The 12 Screams of Christmas Read online

  The last thing I saw was that floppy, red cap.

  Ned and I both gasped when we heard the splash. It sounded far away, deep at the bottom of the well. The most chilling sound I’d ever heard.

  “Ohhhh.” A moan of horror escaped my open mouth.

  Ned and I flew to the well. I leaned over the edge and peered down. “Flora? Flora? Can you hear me?” My voice echoed, sounding deep and hollow as it traveled down to the bottom.

  I heard shouts. Ma and Pa were running out from the back of the house.

  “What happened?” Ma cried. Her long gray skirt scraped over the grass. Her hands were clasped in front of her apron. “Where’s Flora? What happened?”

  Pa ran up to Ned and me at the well, his face grim, his lips tight together. Ma hung back, wringing her hands. Her lips were moving in a silent prayer.

  “Flora — we’ll get you out!” Pa screamed. “We’ll save you. Can you hear me? We’ll save you!”

  I squinted down to the well bottom. The dark storm clouds overhead made it difficult to see. But I could hear Flora splashing in the water down there. Wild, frantic splashes.

  I could see her red cap, gray in the dim light, bobbing and spinning.

  And I heard her high, shrill screams: “Get me out! Get me out!”

  “Do something! Do something!” Ma shrieked, her hands knitting around each other.

  Pa blinked. I could see the fear in his eyes.

  My stomach had tightened into a knot. My throat closed shut. I had to force myself to breathe.

  “Get me out!” Flora’s voice sounded so tiny and far away. The splash of the water down at the well bottom grew faster, more frantic.

  “I … don’t have a rope long enough to reach her,” Pa said. I saw tears form over his eyes.

  “The bucket!” Ma screamed. “Send it down. Send the bucket down to her!”

  Yes. The bucket. She could grab on to it and we could pull her up.

  Pa snapped out of his panic. He leaned over and grabbed the bucket off the well wall. He lowered it into the well. Then he grabbed the iron crank at the side of the well with both hands and began to turn it.

  “Flora! Can you hear me?” he called, his voice trembling. “I’m sending the bucket down. Grab on to it.”

  “Get me out!” Flora screamed.

  “Hold on to the bucket. We’ll pull you up!” I cried. I listened to my voice echo down to the bottom. I was sure she heard me. She had to hear me.

  Pa cranked and the thick rope moved, lowering the big wooden bucket to the bottom. His face reddened as he cranked as hard and fast as he could.

  “Grab the bucket! Grab the bucket!” Ned and I shouted down to our sister.

  Pa uttered a groan as we heard the bucket splash down.

  Squinting, I could see the bucket bobbing in the ink-black water. And I could see Flora’s cap and then her hands wrapping around the top of the bucket.

  “Hold on!” I cried. “Hold on! Pa will pull you up!”

  Pa lowered his shoulders to the crank. “She’s coming up,” he called to Ma. “I’m pulling her up.” His face was bright red and tears rolled down his cheeks.

  He turned the crank with both hands, strained at it, tugged it as fast and hard as he could.

  “Hold on!” I called down to my sister. “Hold on, Flora. Pa is pulling you up.”

  Ned let out a cheer. Flora, gripping the sides of the bucket, was halfway up. Pa cranked harder. She was sliding up. Her dress was soaked, sending a trail of water to the bottom.

  “Hold on! Hold on! You’re almost here!” I cried.

  I gasped when I heard the sharp snap.

  I knew immediately what had happened. I saw the stub of frayed rope. I saw my sister and the bucket start to drop.

  “The rope broke!” Pa wailed. He still had his hands on the crank.

  The rope had snapped. And the three of us stared in silent horror as Flora plunged back down the well, hitting the water with a splash that sent up a tall wave.

  “Do something!” Ma shrieked.

  “We don’t have a long rope!” Pa cried. “We don’t have anything to pull her up. Maybe Mr. Powell down the road? I could jump in the carriage and —”

  “No time,” Ma murmured, shaking her head. “No time, Pa.”

  Ned and I stared at each other, mouths open, holding on to the cold stones.

