The Witching Wind, page 1
For Nick Seifert,
because he’s a magical mix of funny,
smart, curious, and kind.
And because I love him.
And I love being his aunt.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1: Grayson
Chapter 2: Roxie
Chapter 3: Grayson
Chapter 4: Roxie
Chapter 5: Grayson
Chapter 6: Roxie
Chapter 7: Grayson
Chapter 8: Roxie
Chapter 9: Grayson
Chapter 10: Roxie
Chapter 11: Grayson
Chapter 12: Roxie
Chapter 13: Grayson
Chapter 14: Roxie
Chapter 15: Grayson
Chapter 16: Roxie
Chapter 17: Grayson
Chapter 18: Roxie
Chapter 19: Grayson
Chapter 20: Roxie
Chapter 21: Grayson
Chapter 22: Roxie
Chapter 23: Grayson
Chapter 24: Roxie
Chapter 25: Grayson
Chapter 26: Roxie
Chapter 27: Grayson
Chapter 28: Roxie
Chapter 29: Grayson
Chapter 30: Roxie
Chapter 31: Grayson
Chapter 32: Roxie
Chapter 33: Grayson
Chapter 34: Roxie
Chapter 35: Grayson
Chapter 36: Roxie
Chapter 37: Grayson
Chapter 38: Roxie
Chapter 39: Grayson
Chapter 40: Roxie
Chapter 41: Grayson
Chapter 42: Roxie
Chapter 43: Grayson
Chapter 44: Roxie
Epilogue: Grayson
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for Natalie Lloyd
Also by Natalie Lloyd
Copyright
Maybe Grayson Patch is a ghost.
Maybe you’re one, too.
We could all be ghosts and just not realize it. What if this is the great forever-after and we’re already stuck inside it?
Take a breath, Grayson Patch.
That’s what Deloris—Grayson’s previous foster mom—always told her.
She said Grayson thought about too much weird stuff.
And asked too many weird questions.
But “weird” is Grayson’s natural state of being and she’s fine with that, thanks. Besides, Grayson’s got solid proof for the ghost-girl hypothesis! Like:
1. Why doesn’t anybody talk to her at school? She’s attended four different schools now. But kids barely speak to her, ever. Sometimes a teacher calls out her name—GRAYSON! And she flinches because it’s so unexpected. At least she knows she’s real on those days. And yet . . .
2. Why doesn’t anybody Grayson’s own age remember her name? Deloris said Grayson had a forgettable face and that was a good thing. But Grayson can’t see how that’s true unless your big life goal is becoming a criminal mastermind.
(This is not her dream, FYI. At least not yet.)
Then again, Grayson really doesn’t care if everybody forgets she exists. Not as long as her big sister, Beanie, remembers. Beanie calls her Gray—like her name means something soft and gentle. Like blankets or cloud shadows.
Sometimes you can hear love in a person’s voice. Whenever Grayson’s with Beanie, she hears love. She knows she’s real. And yet . . .
3. Why hasn’t Ms. Betsy, the case worker currently driving this van, said a word to her on this trip? Seriously, not one single word since she picked up Grayson to take her to her new foster family. Ms. Betsy hasn’t even glanced in Grayson’s direction, even though Grayson is sitting right beside her in the front seat. So maybe this is when the truth comes out? Maybe Grayson’s story has a twist like the R. L. Stine book crammed in her backpack?
Maybe Grayson’s a ghost.
Maybe Beanie’s one, too! And now they get to meet up at secret ghost headquarters and live in a house together— just the two of them—just like they’ve always wanted! And—
“Only a few more miles,” Ms. Betsy says, speaking for the first time. Since Grayson’s the only other person in the car, this update is surely intended for her.
Guess I’m real today, Grayson thinks.
But what she says is “Cool.”
And she means it. Wherever there is, she’s glad it’s close. Because:
1. Ms. Betsy’s car smells like somebody farted in a flower shop. Grayson knows that smell because the Dawsons had two little boys—twins. Toddlers are champion tooters. Yes, it’s gross, but it’s true.
