They tore down that tree when they sold the house. For a while, kids were daring each other to climb it, or to run and touch it for Ten Mississippi. But when the branches got creaky in the wind, at night … no thanks. Way too easy to imagine six dangling feet above your head, swinging in the breeze.
But honestly? It’s not the ghosts of the Petersons that scares me, or scares most of the kids around here.
It’s Marmalade.
See, they never did find her after that night. It’s like she vanished. I mean, people looked, believe me. They searched Ms. Grimmel’s house up and down. She was kind of an outcast after all that, anyway. Kept to herself. No more visitors. No more porch visits.
I mean, they searched the whole neighborhood. For weeks! It was crazy. But, you know, after a while, after some people moved away and others went to jail and stuff, people stopped looking. They figured she was dead or had run away, gone to bother some other poor neighborhood with her miracle cures.
Still, there is one strange thing. Something that still goes on, even now.
…
Yeah … yeah, okay.
So, the stories I’ve heard, from lots of people, say that if you’re ever really sick … like, bedridden with the flu or chicken pox or whatever? They say that sometimes, usually at night if you’re sick like that, you’ll hear Marmalade.
You’ll hear her trying to get into your room.
Trying to get to you.
I’ve heard a few different stories. Some people hear meowing, but they can never tell where it’s coming from. Sometimes it’s outside, sometimes from behind a closed closet door. One kid I know, Sally Hopper? She was laid up with a bad fever once, and she heard the meowing one night. She said it was coming from under the bed.
Other people say they’ve heard scratching at their windows. Like, nails scraping against the glass, or picking away at the screen. One guy said he heard her pawing at his bedroom door, scratching at the wood, wanting to get inside. He said when he sat up, he could see her shadow beneath the door, like he was supposed to get up and let her in.
Hey, maybe whoever reads your book will hear her, too.
Stranger things have happened, right?
Personally, if I’m ever really sick—like, dying—and I hear Marmalade coming for me? I’m gonna let her in. I’d risk losing my soul if it meant staying alive.
Wouldn’t you?
…
I don’t know, you just got to believe, I guess. Believe she can heal you.
Believe in miracles.
…
Come on, don’t say that. You gotta have faith in something, right?
Might as well be a damn cat.
THE GUARDIAN
“WELCOME TO PARADISE!”
Eva gripped the chrome handrail and stood, bare feet balancing on the boat’s laminate floor. Their bronze, shirtless guide eased them into a cove and the small island—which had appeared as nothing more than a thatch of dense palm trees ten minutes ago—took on more dimension and character.
The edges of the cove extended into the ocean like rocky arms sprung with saplings. At the center of its embrace lay a strip of sand that grew as the boat cruised ever closer.
A beach, Eva noted with pleasure.
When they’d decided to give into the local man’s sales pitch of taking them to a secluded, uninhabited beach for the afternoon, she had been worried about being ripped off, or worse, but it seemed the guy wasn’t pulling their leg after all.
Looks amazing, she thought, and turned excitedly toward Bryce, who now stood beside her. His face showed his own surprise and delight. “Pretty cool, huh?” she said, and he nodded in return. She noticed with a stab of lust how much the vacation agreed with him—his blue eyes bright chips of ice in his tanned face, his russet hair mussed by saltwater wind, his smile white as the frothy wave tips they were cutting through.
Privately, Eva hoped this would be the trip, when he’d finally sneak a ring into his pocket to spring on her at the apex of a breathtaking hike, or during an after-dinner stroll along a night-soaked beach.
Now that they’d been here a week, she found it hard to believe she hadn’t been initially sold on a vacation in Bora Bora. When Bryce brought the destination up on Google, she’d physically sickened at the idea of being stuck in the middle of a vast ocean on a pinprick of island, hundreds of miles from any major land mass—and that’s if you counted New Zealand or Hawaii, both glorified islands themselves.
But when they finally arrived, and she’d seen the row of thatched cabanas along the thin strip of beach that would be their home for the next two weeks, she’d squealed in delight, already eager to dive into the emerald-green, crystal-clear water.
She turned around and looked past their guide to the two couples seated in the rear, roughly shaded by a makeshift canvas canopy. The quartet looked as tanned and eager as Bryce, and she wondered if her own features shared that healthy sheen, that fervent energy.
It had thrown her at first, the other couples. When the handsome young man, who introduced himself as Manu, first pitched she and Bryce on the trip, he’d made it sound exclusive. But when they arrived that morning, her stomach sank at the sight of two other couples waiting on the dock. She felt better when one of the men looked at the group and, as if reading her mind, as if reading all their minds, turned up his palms and flashed an easygoing smile. “Hey, we’ve paid already, right? So, let’s just hope this is all of us. And look at the bright side,” he said, lightly kicking a cheap Styrofoam cooler at his feet, “you can all share the twelve-pack we already have on ice.”
They all relaxed then, exchanging names and starting to compare their unique invitations when Manu approached, golden-muscled and smiling, his thick dark hair pulled back in a rough ponytail. He wore nothing but a lime-green sarong around his waist and a split-seashell ornament, that looked to Eva like an arts-and-crafts angel, strung to a choker of brown beads at his throat.