  And from down below, Flora’s terrified voice rang in my ears:

  “Get me out! Get me out! Get me out! Get me out! Get me out! Get me out! Get me out! Get me out! Get me out! Get me out! Get me out! Get me out!”

  Okay, I was late. It happens.

  But I didn’t want to be late this afternoon. I knew my friend Jack Hopper was waiting at my house. He was doing me a favor, helping me rehearse. And I needed the help. I really wanted to get this part in the middle school Christmas play.

  But sometimes fate is cruel.

  I wrote that on my Facebook page a few weeks ago. I’m not sure why. A bad mood, I guess. My friend Carol Ann made me delete it. She said, “Kate, it’s too dark. And you’re not a dark type of person.”

  That’s true.

  I’m Kate Welles. I’m twelve and I’m not a flake or a rah-rah cheerleader type. But I’m usually the cheerful one in the group.

  Except when Courtney Smith is around. Courtney was the reason I was late getting home.

  She and I got into an argument after school. Don’t even ask me what it was about. Face facts. I’m always getting into arguments with Courtney. Seriously. She’s the definition of the word frenemy.

  Well, Mrs. Wentz — good old Mrs. Wentz with her good posture and short blond-highlighted hair and orange lipstick that doesn’t suit her at all — she doesn’t like to see her sixth graders fighting in the hall. (Actually, I like Mrs. Wentz despite her lipstick and her weird laugh that sounds like she’s puking.)

  But she stomped into the hall and separated Courtney and me. And when we couldn’t remember what we were arguing about, she made us stay after school to think about it.

  Of all days to be late. My house is pretty far from school. But Mom doesn’t like to drive in snow, so I had to walk.

  The ground was covered with four or five inches of snow, and the wind had blown drifts along the curb nearly up to my knees. It was the first snowfall for my new Ugg boots, and the one on the right was pinching my toes.

  Aren’t your feet supposed to be the same size as each other?

  The sun was out. The snow had ended that morning. But the wind was lifting sheets of snow off the ground and swirling them around me. My parka was covered in tiny snowflakes. I kept rubbing my nose because it was numb from the cold.

  The play auditions were scheduled for after dinner at the school. It was already four o’clock. Not much time to rehearse with Jack.

  I decided to take the shortcut home.

  This wasn’t an easy decision for me. I brushed snow off my forehead and stared at the cemetery gate. Was I really desperate enough to cut through the cemetery?

  Well, in a word, yes.

  When was the last time I took the shortcut through this old graveyard? In the fall, just before school began.

  That’s when I had the most frightening moment of my life. Seriously. The most surprising and the most frightening.

  I hadn’t dared to come back this way since. In fact, I always walked two blocks out of my way to avoid the cemetery.

  I squinted through the iron gate and saw a scrawny gray squirrel standing erect — erect as Mrs. Wentz — on a snowbank, staring back at me. His tail stood up straight. He didn’t move a muscle.

  Did he think I couldn’t see him?

  “Don’t ever play hide-and-seek,” I called to him. “You’d stink at it.”

  That sent him scampering over the snow. I watched him till he vanished behind a tilted gravestone.

  I gripped the iron gate, wrapping my gloved hand around the frozen handle. I could feel my heartbeats pick up speed. My whole body shivered.

  Kate,
what happened last fall won’t happen again.

  I talk to myself a lot, but it seldom does any good. I’m a tense kid. I know it. But I have good reason to be tense.

  The gate was stuck in a snowdrift. I kicked snow away, then tugged with all my strength. Finally, I swung it open wide enough for me to slip inside.

  It won’t happen this time.

  It won’t.

  I took a deep breath and sidestepped into the graveyard. It took me a while to find the path through the graves. The snow rose and fell in hills and valleys. The gravestones had tufts of snow on their tops, as if thick white hair had grown there.

  The snow crunched under my boots. I wanted to walk fast, but I kept slipping and almost losing my balance.

  The wind had been blowing, swirling the snow. But it suddenly stopped, as if someone had flipped a switch and turned it off.

