Ghost Ship of the Bay

By John Bachkosky & Phil Richardson  

Two months in, and you’d think that high school would even start to feel less stressful. Or more familiar. Or anything.

No.

High school is an ever-changing warzone between people who think they’re cool, people who want to be cool, and people who don’t care to be cool. The cafeteria is the prime battleground, with groups unofficially declaring dominion over tables, staking claim to their piece of land as others float aimlessly in search of safe harbor.

I’m lucky enough to be one of those floaters.

Most freshmen start high school at fourteen, with bright, innocent eyes and a mind that has not yet begun to view the world cynically. But thanks to my dad and his patriotic desire to “defend our country” (he currently does some admin job for the Navy), the Price family has bounced around so much that I somehow ended up a fifteen-year-old freshman at Annapolis High School.

My dad claims that, “We won’t move again, since I’ll hit my twenty years here and then I’ll retire.” I believe him, because I’ve seen the look in his eyes. He’s thrilled to be stationed in Annapolis, specifically at the Naval Academy. He’s already been to two Navy football games and has the rest of the home games on the paper calendar my mom insists on keeping in the kitchen.

So for the first time, despite being a floating loner in the cutthroat society of high school, I, Olivia Price, am eager to find a safe harbor of my own.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy—most of these kids know each other from one of two middle schools that feed into here—so I’ve been biding my time. I’ve made a few friends in class, but it’s only mid-October. Those sorts of things take time.

Today though, I get lucky. Two girls from my precalculus class—one of which is on the JV soccer team with me—wave me over to their table. They’re nice, though I get the sense they’re only including me because I have the “older girl” vibes that a single year brings when you’ve only lived fifteen of them. But I’m not picky. Safe harbor is safe harbor.

I sit down next to my teammate, Alyssa, whose curly blonde hair, bright brown eyes, and slightly-overdone makeup makes me look specifically designed to be her opposite: straight brown hair, deep blue eyes, and no makeup at all. I don’t need to impress anyone. I want people to like me for me.

“I heard Mr. Harris is out today,” another girl at the table says, not looking up from her phone. I think her name is Elise.

“Nice,” Alyssa says. “Sub days are the best. I hate precalculus anyways.”

“Same,” I say. In truth I don’t mind math, but I want to stay on this island for now, so I play along. “But at least after this we only need to take one more math class.”

“True,” Alyssa says. “Elise, did you see the picture Abbie put in her story?”

“Yeah, it’s kinda weird…” Elise says.

The rest of lunch is filled with the same level of deep and worldly conversation, interrupted after a time by the first bell, letting us know we have five minutes to get to class. It’s always fun to watch the entire cafeteria attempt to leave at the same time, their tables suddenly meaningless as they attempt to pour into the halls through two sets of double doors.

“Wait,” I say, grabbing Alyssa, who quickly taps Elise on the shoulder. I point to the crowd. “That’s annoying. Let’s go the back way.”

Alyssa raises an eyebrow at Elise, then shrugs. The two of them follow me out the back of the cafeteria and into the crisp fall air. The blue-painted metal door pushes aside a smattering of multicolored leaves as we emerge, and a light, crisp breeze throws a few more from the trees that surround the school and onto the soccer field. As we walk around the side of the low brick building, I watch a few spin and fall lazily to the ground. I’ve always loved fall, and today’s weather—for which my favorite purple sweater is suited—is a prime example of why. Alyssa and Elise even look up from their phones for a minute.

I locate the door I’m looking for and pull it open, bringing us to the exact hallway we need, just two doors down from our classroom. I’m remiss to leave the mid-October chill behind, but the door slams shut with one final whoosh, cutting me off from the crisp fall air.

A minute later, we’re in our seats, waiting to see which substitute teacher will appear. Apparently some substitutes around here have a bit of a reputation, and when a bald man in a tweed jacket walks in carrying nothing but a white coffee cup, I watch several of my classmates smile and relax. Apparently we got a good draw from the sub pool today.

“Yes!” Elise exclaims quietly. “We have Mr. McGill.”

Mr. McGill sits down at Mr. Harris’s desk and picks up a piece of paper. “You all came from lunch? It’s only eleven!”

A couple of my classmates chuckle, including the boy who sits directly to my right. His name is Noah Blackwood, and his laugh in particular is one of those infectious ones that you can’t help but laugh along with. His eyes are a dark green, the kind that are hard to not look at constantly. His messy brown curls are fun to watch bob around as he energetically…

“Precalculus, huh?” Mr. McGill asks, breaking my train of thought and picking up a textbook. I realize I’ve been staring at Noah and quickly turn away, hiding my reddening cheeks as our substitute opens the book and flips through the first couple of pages. “It’s Thursday, which is basically Friday since you only have this class every other day…how about instead of math, we do something a little more on theme for the season?”

A few cheers go up, and textbooks get put back into backpacks. Mine included. I’m more than happy to blow off the next hour and ten minutes doing whatever this guy has in store.

“Seeing as Halloween is next week, why don’t we forget math and enjoy some spooky, scary stories?” He takes a sip of his coffee and continues, “Anyone have one they want to share?”

Three hands go up, and Mr. McGill points to one at random. “You, in the thematically appropriate orange shirt. Whatcha got?”

A kid in the back of the room whose name I don’t know leans forward and says, “How about the Legend of Sleepy Hollow?”

“A classic,” Mr. McGill says approvingly. “Go ahead.”

The kid begins to read the story of Ichabod Crane and the headless horseman from his phone, utilizing absolutely zero inflection or interesting voices whatsoever. Before the story’s even half over, Mr. McGill waves a hand and interrupts him, asking, “What’s your name, kid?”

“Brian,” he says, looking up in surprise.

