CHAPTER 5

A fire is a very cozy, enchanted kind of place, especially a roaring bonfire surrounded by scouts.

It’s something about the light. Something to do with the smell of kindling and smoke and the leftover traces of the day still lingering in the night air.

As the Lumberjanes’ resident theater director and commentator on all things dramatic, Annabella Panache, would say, it is the ideal stage for a storyteller to spin their web.

Which is fitting, because the storyteller taking the stage was Wren of Zodiac cabin, who happened to be wearing a big spiderweb on her sweater. Because Wren liked things that were a little bit creepy, and spiders, among the many things they are, are also that.

While Mal watched Molly gingerly chewing her charcoal-coated marshmallow, Wren stepped up to the fire.

“I submit to you scouts and phantoms,” she said in a creaky, creepy voice, “a story that’s sure to put ice in your veins and . . . worms in your spaghetti.”

“Worms!” Jo shuddered, because worms really creeped Jo out.

Wren clicked on her flashlight and held it under her chin. “A story of the most haunted spot in all of Miss Qiunzella Thiskwin Penniquiqul Thistle Crumpet’s Camp for Hardcore Lady-Types. The story of . . .”

Wren paused for dramatic effect.

. . .

Ripley popped another marshmallow in her mouth and cozied in between Jo and April.

The fire crackled.

“GHOST CABIN!” Wren’s eyes blazed.

“Ghost Cabin.” Molly looked up from her marshmallow, a little bit of black stuck to her bottom lip.

Mal raised an eyebrow.

“GHOOOOST Cabin!” The flashlight flickered under Wren’s chin. “A wholly haunted habitation in which dwell spirits that stalk campers in the black of night . . .”

Ripley’s eyes were as big as pie plates as she licked the last of her marshmallow off her fingers.

Bubbles, who had managed to secure a marshmallow of his own, chirped nervously.

“The ghosts of Ghost Cabin are here, in the shadows of the places familiar by day but strange in darkness.” Wren’s voice fell to a whisper.

“You can feel them, wisps of air, mysterious frosty breezes,” Wren hissed, a convenient ripple of breeze wafting through the campfire, causing the flames to flash and cast shadows around the scouts, now transfixed.

“You can hear them”—Wren’s voice dropped even lower—“sneaking through your cabins, ghostly bodies hiding in plain sight, crying out in the night . . .”

“GIVE US YOUR SOCKS!” Hes screamed, jumping out from behind the rows of scouts, a ghost sock puppet on each hand.

All scouts in attendance jumped off the log with a sudden JOLT.

“WHAT THE SHIRLEY JACKSON?!” Jo cried.

April, who did not like ghost stories much, as she did not really believe in ghosts, grabbed her chest. “HOLY HEART (the band) ATTACK!”

“Ghosts,” Molly said.

Mal, who could not hear because a very freaked-out raccoon named Bubbles had launched onto her face in a fit of fear, let out a muffled, “What did you say?”

“Ghosts!” Molly repeated, her eyes suddenly alight. “What if it’s GHOSTS?”