  The new silence made me gasp. Now the only sounds were my shallow breaths, puffing up white steam in front of me, and the steady crunch of my new boots on the snowy path.

  I kept my eyes straight ahead. I tried not to look at the crooked rows of snowy gravestones on both sides of me.

  In front of me, the afternoon sun had lowered. I raised one gloved hand to my forehead to shield my eyes from the blinding glare.

  And that’s when I heard the first low moan.

  Like an animal groan from deep in its throat.

  At first, I pretended I didn’t hear it. I kept my head lowered, my glove shielding my eyes, and trudged steadily forward.

  A second moan made me stop. And then in the windless silence, I heard the chatter of whispers, hushed, raspy voices, muttering and moans and murmurs.

  I couldn’t help it. I opened my mouth in a cry of horror.

  Because I knew it was happening again.

  I turned to the voices. I couldn’t stop myself.

  I squinted at the graves, and I saw them again. Pale, gray figures. I could see right through them.

  The first one that caught my eye was a little girl. She couldn’t have been more than five or six. Wearing a tattered gray smock that came down to her ankles. She stood barefoot in the snow. Her long hair fell over her forehead. I couldn’t see her face at all.

  Did she have a face?

  I saw two men huddled in long overcoats, their heads frozen inside oval blocks of ice. Faces buried in ice, but their lips were moving as if they were having a conversation.

  Two sad-looking women in long black gowns, shaking their heads, shaking, just shaking them. They were barefoot, too, like the little girl. Only they floated six inches above the snow, floated in the air.

  Others perched on their tombstones, faces torn, eyeballs glassy, moaning, moaning up at the bright blue sky.

  I saw two children, the saddest of all. The boy in short pants, his bare legs as white as the snow. He had long icicles hanging from his chin. The girl rocked back and forth on her feet, as if she couldn’t find her balance. She wore a tattered short skirt and gray sweater. Her head was tilted to the sky, and she was crying, sobbing loudly, holding the boy’s hand and wailing.

  Frozen to the spot, gaping in horror, I saw at least a dozen of the sad creatures, maybe more. Some floated above the low hills of snow. Others were half buried in the ground.

  Ghosts. All of them. Cemetery ghosts. And I could see them.

  I didn’t move. I didn’t take a breath. I watched them, my eyes moving from one sad, ugly creature to the next. I could see them so clearly.

  And I realized that I could no longer ignore my special power. I could no longer pretend that I was just a normal sixth-grade girl. I could no longer ignore the frightening truth.

  I can see ghosts.

  It happened before. The first time was at a fifth-grade gymnastics meet. Then, last fall, it happened right here in this old graveyard.

  That’s where I saw the sad children and the pale, mournful-looking adults floating up from their graves. Huddling together, murmuring and whispering, chattering to each other.

  I tried to shut it away, shut it from my mind. I pretended it didn’t happen. And I stayed away from the graveyard. I never came near it.

  Why? Because I didn’t want to be weird. I didn’t want the kids at school to laugh at me and tease me and get on my case.

  Too late for that.

  Courtney and some other kids already call me Ghost Girl. Why? It’s a long story. It started at the fifth-grade overnight last spring.

  I never should have told them what I saw there that night. I should have known that no one would believe me. I should have known they would tease me and laugh at me and never let me forget it.

  Ghost Girl.

  Well, I was definitely seeing ghosts now. Shivering in the middle of a graveyard. The wind picked up again. It appeared to blow right through the ghosts huddled near their graves. They shook and shivered like me.

  I let out a sharp cry when I realized they had all turned away from each other. Now they had their sad, sunken eyes on me.

  They stared in silence. Even the little kids.

  I could see them and they could see me.

  My whole body tingled, not from the cold. I prepared myself to run. Would my legs work? Was I frozen to that spot on the snow-covered path?

  I heard whispers over the howl of the wind.

  “She can see us.”

  “She is watching us.”

  “What does she want? Why is she here?”

  A tall, bearded man in a black overcoat ten sizes too big for him, the sleeves nearly down to the ground, took a silent step toward me. His eyes were wide and glassy. He staggered stiff-legged.

