Ghosts of Bergen County by Dana Cann Page A

other children, Sebastian’s brothers and sisters—each older from two years to twelve—watched from a safe distance, peering around corners, because they had each spent time shut in the black basement and did not wish to incur their father’s wrath.
    â€œFerko.”
    He looked up from the book to find Jen’s head in the stairwell. She tromped down the steps in sweats and a T-shirt. She must have kept clothes at her dad’s for her frequent visits (and naps) on the weekends.
    â€œI can’t believe he gave you required reading.”
    â€œHe found the books himself.” Dr. Yoder was at the top of the stairs now, taking them one after another. “Ferko is naturally curious about ghosts.”
    He wasn’t sure if Dr. Yoder was being sarcastic, though it was true enough. Perhaps it showed. “Can I borrow this book?” Ferko asked.
    â€œYou can have it.” Dr. Yoder’s legs were visible now, more and more of him with each step. “I have a box of them in the basement.”
    â€œWe’re going to the pharmacy,” Jen said.
    â€œI’ve got to go,” Ferko said.
    â€œWe’ll meet you out front, Dad.”
    She walked him to his car. “I fell asleep.”
    â€œI wondered.” Her face looked misshapen, her eyes puffy.
    â€œIsn’t my dad sweet?” she said, perking up.
    Ferko waved the book, an affirmative answer.
    She leaned against his car. “We had fun, right?”
    They had, but he wasn’t saying.
    â€œWe should do it again,” she said.
    â€œWill I ever be the same?”
    â€œDon’t be dramatic.”
    Dr. Yoder stood on the steps, locking the front door.
    â€œThanks for the book,” Ferko called.
    â€œNice to see you, Ferko. Stop by anytime.”
    â€œIsn’t that cute?” Jen asked him. “Nice to see you?”
    â€œI heard that,” Dr. Yoder said.
    First, Mary Beth grew hungry. Then she grew tired. Then a shaft of sunlight found its way through the leaves on the trees and fell directly on her arm. She moved out of its way. And all this time, while one baseball game ended and another began, no one came up or down the path or through the woods at all that she could discern. No strangers and no one she knew. No dragonflies flitted by. Or fairies, either. She stood and stretched her legs. She even hopped off the tree, careful not to get her pants caught by the prickles. Then she climbed up again and sat, and the girl was standing in front of her.
    Mary Beth nearly fell to the ground.
    â€œWhy are you here?” the girl said. Her hair was still in pigtails, the same fuzzy braids as the day before.
    Mary Beth recovered. “I’m waiting for you.”
    â€œIt’s my house, not yours.” The girl looked at the fallen tree.
    â€œOf course,” Mary Beth said. She shifted backward on the tree to give the girl room to hop on. When the girl didn’t, Mary Beth stood to get off.
    â€œYou’re invited to stay.” The girl put her hand on the tree to claim her space. “For tea.”
    â€œOkay.” Mary Beth sat again. The tree shaft here was narrower, and Mary Beth straddled it like the back of a horse. The girl sat cross-legged and faced her.
    She made an elaborate show of preparing the tea—filling the kettle with water and putting it on the flame—and while they waited for the water to boil Mary Beth thought of things she might say (she had a lot of questions), though she didn’t wish to ask them in a way that would upset the girl and destroy the camaraderie they were now developing. Mary Beth had just come up with a question she thought innocent enough and nonthreatening—what plans did the girl have for the summer?—when the girl began to whistle, a single, unsteady note, like a boiling teakettle.
    â€œOh,” Mary Beth said.
    â€œThe tea is ready.”
    The girl placed teacups on saucers and poured the tea, slowly and