“Brian, it takes some impressive talent to take such an interesting and borderline legendary story and turn it into a lullaby,” Mr. McGill says, gesturing to the rest of the class and earning a few laughs from those still paying attention. He then slams a hand down on Mr. Harris’s desk, making all of us jump and bringing the class back to full attention. “Let me show you how to tell a ghost story.”

Mr. McGill sets his coffee down on the desk and walks to the front of the room. His voice takes on a lower, more ponderous tone as he begins to speak. “My father was a fisherman, right here in the bay. I grew up on the Severn, going out on the water with him most weekends. We’d throw some crab pots, reel in some striped bass and even a croaker now and again—delicious by the way. In all those years, we saw plenty of oddities, but none ever came close to the ghost ship.”

Mr. McGill offers a brief pause, and I can’t help but look back at Noah to see how he reacts. Noah leans forward, intent on the bald man’s story. Mr. McGill continues, “I’d heard of the ghost ship, of course. One of many old fisherman’s tales I heard growing up. It’s said that back in the colonial days, a small ship made its way across the Atlantic only to be lost in a bank of fog that rolled in as the crew sought land here in Chesapeake Bay. The boat disappeared, was never found, and nobody aboard was ever heard from again.”

This sent a chill down my spine, and judging by the silence of my classmates, I wasn’t the only one experiencing that.

“Every twenty years or so,” Mr. McGill continues, “Halloween night is lit by a full moon, and it’s under such a moon that the ghost of that old colonial ship can be seen searching for land…never finding it.”

“And you saw it?” Alyssa asks, her eyes glued to Mr. McGill and not her phone, which was a true testament to the substitute’s ability to tell a story.

Mr. McGill grins. “Back in sixty-four, my father decided that I’d outgrown trick-or-treating, so while my mother took my younger sister around house-to-house, my father and I went night fishing out in Whitehall. We worked the pots under the full moon, which illuminated the bay all the way to the horizon. I could just make out Kent Island on the far side…for a while anyways.

“Eventually, and very suddenly, a fog rolled in. One minute I could see the other side of the bay, the next I couldn’t even see the land nearest us. The pale mist engulfed us, and while my father and I waited for it to pass, we saw it. The ghost ship.

“I’ll never forget what I saw. The full moon clear above us, its light unimpeded by any clouds, but the horizon completely obscured by fog…until it broke to reveal the old boat gliding silently across the water. No lights, no sails. Just a wooden boat in search of land.”

“What did you do?” Noah asks, interrupting the dead silence that had befallen our classroom.

Mr. McGill takes the question in stride and answers, “Nothing. The boat disappeared. The fog lifted soon after, and there was no sign of the thing. No wake reached us, no silhouette or shadow remained. The moonlight hit nothing but water everywhere we looked. My father even tried to go after the boat, starting our engine as soon as we could see again and motoring on in the direction the boat had been going. But there was nothing but the open bay. Just like it had that fateful night, the ghost ship had simply vanished.”

Mr. McGill had clearly finished his story, but nobody uttered a word.

With a wink in Brian’s direction, the bald man adds, “And that is how you tell a ghost story.”

The rest of class is a smorgasbord of my classmates attempting to tell scarier and scarier stories, getting details mixed up, mis-delivering twists and punchlines, and talking over one another to try and gain the room’s attention as Mr. McGill had. Noah tries to tell one about a ghost he saw in an abandoned house once, and I give him my full attention. It’s not a very good story—he and his friend think they see a ghost and run out of the crumbling old cabin they found—but I engage anyway and say, “That’s really spooky, Noah. Where was the house?”

Noah turns and says…something. I don’t actually hear his reply because I immediately lose focus as his deep green eyes focus on me. I nod, smile, and say, “That’s super cool.”

“You think?” he asks, sounding excited by my interest.

My heart begins to beat as if I’m running down the soccer field. “Yeah, I love spooky stuff,” I say.

Noah suddenly looks nervous, but he says, “Olivia, right? My family hosts a Halloween party every year. Costumes and everything. You should come!”

“Really?” I ask. It can’t be that easy, but just like that, the boy I find distractingly cute has invited me to a party!

“Yeah! I’ll…uh…I’ll text you the details.” He pauses, then adds, “But I, uhm, I need your number?”

It comes off as a question, but his phrasing is a statement. It hits me like a train that maybe he likes me and that’s why he’s being awkward.

“Right,” I say. He holds his phone out awkwardly and I put my name and number in. “Here you go.”

The bell finally rings, and Noah looks relieved to have a reason to quickly depart. I smile like an idiot for the rest of the day, paying absolutely no attention in class as I wait for Noah to text me about the party.

The text comes after school, and reads, Sorry, I had a test in fourth period. Couldn’t text. This is Noah Blackwood by the way. My family’s party is at my house on Halloween. I’ll drop a pin once I’m home.

