Ghost Town Read Online Free Page B

explained. “So the garbage photo . . . what are you going to do with it?” He sounded genuinely interested, if a bit amused.
    â€œI’ll probably go into it on Photoshop on my computer. Change the color of the ice cream. Maybemake it rainbow-striped to contrast with the sun-bleached planks of the boardwalk.” The words tumbled out as I explained. I loved manipulating images. Changing reality.
    â€œThat’s kind of a cheat, don’t you think?” he asked. “I don’t believe in doctoring photos. I show things the way they are. I photograph nature. Fish, shells, the dunes, seagulls—”
    Two young boys pulled their dad to the stand to buy tickets, abruptly ending his rant.
    I wanted to tell him I didn’t think I was cheating. It was art. Or, at least, I hoped it was.
    My mom had been an artist—and a photographer.
    I have photos she took—amazing images where she played with the lighting to create powerful moods. My favorite photo of hers is of a little porcelain angel figurine. It’s so simple, but so beautiful. It hung over my bed in our old house. I was going to hang it here, too, in my new bedroom.
    â€œYou want to go in?” the boy called to me. “Totally slow today. By the end of the summer, everyone’s over it.” He shrugged. “I’m kind of over it too. The job, I mean.”
    â€œNo thanks.” I’d never been inside a haunted house before. I saw enough scary stuff on a normal day. I couldn’t imagine what I’d encounter in there.
    I raised my camera and focused on an empty saltwater taffy box overflowing with crumpled wrappers. I snapped from several angles.
    â€œMore garbage, huh?” the boy called.
    I glanced back at him. He leaned on the ticket stand and pressed a large button. Several bars of a foreboding melody blared from a nearby loudspeaker. Why was he talking to me? I wondered. As if he could read my mind, he kept talking.
    â€œLook, I’m bored, okay? I’d quit, but I need the money. I’m saving for a new Nikon.” He adjusted the brim of his cap. “You on vacation?”
    â€œNope. We just moved here.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “Cool. I’m David. I’ll be in ninth grade.”
    â€œSara. Seventh.”
    â€œYou should totally check out the haunted house. It may look run-down, but it’s still way scary. It’s a must-see for all the kids who live here!”
    â€œNo thanks.”
    â€œYou chicken?” he teased.
    I shrugged. “Just not interested.”
    â€œIt’s real, you know,” he said. “This house was haunted first, then it became an attraction.”
    That got my attention.
    â€œIn the early 1900s, a ship captain built this house for his young bride. Back then, this house rested on the bluffs, past the lighthouse. Anyway, the captain loved his wife, and they were very happy until”—David paused—“until the night of the big storm.”
    â€œWhat happened?” I couldn’t believe I was asking.
    â€œThe ship was due back on a Friday, which happened to be the captain and his wife’s first wedding anniversary. The wife had prepared a celebratory dinner. She’d set the table. She’d baked a cake. She dressed in her finest dress and waited for her love’s return from the sea. Oops, hang on.” David stopped to sell tickets and usher the visitors into the attraction.
    As I waited, the spots slowly appeared. Dots of light danced before my eyes. A swirling that made me light-headed. I tried to breathe slowly. My stomach swayed and I felt slightly off-balance. I hoped I was just thirsty from the heat.
    I prayed I was just thirsty.
    â€œBut, as I said, there was a storm,” David continued. I tried to focus on his words. “Howling winds. Slashing rain. The wife lit all the lanterns in the house, hoping the warm glow would guide her husband home.”
    David leaned over the stand.