above and below its windows were freshly painted, but its silver roof was tarnished like an old spoon. Half a dozen cars were parked in front, and Evie was greeted by a wave of heat and friendly noise as she walked inside.

Above the red vinyl booths brimming with customers, a froth of multicolored paper lanterns hung, illuminating the diner with a warm, muted light. A long white counter dominated the place, with little silver-​and-​red stools lined up in front of it. Alongside the chatter, an oldies radio station played on unseen speakers, adding to the sense of bygone nostalgia. Behind the counter, a stout, pink-​cheeked woman in a sauce-​spattered apron bustled about, calling out orders to the cooks in the kitchen and the waitresses flitting from table to table in canary-​yellow uniforms. Her raven-​black hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck with a pencil stuck in it. The little name tag pinned to her apron said BIRDIE.

“Order up!” Birdie called, slinging two bowls of steaming food onto a tray. “Two kimchi bokkeumbap for table four!”

The savory, spicy smell that wafted past Evie’s nose as the waitress carried it away made her mouth water. She walked up to the woman a little timidly, and said, “Excuse me.”

Birdie turned her dark eyes on Evie and cocked her head to the side. “You’re new,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Oh, yes. I’m Evelyn Archer—​Evie. My family just moved into Hobbie House this afternoon. We’re starved, so we thought—”

“Hobbie House?” Birdie said, her eyebrows rising. She turned toward the end of the counter, where Evie realized an elderly woman was sitting at a small table next to the kitchen. She wore a floral housedress and cardigan, and looked like a smaller, older version of Birdie herself. “Umma!” Birdie shouted, followed by a string of Korean that Evie didn’t understand.

The elderly woman glanced over somewhat vaguely and nodded before turning back to stare out the window in front of her.

“Mama Bird used to know the people who lived there,” Birdie said to Evie. “They would come here to eat back when she ran this place.” A pained look passed over her face. “She won’t remember that, though. Dementia.” The clatter of a plate landing behind her on the pass broke her out of her thoughts. “So, you want to eat? How many people?”

“Three . . .”

“Ten minutes,” Birdie said. She scribbled something on a little notepad and slapped it on the pass between her and the kitchen.

“B­but don’t I have to order?” Evie stammered. “Isn’t there a menu?”

“No menu,” Birdie said, waving her hand as if swatting a fly. “I’ll give you something, you’ll like it. Okay?” Before Evie could reply, Birdie had already turned away to grab takeout bags for another customer who had just walked in.

“Um . . . okay,” Evie said to no one in particular, and moved over to lean against one of the stools at the counter. She looked around. Most of the customers were couples or families, all except for one girl who sat in a booth by herself, typing furiously on her laptop. She looked about Evie’s age and was the kind of girl she expected to see back in New York, not here. She wore a black knitted cap, and the short, curly hair that spilled out from under it was seafoam green. She seemed to be oblivious to everything around her. After a moment, she stopped and turned her face until she was looking straight at Evie with large, round eyes.

Evie looked away quickly—​she’d been staring. She was studying some interesting-​looking wooden masks on the wall when she felt someone slip next to her.

“Hey,” a voice said. “Farmgirl.”

Evie turned to see the girl standing next to her, sipping at a glass of some kind of pink milkshake from a straw. “What?” Evie said.

“New here, huh?” the girl said.

Evie rolled her eyes. “I know this is a small town, but you’ve got to have some random people show up sometimes, don’t you?”

The girl shook her head. “Not in the fall. Summer people, yes. But they stop coming after Labor Day.”

“Well, I’m not a farmgirl, anyway. We just moved here from New York City.”

“Nah,” the girl replied. “You look like you should be holding a newborn lamb or standing in a field of wheat.”

Evie glanced down at her chunky brown sweater and floral blouse and sighed. “It’s the freckles, isn’t it?”

“Hey, it’s not a bad thing. Who doesn’t love lambs?” She took a long sip from her drink.

“What are you drinking?”

“It’s Korean strawberry milk. Want some?” She held it out for Evie.

Evie laughed awkwardly. “You don’t even know me.”

The girl shrugged and stuck out her hand. “Tina Sànchez, and you?”

Evie shook it. “Evie Archer. Nice to meet you.”

Tina pointed the drink toward her again. “How about now?”