My heart flutters as I walk out to the soccer field. I think and overthink about what I should send back, but eventually land on a simple, I’ll be there :)

~~~

“Hey mom,” I say as I help her with dishes after dinner. “I was invited to a Halloween party next week. Can I go?”

“I’m going to need a lot more information than that,” my mom says. “Let’s start with where? One of your teammates’ houses?”

“No, my classmate Noah invited me. He’s in my precalculus class.” I don’t look at my mom so she can’t see me blush.

“Is he cute?” she asks, seeming to read my mind.

“I guess,” I say with a shrug that definitely came off as cool and casual and not over exaggerated at all.

“Well,” my mom says slowly, “You are a bit old to trick-or-treat. Are his parents going to be there?”

“He said his family throws the party, so I would assume so.”

“Mhm,” my mom says. “Are any of your friends going?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “He just invited me today. I haven’t really talked to anyone yet, but probably.”

“Where does he live?” my mom asks, and I know she means well, but I’m fifteen. I’m not a kid. What does it matter where he lives? The incessant questioning is getting annoying, so instead of answering, I just pull my phone out of my back pocket and show her the pin.

My mom’s eyebrows go up. “Oooh, on the water. Fancy! That’ll be a good party. Maybe Dad and I will go…”

“Mom!”

My mom smiles, then says. “You can go.”

My annoyance is instantly replaced with joy. “Thank you!” I say as I hug her and run off to my room to begin assembling a costume.

“There’s still dishes!” I hear my mom call after me, but I pretend not to hear her as I bound up the stairs to my room.

I begin scouring my closet for anything I can turn into a Halloween costume, but apart from some darker clothes I can maybe spin into a vampire costume, my options are limited. After a few minutes, my dad walks past my open door, sees my clothes all strewn about, and asks, “Whatcha doin’ up here?”

“Looking for a Halloween costume for a party next week,” I say. “Looking…and failing.”

“Sounds like a good excuse to go shopping then, huh?” my dad asks.

I turn and see the glint in his eye. My dad loves Halloween, as evidenced by the plethora of decorations strewn across our house both inside and out—tombstones and skeletal hands in the yard, fake cobwebs thrown across the small tree next to the driveway, spooky up-lighting set behind the bushes lighting up the house, and all of our external lights swapped for orange or purple bulbs. And that’s just outside.

“Spirit?” I ask.

“Spirit.”

My dad and I get in the car and jet off to Spirit Halloween, one of the best stores I’ve ever set foot in. Whoever came up with the idea for temporary spooky stores that just appear overnight without warning once the first leaves fall is an absolute genius.

After an hour of frenzied and excited shopping, my dad and I both approach the register with our arms full of new decorations and costume prospects—I couldn’t decide, so I got three.

“That’ll be three twenty nine even,” the surprisingly enthusiastic teenage girl behind the counter says, her floppy witch hat almost covering her entire face.

“Don’t tell mom,” dad says with a wink.

My dad swipes his card, the girl bags our smorgasbord of spookiness, and as I grab our stuff and turn to leave, I freeze. Walking into Spirit Halloween is none other than Noah Blackwood.

My dad turns and bumps into me as he’s putting his card back in his wallet.

“Olivia, what—” he stops mid-sentence as he looks up and sees Noah wave at me.

“Hey, Olivia!” he says, walking over. He’s followed by his mom, who has the same messy brown hair and green eyes, but Noah clearly has his father’s face. His mom’s high cheekbones and sharp nose are in total contrast to Noah’s rounder, softer, kinder-looking features.

“Hi Noah. What’re you doing here?”

“Same as you, it seems!” he says, pointing to my costumes.

“Hi,” Mrs. Blackwood says, extending a hand to my dad. “I’m Jean Blackwood.”

“Captain Stuart Price,” my dad says, taking Mrs. Blackwood’s hand and giving it a shake.”

“Captain?” she asks. “Which branch?”

“Navy,” my dad says, and he and Mrs. Blackwood start a conversation I don’t really care to listen to.

I turn to Noah as he nervously asks, “So which one’s for my party? Got a bunch lined up?”

“Uh…No, I…couldn’t decide,” I stammer. “Got some options, you know?”

“Sure,” Noah says.

“I’m only going to your party,” I say awkwardly.

“Well then I’ll have to make sure it’s a great one,” he says.

It’s a lame line, but it makes me smile anyways.

“What’re you going to be?” I ask him.

Noah looks around the store. “Seems like my only options are a minion, Beetlejuice, or something sexy that probably shouldn’t be.”

I laugh at that. “Grown adults dressing as minions makes no sense to me.”

“Right? It’s so weird.”

“Want me to help you pick something?” I ask, surprising myself as the words tumble from my mouth.

Noah’s eyes go wide. “No, that’s okay,” he says, sounding startled. “I, uh, want it to be a surprise.”

“Right, of course,” I say, mentally kicking myself. That was way too forward. I look back at my dad, hoping his conversation is wrapping up right now.

He sees me look at him, and there must have been an obvious plea on my face, because he says, “We’re going to be late for dinner. Nice to meet you, Jean. The party sounds incredible.”

“You should come, too! It’ll be fun,” Mrs. Blackwood says.

My stomach drops. The last thing I want is for my parents to be at this party.

“Thanks for the offer, but our court’s doing a thing and we’re already on the hook for some food. I’m sure Olivia will tell us all about it.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Bye, Noah.”

“See you,” he says.

As we exit the store, my dad says, “You owe me one.”

“How about I tell mom how much you spent tonight.”

My dad rolls his eyes but grins. “Deal.”

~~~

School on Halloween is a treat.

I can see my breath as I walk from my bus to the front door, and I’m happy to see that the majority of students have dressed up in some capacity. Inside, I can’t help but laugh at the already dozen or so girls in the office who are clearly there because their outfits are too revealing or inappropriate in some other way. There’s also a guy in there whose zombie costume looks movie-quality good.

In the halls, multiple Spidermen, Barbies, a smattering of Avengers, and a Joker or two walk amongst a crowd of ghosts, vampires—both classic and Twilight—zombies, and witches. I’m genuinely impressed at the level of effort some people put in, and it makes me all the happier that I took the time to pale my face, darken my eyes, stick on some fake fangs, and hem the cape I’m wearing so that I wouldn’t trip.

I nod to two other vampires who walk the other direction, and I realize that part of my comfort level today is that I don’t stick out. Most people have some sort of costume, making everyone a little harder to recognize. Being new-ish, I’m used to not knowing most people and most people not knowing me. But today, anyone can be anyone.

