The Ghost of Drowned Meadow, page 5
“Spying?” her father asked her mother, looking somewhere between hurt and offended. “Us?”
Her mother took him by the ear and led him toward the kitchen. “Come on, you.”
Once her parents were out of earshot, she plopped down on the couch and looked at Joel.
“Okay, what did you figure out?”
He sat down beside her and opened his laptop. “I didn’t figure out anything. All I did was search ‘Long Island Nazi kids’ and it was the top result.”
He spun his laptop around for her to see.
“Camp Siegfried?” she asked, reading the article title.
“Apparently in the 1930s there was this group called the German American Bund. Basically they were a Hitler fan club in America before World War Two. They did all kinds of Nazi propaganda stuff, like opening a summer camp for kids in Yaphank.”
“Yaphank?” Morgan asked sharply. “That’s where the newspaper said Joseph Klaus’s summer camp was.”
“So he probably went to this Camp Siegfried,” said Joel. “And check this place out.”
He clicked through a couple of pictures, and all she could say was:
“This was in America?”
“About twelve miles from where we’re sitting right now,” he said grimly.
The black-and-white pictures really did look like something from a Captain America movie. One showed a line of stone-faced white men in Nazi uniforms. Another showed buildings with swastikas built into the brickwork. There was even a garden where some hedges had been shaped into a big swastika. And just in case anyone was still confused, there were signs for Goebbels Street, Goering Street, and of course Adolf Hitler Street.
“How was this even possible?” she asked.
“I guess since we weren’t at war with them yet, it wasn’t against the law.” He pointed to another picture. “Anyway, this is the one that I think sheds some light on who our ghost was.”
It was a scan of an old newspaper photo that showed orderly rows of children, all different ages, some of them no more than five or six years old. They were all in uniform, and all with their arms outstretched in the “Heil Hitler” salute. It was chilling in a way Morgan couldn’t articulate.
“Joseph Klaus was one of these kids,” she whispered.
“And something happened to him at that camp.” Joel leaned over and gazed at the picture with her. “Something so terrible that he escaped, somehow crossed twelve miles of land, stole a boat, and tried to sail across the harbor alone at night, in the middle of a storm, to get back home.”
Joel looked at Morgan.
“To get back here.”
The German phrase Herzlich Willkommen was emblazoned on a sign above the front gate of Camp Siegfried. Joseph Klaus didn’t know what it meant when he first arrived, but later he learned that it meant “Hearty Welcome.”
There were a lot of things Joseph didn’t know when he first arrived at Camp Siegfried. But he learned quickly—because if he didn’t, he was punished.
He learned that he could not speak English, only German. He learned that America had become corrupted by Jews, who were evil monsters disguised as people, and the only thing that could save the country was the Führer. He learned that to serve the Führer, he must become strong and tough. He could never cry or show any emotion. Even if he was exhausted after marching all night with a twenty-pound backpack. Even if the other boys teased him after they found out that his mother was Greek rather than German. Even if he accidentally smashed his finger while being forced to lay bricks all day in the hot sun for a new building. He had to prove that he was German enough, despite his “impure” blood. Otherwise, when the time came to rise up against the American government and the disease they called democracy, he would be left behind.
He did cry, of course. Every night when he collapsed onto his bedroll in the tent he shared with other boys, he pressed his face into his pillow to muffle his quiet sobs.
His parents had said this would be good for him. They said it would be challenging and that he needed to be brave and not complain.
Was this what they meant? It must be. They loved him, after all, and just wanted to make sure he had a place in the new Nazi order that would surely come.
MorganLeZye: Anybody know if theres a way to deal with ghosts? You know how werewolves hate silver, and vampires hate garlic and sunlight. What do ghosts hate?
ZsaZsa-Stan-chan: Morgan where have you been???? I haven’t seen you here in forever!!!
MorganLeZye: my family just moved so weve been busy
THEE_NightQueen_QUEEN: why do u want to know about ghosts?
A few nights before, Morgan had wanted to post about the ghost in the chat because she’d hoped someone would talk her out of believing in it. Now that she was convinced it was real, the last thing she wanted was someone arguing with her that it wasn’t. Fortunately someone else came up with an alternate reason for her ghost question:
ZsaZsa-Stan-chan: i bet she’s writing NQ fanfic with ghosts in it!
THEE_NightQueen_QUEEN: hm ya i guess they never did ghosts in the series
MorganLeZye: that’s the reason. So anyone know?
MadMadison: for ghosts you burn sage in the house. if that doesn’t get rid of them, you have to burn their remains.
Morgan hated that Madison was the one who had the answer.
THEE_NightQueen_QUEEN: why u know so much about ghosts, maddy?
MadMadison: I just did a search. took like 2 seconds
What Madison meant was that Morgan was being lazy and should have just searched for it herself instead of posting the question on the server.
MorganLeZye: k thx!
She really hoped the sarcasm in her gratitude got through, but knowing Madison, probably not.