2. One more mile of road means one mile farther from Beanie. Which will only make it harder to get back to her.
And Grayson will get back to her sister. They’ve been staying in different foster homes. But Beanie’s about to turn eighteen and she’s always promised Grayson that as soon as Beanie’s a legal adult, she’ll become Grayson’s guardian. The two of them will drive north and rent a little apartment in New York City. It’ll look as magical as it does in the movies, with a big window so they can see all the city lights. Maybe they’ll even adopt a cat!
So, this present situation is truly no big deal. Grayson can deal with another new foster family for forty-eight hours. Because Beanie Patch’s eighteenth birthday is on Saturday. That’s probably why she hasn’t texted Grayson today. She’s probably out buying snacks for their big road trip.
An announcer cuts through the twangy country song playing on the radio with a weather warning:
“Clip in, friends! There’s a Witching Wind advisory for all of Silas County. We’re looking at a Category Four today. Not the wildest we’ve seen. But it’ll rock ya if you’re not ready!”
Grayson sits taller in her seat. Most of the small towns she’s lived in were basically the same. But this two-stoplight Tennessee town has a unique quirk. For a couple of weeks in August, a strange phenomenon called the Witching Wind rolls through the hills of Silas County. The Witching Wind is like a mini tornado but more dangerous. There are all kinds of stories about the wind, too: how it got here, what it does, what it can do. It’s entirely weird—which is why Grayson kinda digs it.
Apparently, Ms. Betsy does not.
She gasps, swerves off the highway, and parks the minivan. As Ms. Betsy frantically checks the weather app on her phone, Grayson gazes out the window. A cloud of dust billows around the glass. She imagines what it’d be like to open the door, sprout wings, and fly through the dust and into the sky. Back to Beanie.
But Ms. Betsy is a mind reader apparently. She locks the doors. Narrows her eyes. “Don’t even think about it, Patch. Sit tight.”
Grayson glances over her shoulder—specifically, at the sparkly blue walker folded up in the back seat.
“Do you honestly think I’m going to try to run?”
Ms. Betsy’s still scanning her phone, her expression tense. “I heard one of you Patch girls tried to run off during a home exchange.”
“That was Beanie. She wasn’t running away, though. She forgot her library book at the old house. She intended to come right back.”
“Watch the attitude, please.” For the record, Grayson wasn’t talking with an attitude. She was just talking like herself! Her voice isn’t all rainbows and sunshine and she can’t help it; that’s just her. Dogs are the only creatures she knows how to talk sweet to. Everybody else just gets the real Grayson Patch.
“Sorry, ma’am.” Grayson tries to make her voice gentler again. Nicer. But she’s not sure she even knows how to do that. Beanie is the one who always knows the right things to say. Ms. Betsy mumble-reads the weather report again. “Looks like we can make it to the Cottons’ before we need to hunker down.” She grips the steering wheel so tight her knuckles turn white. “D-don’t be afraid, okay?”
Grayson nods. She feels zero fear when it comes to the Witching Wind. She doesn’t feel much of anything these days.
Ghost girls never do.
With a determined grunt, Ms. Betsy shifts the van back into drive. Then in a low, rumbly, movie-villain voice she says, “Buckle up, Patch.”
Grayson can’t help but giggle, just a little. But the laugh’s cut short when Ms. Betsy slams down on the gas pedal. The van tires sling mud across the windows and Grayson’s pinned to the front seat for a few seconds like an astronaut leaving Earth. Once they’re on the road, Ms. Betsy yanks at her seat belt—two hard tugs—to make sure it’s tight. Beads of sweat drip down the side of her face. She keeps glancing in the rearview as if she’s trying to outrun something big.
“You’re acting like some monster’s chasing us,” Grayson says.
Ms. Betsy snorts. “Oh, honey. It’s much worse than that.”
Maybe this is a bad dream.
Maybe I’ll wake up any minute still in my bed, my dog snuggled beside me. I squish my eyes closed and whisper, “Take a breath, Roxie Darling. Wake up in one . . . two . . .”