Apart from that, all I can think about is Noah’s family’s party tonight. We’ve talked a few times, and texted even more, and at this point my insides are just buzzing with anticipation. I have no problem tuning out my teachers today, not that much is getting done anyways. I do break from my fog of excitement when Mr. McGill comes into class dressed as a ghostly fisherman or sailor or something, which is a fun tie-in to the story he told us last week. I briefly wonder if the story’s even real, or if he’s just good at telling them. Either way, I appreciate his commitment to the bit. He looks like an old sea captain with a scraggly beard and oversized coat.

The rest of the school day goes by in a blur, and I’m thankful that I don’t have practice today. It would have been annoying to de-vampire, throw on cleats and shin guards, then re-vampire after that—though a mental image of me running up and down the soccer field with my face still all done-up makes me chuckle to myself.

When I get home, I distract myself by helping my dad fill the candy bowls and set up some final decorations, including hanging two giant, veiny eyes on the front of the house over the garage and putting jagged teeth on the door. We’re definitely the most decorated house on the street, but surprisingly not by much.

We live at the end of a court, and the other six houses that make up the circle went all in on their decor too, albeit in different ways. To our left, the Joneses opted for a haunted spider’s nest theme, with webs and fake spiders of all sizes draped around their bushes and lone tree, lighting their house up purple behind it. The Callaways to our right don’t have as many decorations, but they do have a giant inflatable Frankenstein’s Monster…on their roof!

The rest of the houses featured a graveyard complete with a fog machine and spooky-colored lights, a whole pumpkin patch’s worth of Jack-o-lanterns, a recreation of the town from Nightmare Before Christmas, and a pair of two-story skeletons towering over it all.

I wave to Mr. Callaway, who’s hooking up the currently-deflated Frankenstein’s Monster to a compressor.

“Nice costume, Olivia!” he calls out.

“Thanks!”

“Stuart, you got that cooler for tonight?”

“Sure do, Bill.”

I look at my dad in surprise. “The ‘thing’ you told Mrs. Blackwood about wasn’t a lie?”

“At the time, it was,” my dad says. “But once I’d said it out loud, it sounded kinda fun. Good way for your mom and I to get to know everyone a little better. So we made it real!”

“Neat,” I say as I stick another skeleton hand into the ground so it looks like it’s clawing its way out of the grave.

The shadows cast as a result of the setting sun behind the mostly-bare trees add to the already incredible energy of our street. It almost makes me want to stay and enjoy it.

Almost.

“About that time,” my dad says, looking at his watch. “You ready to go?”

“Let me go touch up my makeup,” I say, my heart suddenly pounding again. I race back inside and up to my room. In front of the mirror, I smooth out the paleness of my face, add some shadow around my eyes, and take one last good look at my entire costume. I’m glad I curled my hair earlier, but as I look myself up and down, I decide to undo the very top button of the collared shirt under the black vest and remove the cravat. I’m not going back to school, I’m going to a party at Noah’s.

Back downstairs, my dad waits by the garage. Whether he notices the subtle change to my costume or not, he doesn’t let on. We hop in the car and jam out to our carefully curated Halloween playlist, though the drive only takes about three songs. Noah’s family lives on the South River, and the neighborhood is a collection of some of the most impressive houses I’ve ever seen.

Sorry, not houses…these places are mansions.

We pull up to the Blackwood residence, and I’m immediately impressed. My dad lets out a low whistle as we come to terms with what we’re seeing. Noah’s family has gone all out for their Halloween party, and for a moment, my nerves about hanging out with Noah are overshadowed by my excitement for such an awesomely decorated party.

The driveway, which is actually a small circle with a stone fountain in the middle, is lined with paper bags with candles in them. The fountain itself is lit up with orange lights and spewing bright purple water up into the air and down its sides into the small pool beneath it, where apples float holding tea light candles. My dad pulls up to the front door where I can totally imagine horse-drawn carriages would have pulled up before cars were invented. Tall white pillars wrapped in black webs frame the edges of the porch, which sits between perfectly trimmed dark bushes covered with white webs. The contrast is impressive, and it makes the orange Jack-o-lanterns lining the steps and sitting in the windows pop out even more.

The big, brown double doors each have a wreath of fall-colored leaves hanging on them, and as I emerge from the car and look up, I notice fake bats hanging from the ceiling of the portico that covers the porch.

“Have fun, Liv! Let me know when to come get you.”

“Sure you’d rather go back to your party?” I ask mockingly.

“Ha-ha,” he says dryly. “This looks amazing, have fun, kiddo.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

I walk up the steps to the porch and ring the doorbell, which instead of ringing, plays a snippet of the Addams Family theme song. I’m already grinning, but that little surprise makes me crack a full-on smile.

The door opens to reveal Mrs. Blackwood, dressed in a short, sequined dress with tassels hanging from its hem and a sparkly headband.

“Olivia! Hello!”

“Hi, Mrs. Blackwood,” I say. “I like your costume! 1920s flapper?”

“Zelda Fitzgerald, darling,” she replies in an odd attempt at an era-appropriate accent. “The original flapper lady herself!” She looks me up and down and adds, “And aren’t you just the bee’s knees? Come on in!”

She ushers me inside, and as she closes the door, my jaw hits the floor. Their house is beautiful, and it’s been completely and utterly Halloween-ified. As Mrs. Blackwood-Fitzgerald goes to find Noah, I gawk at the spiders hanging on the walls of the giant foyer, the candelabras with black and orange and purple candles, the chandelier above me with flickering candles you wouldn’t know were fake—and I actually suspect might not be—and the black runner carpet that leads past the long, curved staircase and into what looks like a giant, open-plan living room and kitchen space.

I follow the carpet towards the sounds of voices and music, and as I walk through the archway, I emerge into the coolest party I’ve ever seen.