And of course Madison was right. Morgan did a search and found all sorts of websites that talked about ghosts, poltergeists, possession, and other stuff. It was hard to tell which she could trust, but nearly all of them seemed to agree that “smudging,” or burning dried sage in each room, was the place to start. Morgan wasn’t sure if it would work, since smudging seemed to be about getting a ghost out of the house, rather than keeping it out, but she figured it couldn’t hurt.
Of course, then she had to find some sage. It was a seasoning, right? Maybe now that her parents cooked, they had some in the kitchen.
She found a whole rack of spice jars in the pantry, and fortunately one of them was labeled SAGE.
The next question was how she should burn it. It looked like crumbled dry leaves, so it would probably burn pretty easily. But how would she do it without setting anything else on fire?
After some thought, she took out a small ceramic bowl and poured the sage into it. That was how priests burned incense, after all, so it was probably the same thing. Then she found a box of matches in a drawer and lit one.
She hesitated for a moment, holding the burning match over the sage. Was this really a good idea?
Well, she had to do something, didn’t she? Besides, the match was burning down and she was beginning to feel the heat on the tips of her finger and thumb.
She let the match drop into the bowl.
A ball of fire erupted, shooting up so high that Morgan yelped and leaped back. But the fire was quickly hidden in a thick, pungent cloud of smoke. It wasn’t a bad smell, exactly, but it still made her cough. She waved her hand back and forth to clear the smoke as she tried to look into the bowl.
There was nothing except a tiny bit of ash now. The whole thing had burned up all at once.
Morgan sighed, which was a mistake because then she breathed in more of the sage smoke, which made her cough even more.
She wasn’t sure what she’d done wrong, but it looked like the only room that was getting “smudged” was the kitchen. At least that meant there wouldn’t be any more seawater coming out of the sink.
Hopefully.
Assuming any of this worked.
“Morgan?”
She wheeled around to see her father in the kitchen doorway. His eyes narrowed.
“Were you trying to cook something?” he asked.
“Oh, uh …” Morgan had never been very good at lying, especially to her father, so she didn’t even try. “No, I was trying to do something called smudging, but I don’t think I did it right.”
“Smudging?” He looked no less confused. “Like with a stick of sage?”
“It comes in sticks?” she asked.
His eyes moved to the empty glass seasoning jar. “You thought sage was like incense or something?”
“Except it’s not,” she said.
“Definitely not. But why did you want to smudge the house?”
“So you know about smudging?”
“Sure. To get rid of evil spirits, bad vibes, and stuff like that …” Then he tilted his head back and closed his eyes as understanding dawned. “Oh! I get it. You’re still freaked out about the house being haunted?”
“I’m not freaked out,” she protested, even though she definitely was.
“Worried, then,” he amended. “What if I took you to a shop that sells sage bundles that are made specifically for smudging?”
Her eyes widened. “Will you?”
“If you’re going to keep lighting things on fire, I’d rather it be properly done and under adult supervision.” He added, “And you’re paying for it. It’ll only be a couple bucks, so it shouldn’t hurt your book budget too badly.”
“I’ll go get my money.”
“You want to go right now?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Morgan made her way upstairs to her bedroom and grabbed the small wad of cash she kept in an old Pokémon card tin on her dresser. On her way back downstairs, she walked past the glass doors to the balcony, and noticed a blond boy crouched on the railing.
She froze.
Blond boy?
Her heart thundered in her chest as she turned slowly—almost unwillingly—back toward the glass doors.
The railing was empty.
Of course it was. Because how on earth could a boy be perched on a second-floor balcony?
Although wait, no, it wasn’t completely empty. Something dark and thin dangled from the rail. Like strips of seaweed.
No, it had to be something else.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, partly to calm down, partly to quell the nausea that now seemed to come whenever she saw seaweed, and partly because she hoped whatever it was would also disappear. But when she opened her eyes, the dark tendrils were still there. So after another moment, she reluctantly slid the door open and stepped through.
The balcony was small—just big enough for a few chairs and a tiny table that could hold some snacks or a couple of drinking glasses. Once she was out there, she saw that indeed a few ribbons of seaweed dangled from the railing.
“Morgan, honey? You ready?” her father called.
Morgan glanced back and saw him looking at her through the glass.
She pointed to the seaweed. “Do you know how this could have gotten all the way up here?”
“Seagull, probably,” he said.
“Seagull?”
“Sure. He probably swooped down into the water to catch a fish and got a little seaweed as well. Then it fell as he was flying away.”
“Oh …”
Could that be it? She was so on edge because of what she and Joel had discovered last night. It was possible that she’d imagined seeing the boy, and then started jumping to conclusions. Regardless, there was no point in arguing with her father, especially if he was about to take her to a place that could solve the problem.
“That makes sense, I guess,” she told him.
“Sure. Now, if you want to do this today, let’s go. Believe it or not, I do have other things on my agenda besides vanquishing evil spirits.”
“Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”
She glanced at the seaweed on the railing one last time.
That’s when she noticed the small sandy footprints.
As though a boy had recently perched there, looking through the glass doors into the house.
Morgan tried to shake her dread by walking as fast as she could.