Dang. Eyes open . . . and I’m still sitting here in the last row of an old school bus. The brakes are squeaky, but the air conditioner is working great.
Too great.
It’s blowing across my bare arms, which are still covered in goose bumps from the community pool. Every incoming sixth grader just spent the whole day at the pool. But I’m the only one still in my swimsuit. And even though I’m sitting on a towel, I can feel water pooling on the seat. I hope I don’t leave a butt print. That
I brought a change of clothes with me. They were in a plastic Dollar General bag that I shoved in an empty locker near the girls’ bathroom. But my bag disappeared right after the Incident.
I’d rather not discuss the particulars of the Incident just yet, if that’s okay.
Because today was supposed to be stupendous. It’s a yearly tradition in Silas County: Middle School at the Pool. And I’ve looked forward to it for my whole life. (Or at least since first grade when I knew what it was.)
But now I’m sitting here alone—because no one wants to get too close to my dripping wet dork self—in a swimsuit with a tiny towel wrapped around my waist. Well, nearly wrapped around my waist. The towel is too small for me. So, I’m holding it clutched together with my fist.
It’s okay, I remind myself. I’m almost at Granny’s house. That’s my safest place on earth.
A bubbly burst of laughter erupts across the aisle. As soon as I make eye contact with the girls sitting there, they clap their hands over their mouths.
I should go ahead and get used to this, I guess.
Thanks to the Incident, people will be laughing at me forever.
Tears are fogging up my eyeballs again. But I refuse to let them out! Only two more turns until we get to Granny’s road. I’m mentally mapping my escape route when a horrible realization blooms inside my brain.
I have picked the absolute worst place to sit.
I got on the bus early and ran straight to the back, so nobody would see me and know I’d been crying. And mostly so nobody would walk past me and repeat what Love Kilgore said at the pool.
But when the bus stops, I’ll have to walk past every single incoming sixth grader, still in my swimsuit, clutching this teeny towel.
Maybe I’ll just stay here until Mr. Kidd parks the bus, then I’ll sneak out and call Granny. She’ll come get me. And it will be like this day didn’t even happen! Like it really was a bad dream.
“ROXIE DARLING!” Mr. Kidd hollers my name as we near my stop.
I’m down the aisle before the breaks even squeak, my feet making wet slopping sounds in my flip-flops.
Five more rows . . .
Two more . . .
And then the edge of my towel snags on Matilda Helton’s backpack.
The towel flies off my waist in the most dramatic way possible. I freeze. The bus goes quiet. It’s less than a second before I pick the towel up—and it’s not like I’m naked—I’m wearing a swimsuit!
But in the two seconds it takes to wrap it back around my waist, the whole bus erupts in laughter.
“Oops,” I say. Then I try to fake laugh so nobody notices my tears. “I’m so clumsy.”
I avoid Love Kilgore’s eyes as I stumble toward the door. But I don’t miss seeing who she’s sitting beside: my former best friend, Loretta. And Loretta? She won’t look at me at all.
“You okay, Roxie?” Mr. Kidd says, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m not trying to rush you. But there’s a wind advisory. I want to make sure you get home safe.”
This makes every cackling sixth grader hush.
Suddenly I hear volleys of clicking sounds. Here in Silas County, everybody carries carabiners—those little metal clips used by mountain climbers. We aren’t climbing mountains, though. We use them to clip our belongings to us when the Witching Wind blows through. Otherwise, the wind might snatch our stuff. It’s a pilfering wind, as Granny says.
“Hurry home, now,” Mr. Kidd says kindly as I trudge down the bus steps. “Sorry to be so bossy. You’ll have plenty of time to play together tomorrow. I just want you to get home safe.”
I don’t tell him that sixth grade is too old for playing much of anything. That in the span of a day I’ve lost my best friend and somehow, in a way I still don’t understand, created a nemesis in Love Kilgore.
Welcome to middle school, Roxie Darling.
I stand on the dirt road watching the bus round the curve. Then I let out a deep sigh and wrap the towel around my shoulders.
Tight like a hug.
Tight like a bird folds its wings when it dives into Lake Silas.