Directly in front of me are large windows overlooking an elevated porch and the river just below, which is reflecting the setting sun’s orange light. To my left is the kitchen with a black-marble island covered in foods and decor that fit both the fall and Halloween vibes: cookies shaped like pumpkins, two bowls of cider complete with floating fruit, breads, cheeses, dried fruits, meats, and other charcuterie arranged in beautiful patterns and designs, two more black-metal candelabras with dripping real-flame candles, chips shaped and colored like fallen leaves, and several dips to go with it all.

To my right is a wide open living room with a massive couch and even more massive TV above a gas fireplace. Mr. Blackwood is scrolling through what appears to be a collection of Halloween movies to put on in the background. He’s dressed in a dapper black suit—the F. Scott to Mrs. Blackwood’s Zelda.

The party’s already surprisingly full, despite the sun having just set. The crowd’s definitely on the older side, but before I have to make any weird small-talk with adults, Noah finds me.

“Hi!” he says enthusiastically, tapping me on the shoulder.

I turn and come face to face with Noah, who’s wearing a uniquely cut gray suit, matching top hat, and blue-tinted glasses that sit halfway down his nose.

“You look amazing,” I say, though I have no idea what he’s supposed to be.

Noah laughs. “You too! I can’t believe we both dressed up as vampires!”

“Huh?” I ask, looking again at his costume. “You’re a vampire?”

“Yeah! I’m Prince Vlad!” When my confused face doesn’t change, he adds, “From Bram Stoker’s Dracula? The 1992 movie? It’s a classic! Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it…”

“Okay, I won’t,” I say, and he laughs.

“We’ll have to watch it,” he says. His eyes go big, and he adds, “I mean, uh, if you want.”

I decide to show mercy on him and say, “Your family’s into specific costumes, huh? Your mom even greeted me with what I think was supposed to be a 1920s accent.”

Noah rolls his eyes. “She commits to the bit a little too hard, honestly. My dad wanted to dress up as Beetlejuice this year, but she didn’t want to be Lydia. Apparently red is not a flattering color on her, or something.”

“She could’ve done black,” I suggest.

“And that isn’t ‘interesting enough,’” he says, putting air quotes around the last two words.

“Well I think you chose well,” I say. “You look cool, even if I haven’t seen the movie.”

“Thanks!” he says. “Just wait til later, there’s a part two to the outfit.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, but for now, let’s get some food!”

Noah and I wander over to the smorgasbord of snacks laid out on the countertop larger than my family’s dining room table. As we graze, we chat about school and then meander into our favorite Halloween movies as Noah’s dad finally picks a movie and puts Sleepy Hollow on the TV.

“I’m partial to the more campy stuff,” I say. “I like Hocus Pocus, Halloweentown, Rocky Horror, that sort of thing.”

“Those are fun,” Noah says as he refills his cup. “I like the slashers. The original Halloween, Friday the 13th, Child’s Play…”

“Too much gore for me,” I say, pretending to shield my eyes. “The witchy and ghosty stuff is more my speed. Slashers get a little too real for me. I like having that little bit of reality separation.”

“Wait,” Noah says, overacting his surprise. “Are you telling me you don’t believe in ghosts?”

“Have you ever seen one?” I ask, playfully challenging him.

“No, but that doesn’t mean they’re not real!”

“Well until I see one, I’m holding my ground. They’re not real.”

“Hmm…” Noah says, stroking his chin for effect. “Well then let’s go find one!”

“Oh yeah?” I ask with a laugh. “And where would we find a ghost at a crowded party?”

“We can start by saying Beetlejuice three times!” Noah says.

“You rang?” a man in the kitchen asks. Noah and I turn to see a guy dressed in the classic white-and-black striped suit wearing a dark green wig and makeup not too dissimilar from my own: pale faced with darkened eyes.

“Was he standing there a minute ago?” I joke.

Noah laughs and we move on from the food. From the kitchen, Noah gives me the grand tour of their incredible house, showing off all the Halloween decorations—turns out every room has a theme, much like the houses on my street. Apart from the main party area, the first floor has several rooms including a dining room trimmed to look like an old haunted mansion, an office that’s been converted into a wizard’s tower, and even the bathroom, which looks like it was lifted right out of Psycho.

Once I’d properly gawked at the impressive display of dedication to the holiday, Noah leads me back to the party where we grab another plate of assorted treats and enjoy a bit of Sleepy Hollow.

After a little while of sitting in comfortable silence enjoying food and a movie—which feels suspiciously like a date to me—Noah says, “Okay, wait here.”

He disappears down the hallway and into the foyer. While I wait, the party continues on around me, and I begin to notice that Noah and I are the only kids here. I frown slightly, but before I have time to really consider it, Noah returns to the living room in a completely different costume. His gray suit has been swapped for a big, flowing red robe and a tall gray hairpiece that makes him look absolutely ridiculous.

“What the hell is that?” I ask, choking back a laugh.

“It’s Dracula! But the much older and slightly insane version!”

“It’s insane, all right,” I say. “But it’s awesome. I do appreciate the effort, even if I don’t get the reference.”

“Yeah, it’s totally lost on you,” he says with mock swagger. “I couldn’t decide which version I wanted to be, so I chose both! Who doesn't love a good costume swap?”

“I can’t argue with any of that,” I reply. “Do you have any other friends coming? Ones that have seen the movie you’re dressing for?”

“Not really,” Noah admits, not looking at me and seeming suddenly deflated.

“Oh,” I say and turn to hide my face as I blush.

“Oh no,” he says in a sudden panic. “Are you bored?”

“No!” I say a little too fast, and Noah flinches. I continue quickly, deciding to take a shot. “It’s an amazing party! I just think that without other people our age, the party potential seems a bit low for us.”

