“I thought ghosts were supposed to be scary,” Germ whispers to me as we walk. “But this one just seems kind of… moody. And I still don’t know why I have the sight.”

I speak up, so Ebb can hear. “You said people like me, from families like mine have a strong connection to the unseen things. Is Germ from a family of witch hunters too?” Germ’s mom seems even less likely to be a witch hunter than mine. She bakes cookies. She wears sweatshirts that say I Could Be Wrong but Probably Not. She watches home decorating shows.

Ebb looks over at Germ, perplexed, and shakes his head.

“I have no idea why Germ can see it all too. I never heard anything about her or her family having the sight.”

I’m starting to lose my bearings, and Germ and I have to step around or over bushes and brambles that Ebb floats right through—so we are soon out of breath, our arms and legs scratched up. Then we crest a small hill, and what’s on the other side comes into view. Germ stumbles in fright as I let out a small cry.

There must be fifty ghosts gathered in the hollow below us, so many luminous spirits in one place that the whole field is aglow—some dressed as sailors in rain slickers, some in handspun clothes, others in finery. They’re scattered among a hodgepodge maze of crooked, crumbling headstones, and they’re all looking at us—but it’s clear from the very first moment: they’re not happy to see us.

Hovering in front of us, Ebb gestures for us not to move.

SEAPORT HISTORIC CEMETERY, a sign says, just within my view at the edge of the field. ESTABLISHED 1782. DEDICATED TO THE PEACEFUL REPOSE OF OUR TOWN’S SOULS.

A ghost floats up the hill toward us. He’s mean-looking—one arm lopped off below the shoulder and bound with a rag, the other covered in tattoos of giant squids, mermaids, dragons, and anchors. His face is horribly scarred, copper-colored skin gone bluish and bright, one eye sagging.

I realize suddenly, Ebb is not our friend. He’s led us here, away from witches, to a cemetery full of angry ghosts instead. He is a vengeful ghost leading us to our deaths.

The man floats closer, and I notice that worms can be ghosts too when I see a translucent one squiggling out of his ear. He leans down to look into my eyes with his one good one. Then he looks at Ebb, straightening up.

“There’s word a witch is about in these parts tonight,” he says to Ebb. “I hope you don’t bring trouble here.”

Ebb shifts nervously, floating back and then forward an inch.

“This is Rosie Oaks,” he says. “Annabelle Oaks’s daughter. Rosie, this is Homer.”