Who is this girl? Evie thought, but she couldn’t help but smile. She leaned forward and took a sip of the drink. It was sweet and creamy, touched with the tartness of fresh strawberries. “Wow, it’s really good,” she said.

“I’m addicted to them,” Tina said, staring into the glass. “Be careful or you will be, too. So, where’s your new place? Edgewood? The Glade?”

“No,” Evie said, still relishing the taste in her mouth. “We just moved into Hobbie House.”

Tina froze midsip. She set the glass down on the counter and stared at Evie in a way that made her squirm. “No way,” she breathed. “You moved into Horror House?”

Evie winced.

“Wait—​the psychic, right? Madame Martha. Are you her niece?”

“I am,” Evie said warily. “You know Aunt Martha?”

Tina raised an eyebrow. “I’m the police chief’s daughter. I know everybody. And all their skeletons.” She took Evie by the wrist and pulled her back to the empty booth.

“But, I have to—” Evie protested.

“Sit,” Tina commanded.

Evie sat.

“You know about that house, right?” Tina asked in a low voice.

“About Holly? Yeah, I mean, I know what my mom told me, which isn’t much. Just that Holly disappeared from her bedroom back in the eighties and was never found.”

Tina’s jaw dropped. “Are you seriously telling me you never did a deep internet search on this? You are a farmgirl.” She pulled her laptop toward her.

What if I don’t want to know? Evie thought, but she said nothing.

A minute later, Tina turned the laptop to face Evie. “There, it was right in the Boston Globe archives.”

Warily, Evie lowered her eyes to the screen and began to read. It was a scanned copy of the front page of the paper from December 19, 1982. A single headline dominated the front page: “Hope Fades as Months Pass since Teen’s Mysterious Disappearance.”

Ravenglass, Mass. It has been more than eight weeks since fifteen­year-​old Holly Hobbie—​known by many as the Lost Girl of Ravenglass—​vanished from inside her home, a story that has captivated the nation ever since. What could have been a standard missing-​person case quickly garnered national attention when details of Holly’s disappearance and the history surrounding her house were revealed.

Holly’s parents, Elizabeth and Daniel Hobbie, who had reported a disturbance in their home that evening, told authorities that their daughter had been in her bedroom when she screamed. When they reached the bedroom, they added, Holly was not there, nor was she anywhere in the house. Despite claims from Mr. and Mrs. Hobbie that Holly could not have left the house without their knowledge, Ravenglass police chief Richard Dixon told reporters at the time that they were exploring all possible avenues, including the possibility that Holly ran away from home. Many expected her to reappear within twenty-​four hours. However, those hopes faded quickly as days passed with no sign of the missing girl.

Holly’s parents were under investigation for a brief time, dragging the two into the national spotlight, but without evidence, the investigation was dropped.

Holly Hobbie’s disappearance raised suspicions, and a touch of fear, for some residents of Ravenglass who are familiar with the local legend tied to that very house. First built in the mid-nineteenth century, the house is a historic landmark that had a story of its own long before the Hobbies lived there.

According to legend, the original occupant of the home in the 1850s was discovered inside the home, dead from a shotgun wound. His murder was never solved, and his only child—​a young girl colloquially called the Patchwork Girl for the dress she had always worn—​disappeared the same day, never to be found.

There has been no further investigation into Holly’s whereabouts. She is remembered by her family and friends as an Honor Roll student who loved animals and considered herself an amateur local historian . . .

“Order up for Evie Archer!” Birdie called from the counter.

“I’ve got to go,” Evie said to Tina, standing. “My mom is waiting.”

Tina sighed. “Fine, but you’re not getting away from me that easily. Will you be going to RHS on Monday?”

“Yeah, sophomore year.” Evie wasn’t thrilled to be starting at Ravenglass High nearly a month after the school year had started—​being the “new girl” was hard enough without it being so obvious.

“Oh, awesome!” Tina replied. “I’ll see you there. We have a lot to talk about.”

Evie turned away, her happiness at already having a friend in Ravenglass tempered by what she’d read about Hobbie House. Does it really matter what happened there forty years ago? she wondered. Evie didn’t think so. The past was dead and gone. Evie had no interest in looking back.

She was making her way to the counter when a hand grabbed her by the arm. Evie turned to see Birdie’s elderly mother looking up at her from her chair, her eyes cloudy with cataracts.