“Hmm, I guess you’re right…” Noah says slowly. I can’t tell if he’s picking up on what I’m putting down. “It is a bit…I won’t say boring, so how about ‘limited.’”

“Sure,” I say.

“Come with me,” he says. “I have an idea.”

I follow him out through the kitchen and onto the porch. The night is crisp and clear, and the full moon has taken over from the setting sun, sending bright, white light shimmering across the South River.

There’s nobody else out here, and while the big kitchen windows prevent it from being a private space, it’s certainly more ‘alone’ than before. My heart beats a little faster as Noah leans on the railing and looks out over the water.

“Full moon on Halloween,” I observe, trying to break the silence. “That’s cool.”

“Just like Mr. McGill’s story about the ghost ship. Creeeeeepy!” he says, wiggling his fingers.

I laugh and wiggle my fingers back at him, putting my hands well within reach of his. “I was wondering earlier if that story is even real, or if he’s just a good storyteller,” I say, putting my hand down close to his on the railing.

“Why don’t we find out?” Noah asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Look,” he says. He grabs my shoulder—sparks dance down my spine—and turns me back to look through the kitchen windows. “Like you said, there’s nobody else here our age. In there are a bunch of adults who came dressed up to drink.” He turns to face me, his hand still on my shoulder. “It’s Halloween, and a full moon only happens…what did Mr. McGill say? Every twenty years? It’s a clear night, so let’s go try and find the ghost ship!”

My eyes go wide. “How?”

Noah points to the dock at the end of the yard. “We’ll take the boat. Nobody will miss us. Nobody will even notice we’re gone. My mom’s busy pretending to be a 1920s flapper—”

“The original flapper, darling!” I interrupt with a bad impression of his mom’s bad impression.

Noah laughs at that, then grabs my hand and says, “Come on.”

My brain melts as he grabs my hand, and I barely manage an, “Okay.”

Noah leads me down to the dock, where a little twenty-foot fishing boat waits tied up to the side.

My common sense pokes through for a second, and I ask him, “Can you drive that?”

“Yeah, I grew up on the water. Been driving this since I was twelve. I’m not old enough to have my license yet, but nobody really cares.”

It occurs to me then that I’m older than him—a fifteen-year-old freshman. I’m an older woman to him, is that why he likes me?

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Fifteen,” he says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. He might actually like me for me, not just because I’m older. “We moved here when I was in kindergarten and I missed the cut off. Had to run it back.” He pauses and looks up at me. “I’m smart though! I mean, I’m not dumb. I wasn’t held back.”

He shakes his head and I hear him mutter something under his breath and he unties the boat. I suppress a laugh. His feelings for me are clearly mutual, and I’m doing no smoother a job than he is. Watching him get flustered is funny, and I find that it’s starting to take the pressure off a bit.

“Okay,” he says, holding out a hand, “Hop in!”

I doubt we’re going to find any ghost ships tonight, but I get into the boat with a different hope in mind about a different kind of ship.

Noah jumps in after me, rocking the boat slightly as he pushes away from the dock. “We’ll drift for a second, don’t want the motor to draw my parents’ attention.”

The boat slowly distances itself from the dock, and once we’re a little ways away, Noah starts up the engine, and turns the boat toward the mouth of the river.

“Time to find a ghost ship!” he calls out as he takes the wheel.

We ride on for a few minutes, and I’m glad for my cape keeping me warm against the downright cold fall air whipping by as we skim across the water towards the bay. Noah slows the boat to a crawl as we reach the mouth of the river, then motions for me to come stand with him by the wheel.

“Cold?” he asks.

“Not really, the cape helps.”

“Oh,” he says. “That’s good.”

Dummy! I think to myself. Be cold!

“But, uh, not a lot,” I say, pulling it tighter around me.

Noah looks at me and hesitantly puts an arm around my shoulders. I’m suddenly all warm and fuzzy inside, and smile at him. “Thanks.”

Noah smiles back. “So, uh, you see any ghost ships?”

I’m pointedly not looking out at the bay, instead keeping my eyes on him, but I answer anyway.

“No, but there’s plenty of time.”

“True,” he says.

His green eyes are downright vibrant in the moonlight, and I can’t look away. He can’t seem to either, and for what feels like an eternity, we simply look at each other, the only sounds coming from the gentle lap of waves against the boat as it plods along slowly.

A horn in the distance breaks our stupor, startling both of us. Noah looks up, ever the good boat captain that he is, breaking our long stare. It could have been a few seconds, it could have been an hour. I have no idea. I’m still looking at Noah when he frowns and says, “Where did this fog come from?”

I peel my attention from him and notice that, seemingly out of nowhere, fog has rolled in and covered the river. We can’t even see the bank, which is supposed to be to our right. The only thing we can see is the full moon above us. It’s a genuinely haunting sight: a clear night sky above, and a fog-obscured world around us. For a minute, I feel like Noah and I are the only two people in the world, making this feel all the more romantic. I hope Noah feels the same, but before I can say anything, Noah takes his arm back and puts one hand on the wheel, the other on the throttle.

“I don’t know where land is,” he says, sounding almost apologetic. “I don’t want us to run aground.”

“How are we supposed to figure out where we are?”

“I don’t suppose you’re any good navigating by the stars?” he asks hopefully.

“Is anyone?” I ask as I pull out my phone. “Maybe this will help.”

Noah shakes his head. “Signal’s no good out here.”

“How? It’s wide open.”

Noah shrugs. “No clue. I just know it doesn’t work.”

“What do we do, then?” I ask, the romance gone. I start to worry that maybe this wasn’t the brightest idea. I wanted to be alone with Noah, but not like this. The illusion that this was any sort of date is gone, and now that I face the reality of the situation, I’m scared.