  Stay away. Please — stay away.

  I thought I spoke the words. But I only thought them.

  My brain was frozen. I suddenly felt so helpless. I wanted to move. I wanted to turn and run. But my legs wouldn’t cooperate.

  I stood there trembling as the tall, bearded ghost staggered toward me. And as he moved, he stretched out his arms. Stretched them out stiffly. As if reaching for me.

  His hands were big and bony. Almost like skeleton hands. His fingers twitched as he held the hands straight out in front of him, ready to grab me.

  And still I couldn’t move.

  What strange hold did the ghost have on me? Did he have some supernatural power to keep me in place?

  As he drew nearer, I could hear him grunting. Low grunts like a pig makes when it’s eating.

  Gronnnk grunnnnk grunnnnk.

  The ugly sound sent chills down my back.

  Move, Kate. Run!

  The ghost lurched up to me. He raised his hand. He slid his bony finger down the side of my face.

  And I started to scream.

  “Kate — what’s wrong?”

  “Huh?” I jumped as the voice rang out over the swirling cemetery winds.

  “Kate?”

  The tall, bearded ghost vanished. They all vanished. Disappeared into the piles of cold white snow.

  I spun around. “Jack?”

  He wore a maroon hoodie over his faded jeans. A black leather jacket. His boots tossed back snow as he ran up to me. He pulled back the hood, revealing his straight, copper-colored hair. The sun made his blue eyes glow.

  “Jack? What are you doing here?” My voice came out shrill and high.

  “Trying to find you,” he said. “Are you okay? Why did you scream?”

  I didn’t want to tell him the truth. He didn’t believe me last spring, and he wouldn’t believe me now.

  “I … uh … got some ice in my boots,” I lied. “No biggie, dude.”

  He brushed snow off my shoulder. “You sure you’re not seeing ghosts again?”

  I shook my head. “Why would I see ghosts in a graveyard? That’s the last place I’d look.”

  “You’re weird,” he said. Then he added, “In a good way.”

  “Best compliment I had all day,” I said. I raised my gloved fist and we bumped knuckles.

  We started to walk toward my house. I kept glancing
back. The ghosts didn’t return.

  “How did you know to find me here?” I asked.

  He pulled the hood over his head. “I went to school. I thought maybe you were there. I ran into Carol Ann. She said she thought she saw you walking in this direction.”

  “Courtney made me late,” I explained. “She started an argument with me, and we were shouting at each other a little. You know how it goes with Courtney. And guess who comes by? Mrs. Wentz. She doesn’t like shouting. She kept us there for almost an hour.”

  “Where’s Courtney?” Jack asked.

  “Who cares?” I said.

  He chuckled. We reached the gate on the other side. Jack grabbed the latch and pushed the gate open. I could see my house at the end of the block.

  I turned back one last time. The graveyard stood empty, the snow swirling down the rows of gravestones. No ghosts. I still shivered.

  “I thought you and Courtney were friends,” Jack said, closing the gate behind us.

  “Not anymore,” I said. “I kind of hate her. Well, I don’t really hate her. I just detest her a little.”

  We both laughed. I can be pretty funny. When I’m not scared out of my mind seeing ghosts no one else can see.

  “Seriously,” I said. “She’s just so mean to me. I guess that’s why I want to beat her out for this part in the play. I just want to win something, you know?”

  He nodded.

  “I just need a little bit of good luck,” I said.

  As I said that, a dark shadow slid over the snow in front of me. It took my eyes a few seconds to focus and see that it was a large black cat. Its yellow eyes glowed as it stared up at me. It pulled back its lips, baring its fangs, and hissed.

  I grabbed Jack’s arm.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “That cat,” I said. “It hissed at me.”

  Jack squinted into the snow in front of us. “Cat? What cat? Are you freaking out or something?”

  I sucked in a sharp breath. Jack couldn’t see the black cat. That meant the cat was dead. A ghost.

  It hissed again. Its eyes were locked on mine.

  “Just a shadow,” I said to Jack. “The sun glare off the snow is so bright. Guess I’m seeing things.”