As I jog toward Granny’s house, I veer off the gravel road and take the dirt path through the woods instead. I feel safe in the shadows of the old maple trees and evergreens. Safe where the bluebirds sing and the honeysuckle grows.
Sometimes I think about how trees spend their whole lives just trying to grow—not die in bad weather, not burn in a fire, not break in the wind. Life’s tough and the trees know it. They survive and they give shelter.
That’s why they don’t mind if you cry.
“Don’t be afraid!” Ms. Betsy yells. “I can outrun it!”
Grayson watches the speedometer climb from thirty-five to thirty-eight.
She knows there’s no way the wind could actually snatch a person. But there’s no sense in trying to convince Ms. Betsy. So Grayson watches the world outside. She sees big trees rocking in the breeze, fluttering their leaves. And—yup—there goes somebody’s lawn chair, rolling across the road like a tacky tumbleweed. Grayson’s more interested in the houses they’re passing, though.
Beanie and Grayson have only lived in Silas County for a year. But that’s long enough to know that the county is split into three distinct parts. First, there’s Sunny Side. That’s the part of town they’re in now, and it’s full of cute neighborhoods. There are schools and apartment buildings and a downtown some people describe as charming. (Grayson describes it as satisfactory.)
On the other side of the lake, there’s the Harbor, a gated community with its own grocery store, library, and park. Harbor homes are three stories tall, at least. Harbor people have swimming pools and housekeepers and drive big, shiny trucks. Grayson has never been inside the gates and knows she probably never will. Whatever. Who cares?
Then, overlooking the rest of Silas County, is Monarch Mountain where dozens of tiny trailers perch along the ridgeline. Some people—Harbor people, mostly—hate that Shady Grace Trailer Park is the first thing tourists see when they drive to the lake. But Grayson has always thought the trailers look cool. Cute. Funky colored and fun. Especially at night. People up there string lights around their porches. She and Beanie used to wish on the trailer lights, like they were tiny stars.
Grayson checks her phone again—still no text from Beanie.
“WE ARE CLOSE NOW!” Ms. Betsy yells. “I WILL RUN INSIDE. I’LL FIND US SHELTER. THEN—”
“You don’t have to scream. I’m right next to you. I hear you fine.”
“Then I’ll come back and help you get inside,” Ms. Betsy continues. “And I mean it, Patch. If you don’t watch the sarcasm, finding a family’s going to be hard.”
I already have a family.
This is what Grayson wants to remind Ms. Betsy—she’s not floating around aimlessly like all the stuff in the wind. Grayson has a family. Her family is Beanie.
The van turns into the driveway of a one-story blue house. Orange flowers bloom in the front beds, flickering like fire in the breeze. There are rocking chairs on the front porch. There’s even a ramp to the door. A ramp!
“Oh cool,” Grayson says. “I won’t need help. I can get in just fine—”
But Ms. Betsy is already out of the car. She slams the door and takes off running, pounding the driveway so hard she kicks off one sparkly shoe.
“SHELTER IN PLACE!” she yells, waving her arms around. “HUNKER DOWN!”
“Ooookay, then,” Grayson says to herself. She carefully gets out of the van and pulls her backpack over her shoulders. Then holds on to the side of the vehicle, for extra balance, while she walks around to the back door. She’ll grab her duffel bag later. She might not even have to unpack! Why should she? Beanie is coming Saturday!
Reaching past the duffel, Grayson unloads and unfolds her walker. Very, very carefully.
Grayson’s good at being careful. She’s an expert, actually. Because she was born with brittle bones. And while she hasn’t broken a bone in a while, the walker gives her extra balance and support so she’s less likely to fall. Plus, it has a pouch on the front that’s great for hauling books and snacks.
As Grayson slams the door shut, she realizes Ms. Betsy has vanished. But there are two figures standing in the doorway, both backlit by warm, yellow light.
“Do you need any help?” a lady yells. It’s a kind-sounding voice, all fluttery and sweet. But Grayson doesn’t get her hopes up. Lots of people sound nice.