“Geez, I know I said I have things to do, but we don’t have to rush that much.” Her father wheezed as he tried to keep pace. He wasn’t exactly the fittest guy in the world.
The air was cool and crisp, with the first hints that fall was coming. They walked past the old shipyard that had been converted to a park, and a bunch of restaurants that looked like they were trying a little too hard to be trendy New York bistros. Farther along the street she could see the Port Jefferson ferry, which transported people and cars back and forth to Connecticut.
But before they got to the ferry dock, Morgan’s father led them down a side street, past a Realtor’s office and a café. Finally they reached a cute little shop that had crystals, tie-dyed clothing, and other hippie stuff hanging in the window. In a flowing, curling font, the sign said:
Goddess by the Sea
It looked nice, but kind of cheesy, and definitely not like a place that sold anti-ghost gear.
“This is it?” Morgan didn’t try to hide her disappointment.
“I’m not sure what you were expecting,” said her father. “Van Helsing? Father Karras? Maybe John Constantine?”
“Who are those guys?”
He let out a pained sigh, which meant she was supposed to have somehow recognized some grown-up thing. “Never mind. This place will definitely have smudge sticks. You want one or not?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then?” He opened the door and gestured for her to go inside.
The light in the shop was dim, and there was an odd sweet-spicy smell to the air. Gentle harp music played over the speakers. There were shelves full of candles, crystals, hemp bags, and rows of colorful scarves.
“Welcome, dear,” said an old woman from behind the counter.
“Uh, hi,” said Morgan.
The woman had long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail with a scarf. She wore a flowing purple-and-blue dress, and had earrings all the way up both sides of her ears. She had a gentle smile, but there was something sharp and searching about her gray eyes. Like she knew stuff. Maybe this was the right place after all.
“Hey there!” said Morgan’s dad as he came in behind her. “We’re looking for a smudge stick. You know, to keep away evil spirits and stuff.”
The woman seemed to ignore him and instead continued to look at Morgan.
“There’s no such thing as evil spirits,” she said.
“Well, I told her that, but—” Morgan’s father began.
The woman cut him off, her eyes still on Morgan. “Sad spirits? Yes. Angry spirits? You bet. But no spirit is truly evil.”
“Oh,” said Morgan, because she felt like she was supposed to respond somehow, and didn’t know what else to say. She wondered if the woman would have said that if she knew it was a Nazi spirit.
“So you’re having some spirit trouble?” the woman asked her.
“We, uh, live in the haunted house,” Morgan said.
“Now, Morgan—” her father protested.
“Oh, yes, the haunted house,” said the woman, cutting him off again. “I know which one you mean. Anyone who’s lived here long enough knows that house.”
Morgan’s father looked surprised. “It’s that well known in the neighborhood?”
The woman finally turned to him. “It is.”
“Wow!” he said delightedly. “And you really think it’s haunted?”
She gazed at him a moment, her expression amused. “It doesn’t matter what I think.” Then she turned back to Morgan. “So, a smudge stick to start?”
“I guess,” said Morgan.
The woman nodded, then reached into a nearby glass case and pulled out a thick bundle of dried light-gray leaves tightly wrapped in twine.
“Light one end at the front door,” instructed the woman. “Then move slowly clockwise around the entire house, into each room. Make certain to let the smoke drift into all the nooks and crannies, like closets and cupboards. It also might help to repeat a mantra that expresses your intentions while you do it.”
“A mantra?” asked Morgan.
“Like a chant,” said the woman. “As simply as you can, say out loud, over and over again, why you’re doing this or what you hope will happen.”
“Oh, okay …” The idea seemed goofy, but there was nothing goofy about the look in the old lady’s eyes. “Thanks.”
The woman nodded again.
Morgan paid for the smudge stick and they left.
“That was one cool old lady,” her dad said brightly as they walked home.
“She really put you in your place,” said Morgan.
“She sure did!” he agreed enthusiastically. “So cool!”
Morgan was pretty sure most dads would have gotten huffy and offended at being treated so rudely. But this was a classic response for her dad. It was like his head was so full of big ideas that he never took anything too personally.
“You’re super weird, Dad.”
He grinned at her. “Lucky you.”
She couldn’t help smiling back. After all, she wasn’t exactly a normal Long Island girl like Hannah or Piper.
Once they got home, Morgan insisted that they do the smudging right away. She stood just inside the front door and lit one end of the bundle. It flamed a little at first, then settled down into a glowing orange ember that let off a pungent smell that was even stronger than when she’d lit the bowl of kitchen sage on fire.
“What mantra are you going to use?” asked her father.
“Oh, uh …” She hadn’t actually been planning to do that part because it was a little embarrassing. But what if it was really important? “I just want the ghost to stay away from our house, so I guess … ‘stay away’? Is that good enough?”
He shrugged. “I’m just a cartoonist. What do I know?”
She was about to begin, but then she looked over at her father. “Can you, uh … do something else right now?”
“Ah.” He smiled knowingly. “Yeah, sure. I believe I owe you a Night Queen portrait anyway.”
“Hey, yeah, that’s right,” she said. “With Kosuke.”