Noah stops the boat entirely, and opens a compartment. “We should wait out the fog. I’m going to anchor us so we don’t drift into something.”

“What if another boat comes?” I ask, the panic rising. I can swim, but it’s late fall and the water’s got to be borderline frigid. “How do we get out of the way?”

“We’ll hear the engine and see the lights,” he says. “And they’ll see ours.”

“Through the fog?” I ask. “Even if they do, we’ll be anchored. We can’t move.”

I wonder why Noah doesn’t understand why that’s a bad idea, but then I see him hesitate, anchor in hand, and I realize he’s also panicking. In no time at all, this situation morphed from potentially romantic to potentially catastrophic. We’re in a relatively small boat in the middle of a river at night surrounded by fog with no way to know what direction we need to go and no way to see anything coming.

“Isn’t there a compass or something on the dash?” I ask, pushing him aside and looking around the steering wheel.

“There is, but it’s busted,” he says.

“Well that’s awesome.”

“Don’t blame me!” he yells. “I didn’t break it!”

“Don’t you like, need that out here?”

Noah shakes his head dramatically. “Typically we can see where we’re going. It’s not like we’re out on the open ocean or anything.”

“May as well be,” I say, crossing my arms.

Noah doesn’t reply, and for a minute, we linger in the oppressive silence of the fog, our stress and panic making the air between us tense. Not only am I annoyed at the situation, but I’m equally annoyed that it ruined a potentially romance-filled evening out on the water. This was supposed to be fun, daring, and maybe a little spooky. But the fog rolled in and threw chilling river water all over a nice warm moment.

“Look, Olivia…I don’t know what…” Noah trails off as the fog ahead of us slowly parts and the front of a boat creeps into view, the carved mermaid adorning its bow leading the way.

“I told you!” I exclaim, as Noah reaches to put the boat into gear. I feel immediately vindicated that such a large boat could sneak up on us like this.

“Ahoy!” a voice calls from the other boat as it comes fully into view. The thing is easily twice the size of our boat, and looks old. Its wooden sides and singular mast give it the appearance of a pre-industrial sailing boat. I shake my head thinking about the things the rich people around here will spend their money on.

Noah stops, his hand on the throttle. “Ahoy,” he calls back. “We seem to be a bit lost in this fog. Where are we?”

The voice’s owner, a gruff-looking old man with a tangled gray beard and a brown tricorn hat appears from behind an oversized wooden steering wheel. Another man takes over as he walks to the railing and looks down at us. “That’s a fine question, innit?”

I can’t place the man’s accent—assuming it’s real and not an act like Mrs. Blackwood’s—but the man is playing the part of grizzled seaman well. His large, tattered jacket and black boots help sell the look and fit right in with his boat. His outfit even reminds me of Mr. McGill’s from earlier today.

“You two don’t look like seafarin’ folk,” he says, looking over our own outfits.

“Uh, no,” Noah says. “We’re not. We live back that way, I think,” Noah says, pointing behind him. “But this fog rolled up on us and I’m not sure. Don’t want to run aground, you know?”

The old man’s eyes light up and he cackles, though it sounds more like barking than actual laughter. “That I do, lad. Your homestead be on this river, you say?”

“Yes?” Noah replies.

“Come aboard, then, you lot. We’ll find it together.”

The man kicks out a rope ladder, the end of which splashes into the water below. Noah walks to the bow of our boat and grabs one of the wooden planks acting as rungs.

“You’re not actually thinking about getting on that thing, are you?” I ask incredulously. “What about this boat?”

“We’ll tie it to theirs,” Noah says. “No sweat.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You said you weren’t held back?”

Noah’s eyebrows go up his forehead. “What do you mean?”

“You’d just get in a strange boat with a strange man and whoever else is up there? With no phone signal? Are you that stupid?”

“Boating people are different,” Noah says defensively. “We help each other out. People have issues all the time. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve towed a broken down boat, or lent fuel, or—”

“This,” I say, gesturing to the big wooden boat looming over us, “is not the same as that!”

While I’m annoyed at him for being so dense, I’m equally annoyed that our time alone has been disrupted by some rich old dude and what I can only assume is his late-life crisis project.

“Olivia, it’s fine,” he says, taking a step up the ladder and leaving the relative safety of our boat altogether.

“I’m still more than content to wait here. Together. Alone,” I say pointedly, dropping all pretense about why I wanted to be out here with him.

Noah’s face goes beet-red. “Oh…yeah, I guess we could—”

“Climb aboard, little pups!” the old man calls down. “Can’t hold here forever. We’ll find yer land.”

Noah looks up the rest of the ladder at the man and takes another step up. “Just real quick,” he calls back to me. “So we know how to get home.”

Every alarm in my head is blaring at me to not do this, but Noah’s already completely off the boat, his head even with the deck of the ancient-looking ship. I move to follow, but my eye catches a flash of bright white near the steering wheel. By the time I turn fully to look, it’s gone. 

“Up ya come,” the captain says, grabbing Noah by his red robe and helping him aboard.

I look past Noah and more closely at the helmsman, who turns to talk to another member of the crew. As he turns, the flash of white happens again, and this time I see it clearly. The man who took over for him at the wheel isn’t wearing pants, which would have been strange on its own had it not exposed bone rather than just a leg.

“Noah…” I say slowly.

“What?” he asks, one foot up on the deck of the old man’s boat.

“Get down.”

“I just need to—”

“Noah, get down!”

The captain turns and glares at me. “Now, missy, there’s no need for yellin’. We’re here to help!”

I go to point out the helmsman’s leg, but he’s gone.

“This boat looks old,” Noah says as he stands up on the deck next to the captain. “How’d you get such an authentic look?”