“Holly,” she said, her voice a harsh rasp. “I haven’t seen you in so long.” Her grip was remarkably strong.

Evie blinked down at her. “What? No, I’m not—”

“Come closer,” Mama Bird said, motioning.

Evie swallowed and bent down until her ear was next to the old woman’s lips. “I want to tell you a secret, Holly. Can you keep a secret?”

Suddenly the air inside the diner felt hot and close, the friendly chatter too loud. “Yes,” Evie whispered, despite herself.

“Evie Archer!” Birdie’s voice cut through the moment, and Evie stood up straight, her heart pounding.

“I’m sorry,” Evie said to the older woman, pulling away. But Mama Bird would not let go. Her gnarled fingers dug into the meat of Evie’s arm.

“Oh, Umma . . . ,” Birdie said when she caught sight of them. She hurried out from behind the counter and laid a smooth white hand over her mother’s wizened one, whispering in Mama Bird’s ear until the grip on Evie’s arm relaxed. “She doesn’t mean any harm,” Birdie said, patting her mother on the shoulder. “Just gets confused sometimes.” She walked back to the front counter and grabbed a bulging yellow plastic bag. “Better take your food before it gets cold. Gamja hot dogs are best piping hot!”

“Gamja—?” Evie started to say.

“Hot dogs on sticks covered in French fries.” She handed the bag to Evie. “I dare you to eat just one.”

Evie took the bag with a smile. The smell coming from it was making her mouth water. “Thanks,” she said, paying the bill. “I can’t wait to try it.”

“Hurry home now,” Birdie said. “I don’t know what it’s like where you came from, but here in Ravenglass, when night falls—​it falls fast.”
 
Outside, the day was dying. The last few rays of light burned like embers on the horizon, and a chill wind blew through the trees, making Evie quickly regret leaving the warmth of the diner. She walked briskly back up the street toward the narrow lane to Hobbie House, the heavy bag of food bouncing against her leg.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out quickly, hoping it was a message from one of her friends. But it was just her mother, texting to ask if Evie was on her way home. Evie replied, stuck the phone back in her pocket, and sighed.

She could hardly believe that just this morning, she had been saying goodbye to her home in New York, her voice echoing in the once cluttered apartment that was now empty. It was as if a knife had come down and severed her old life, leaving her to stumble into this new one.

Tina’s reaction to the fact that she’d moved into Hobbie House worried her. She’d thought that after forty years, no one would care about the checkered history of the house, but clearly at least some people still did.

More than anything, Evie wanted to be anonymous. To dive under the surface of the world, let the waves pass over her and crash against someone else’s shore. She didn’t want to be that girl.

The girl who lives in the Horror House.

The wind picked up, rushing through the trees like a roll of thunder, sending a maelstrom of leaves across her path, along with the heavy smell of flowers and rot. The night had deepened so softly that Evie hadn’t noticed how dark it had become. In New York, it was never dark or quiet. There were always the sounds of cars passing, of people in the street, and the low rumble of the subway passing deep beneath the earth. But here, the darkness was so thick she could almost touch it, the shadows so impenetrable that they could hide almost anything within them. Here, she could hear her every breath, and every snapping twig made her wonder what might be out there, watching her.

She started to walk a little faster.

Finally, she reached the end of the lane and saw Hobbie House, lights blazing in every window. It looked so different lit up in the night, like some ancient creature awoken after a century of slumber.

I’m home, she thought, and the word was strange, like an ill-​fitting coat. Her mother opened the kitchen door, and light spilled out from inside to meet her.US

Additional information

Weight	11.0896 oz
Dimensions	0.8125 × 5.0833 × 8.2500 in
Series	Holly Horror
Imprint	Penguin Workshop
ISBN-13	09780593523537
ISBN-10	0593523539
Author	Michelle Jabès Corpora
Audience	Teenage
BISAC	YAF045000, YAF039000
Subjects	fiction books, halloween books for teens, teen horror books, horror books for teens, horror books for adults, adventure books, horror novels, books for 13 year old boys, books for 14 year old girls, teen fiction books, books for 13 year old girls, books for 12 year old girls, good books for teens, young adult novels, adventure, young adult fantasy books, horror books, celebrity books, young adult fiction, scary books, action adventure, fantasy books, fantasy books for teens, YAF039000, creepy, supernatural, YAF045000, horror
Format	General Trade