Ghost Town Read Online Free Page A

turned left onto Ocean Grove Road. The houses were smaller and boxier here. The rectangular yards had yellow gravel instead of grass. One yard had an END-OF-SEASON RENTAL sign. The August sun made the pastel houses look as if they belonged in an ice-cream store.
    On the corner, I spotted a green-and-white-striped awning and the sign, ELBER’S CONVENIENCE STORE . Two girls in bikini tops and cutoff shorts pushed open the door, blue Slushies in their hands.
    I turned onto Beach Drive, which seemed to be the main street. I biked past a sandwich shop, ice-cream parlor, bagel store, and three places selling Jersey Shore T-shirts, key chains, and plastic beach shovels and pails. Several gift stores and seafood restaurants were tucked between the tourist shops. I wove around families lugging coolers, beach chairs, and sandy toddlers.
    Beach Drive, I realized, ran parallel to the beach. A couple of blocks down, I turned right and biked under a huge arched sign proclaiming: STELLAMAR BOARDWALK .
    The boardwalk buzzed with elderly people in floppy hats, kids on bikes, and families. Food stands with colorful signs boasting the best pizza, the best Philly cheesesteak, the best fried clams, and the best soft custard lined the weathered-gray planks. The aroma of sausage and peppers mingled with the salty ocean air. Vendors hawked T-shirts and encouraged visitors to play Skee-Ball at the arcade. Over the metal railing, the steely gray Atlantic Ocean stretched to the horizon. Below the boardwalk, the crowded beach was dotted with lifeguard stands and colorful towels. Farther down, a small red-and-white lighthouse rose from a rocky jetty.
    â€œHermit crab races!” a man by a booth called to me. “Buy a crab and join the race!” He held up a small hermit crab hiding inside a neon-pink shell.
    I shook my head and pedaled on.
    A pier jutted off the boardwalk forming a T . I parked my bike in a nearby rack and began to walk. Pulling my digital camera from my shorts pocket, Isurveyed the activity through the lens. The small pier held more food stands, plus games of chance, several rides, and a Ferris wheel.
    I snapped a panoramic photo of a row of colorful stuffed monkeys at the softball-toss booth, then a close-up shot of pink crystallized sugar at the cotton-candy stand. I had gotten really into photography this year, but I only took photos of objects. Never people.
    I sat on a bench and felt a trickle of sweat glide down my neck. Pulling an elastic from my wrist, I gathered my hair into a high ponytail. I wasn’t used to the East Coast stickiness. The air thickened around me. I felt heaviness on all sides. I couldn’t see them, but I could sense them. This was much more than humidity.
    The dead were everywhere in this old town.
    I forced myself to focus on something else. I snapped several shots of ice cream melting in a paper bowl alongside a garbage can.
    â€œAre you really taking pictures of garbage?” someone suddenly asked from behind me.
    I whirled around, startled.
    A boy a few years older watched me from theticket stand of a haunted house. My eyes widened. I hadn’t realized that I was sitting directly in front of a haunted house. I hate haunted houses. For obvious reasons.
    â€œThe garbage?” the boy said again. He wore a black baseball cap that had MIDNIGHT MANOR—YOUR SCREAM AT THE BEACH embroidered in green. “What are you going to do with those photos?”
    â€œI make collages,” I said softly.
    â€œCollages? Really?”
    I hesitated. I wasn’t big on talking to people I didn’t know. Remember what I said before about being quiet but not shy? Well, maybe I’m a little shy sometimes. He looked nice enough—brown curly hair, greenish eyes, very tan—but still . . .
    He reached under the rickety stand and pulled out a serious-looking camera complete with a zoom lens. Way more advanced than my pocket-size digital. “I take photographs too,” he