The bearded man smiles, revealing that half of his teeth are missing. “Years of work, lad. Years and years and years…”

He trails off, though his hand remains clamped on Noah’s robe.

“Noah, I know which way to go,” I lie. “I saw the shore.”

The captain’s head swivels and his eyes go wide. “You know where land be?”

“Sure do,” I say. “We’ll lead you there.”

“Climb aboard, miss. Show us the way.”

“Wait,” Noah says. “I thought you were going to help us?”

The captain’s eyes stay focused on me as he says, “We can all help each other.”

“Noah,” I say, pointing to the bow. I mouth the words, no lights.

I then point to the stern, where the lack of churn indicates a lack of engine. No sound.

Noah’s eyes go wide as he turns to look at the captain. He tries to slowly pull away, but the grizzled old man seems to notice and grips tighter.

“Where ye be goin’?”

The helmsman returns, and I catch Noah’s attention. I point to my leg, then the man, and Noah’s jaw drops.

“Noah, we need to go now,” I say, starting to panic. I’m not ready to fully believe Mr. McGill’s story, but the half-skeleton helmsman and lack of anything modern on this creepy boat is fairly convincing.

“Agreed,” he says. “It was nice to meet you sir!”

Noah tries to pull away, but the captain’s wrinkled hand is stronger than it looks. Noah’s red cloak tears at the shoulder before he manages to escape the captain’s clutch and jump down onto our boat.

“Screw running aground,” he says, throwing the engine into gear.

“Wait!” the old man calls out as Noah shoves the throttle down and spins the boat around, getting away from the spooky boat.

The boat quickly disappears into the fog as we drive away. We speed on for a minute or two in sheer terror before Noah begins to pull back on the throttle…about a second too late.

All of a sudden, Noah’s house comes into view and the boat slams into the dock with a loud bang! The impact throws us both forward, and I hit the side of my head on the edge of the boat while Noah collides with the steering wheel before falling back into the captain’s seat.

I rise slowly and bring my hand to my temple. I’m bleeding, but not badly.

Noah, clearly winded, looks at me from the chair and wheezes, “You okay?”

I nod, then stand up, looking around to make sure the boat doesn’t have a hole in it. It doesn’t, but the dock has seen better days. The metal hull has taken a chunk out of the wooden planks. I suspect Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood won’t be too happy about that.

“NOAH!” a shrill voice carries over the yard that sends ice through my veins. I look up to see Zelda Fitzgerald leaning over the porch railing.

“Oh crap,” Noah says, looking from the dock to his mom.

“This went well,” I say sarcastically.

“You don’t think that was…” Noah says, trailing off as he points back towards the river.

Before I can reply, Noah’s parents come rushing down the yard and onto the dock. His dad helps him tie the boat to the not-broken part of the dock and offers me a hand, which I take. Once we’re all back on dry land, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood round on Noah.

“What were you thinking?” his mom asks, absolutely irate.

“I—”

“That was incredibly irresponsible,” his dad adds.

“We just—”

“AND you put this girl in danger!” his mom screams. “I thought we raised a smarter, more responsible boy than that.”

“We just got lost in the fog,” Noah finally manages to say.

“What fog?” his dad asks. “It’s a crystal clear night!”

At that, Noah and I both turn to see that he’s right. We can see across the river to the far bank and all the way out towards the bay. There’s no fog anywhere. We share a look of surprise before Noah’s mom says, “You are so unbelievably grounded. Go inside. Go upstairs. We’ll talk later.”

“Mom, I’m—”

“Not now, Noah.”

Noah’s shoulders drop, and he turns to look at me. “Sorry, Olivia.”

“It’s fine,” I say, genuinely uncomfortable and unsure how to handle myself in the midst of all of this. “I’ll tell my dad to come get me.”

“See you at school,” he says, before he is ushered up to the house by his mom.

“I’m really sorry about all of that,” Mr. Blackwood says to me. “Are you okay?” He seems to notice the cut on my head for the first time. “Oh my gosh, let’s get you—”

“I’m okay, really,” I say, interrupting him. “I’ll just go wait for my dad out front. He’s only a few minutes away.”

“Are you sure?” Mr. Blackwood asks.

“Yeah,” I reply. “Thanks for having me. The party was really amazing. I’m sorry we ditched it and stole your boat.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Mr. Blackwood says. “Noah should have known better and been a better host.”

“Honestly,” I say, feeling the need to defend Noah. “I had fun.”

I notice the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of Mr. Blackwood’s mouth, but all he says is, “He should have been more careful. Putting you in danger is no way to impress you.”

I can’t argue with that, so all I say is, “Well, thanks again. Your house is seriously amazing. The decorations, too.”

“Thank you, Olivia.”

Mr. Blackwood walks me through the house and to the front porch, where I assure him I’ll be fine as I wait for my dad. The double door closes behind me, and now that I’m alone, I have time to reflect on what just happened.

Noah’s dad never saw the fog, and it disappeared as soon as we’d escaped from the long-lost colonial boat. Did we actually see and escape from the ghost ship Mr. McGill had told us about? Or was it just some old rich dude playing the part? More importantly, would Noah and I have kissed if that stupid boat hadn’t interrupted?

I pull my cloak around me to combat the frigid air and look out over the yard, which shimmers under the light of the full moon thanks to the frozen dew on the grass. I look up at the fake hanging bats, then to the sides at the fake webs draped over the bushes. I peer inside one of the Jack-o-lanterns at the flickering fake candle.

So many fake decorations. Impressive and convincing, sure, but fake. As my dad pulls up the driveway, my modern carriage coming to take me home, I decide that no matter what Noah responds, what we experienced tonight was very, very real.