The Ghost of Us

by James L. Sutter

Genres: YA Contemporary Romance; YA Paranormal; YA LGBT & Pride

Synopsis

"I was in a slump where I hated everything I read, and The Ghost of Us lifted me right out of it. Absolutely fantastic." —Dan Wells, bestselling author of I Am Not a Serial Killer

One Last Stop meets Cemetery Boys in this swoony YA romance from beloved author James L. Sutter.

Eighteen-year-old ghost hunter Cara is determined to escape life as a high school outcast by finding proof of the supernatural. Yet when she stumbles upon the spirit of Aiden, a popular upperclassman who died the previous year, she learns that ghosts have goals of their own. In the wake of his death, Aiden’s little sister, Meredith, has become a depressed recluse, and Aiden can’t pass on into the afterlife until he knows she’ll be okay. Believing that nothing pulls someone out of a slump like romance, he makes Cara a deal: seduce Meredith out of her shell and take her to prom, and Aiden will give Cara all the evidence she needs for fame. If not, well—no dates, no ghost.

Wooing the standoffish Meredith isn’t going to be easy, however. With Aiden’s coaching, Cara slowly manages to win Meredith over—but finds herself accidentally falling for her in the process. Worse yet: as Meredith gets happier and Aiden’s mission nears completion, his ghost begins to fade. Can Cara continue to date Meredith under false pretenses, especially if it means Aiden will vanish forever? Or should she tell Meredith the truth, and risk both of them hating her? And either way, will she lose her only shot at proving ghosts are real?

 

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Release date: June 11, 2024

Publisher: Wednesday Books

Print pages: 328

Sample

1



CHAIN-LINK CLAWED AT clothes as we ducked through the hole in the fence. Ahead, the old factory cast late-afternoon shadows across an overgrown field, broken windows yawning with glass teeth. Wind-waved grass turned the building’s stillness into threat—a predator waiting to pounce.

“Oh, hells yes.” I rested the collapsed tripod against the ground and got some B-roll.

“It sure looks haunted.” Holly’s agreement came with noticeably less enthusiasm.

I pointed to a patch of buckled pavement shot through with lines of dandelions. “We’ll do the intro over there.”

Holly frowned. “Why not here?”

“Wrong angle.” I pointed at the sun, then at my nose.

Holly rolled her eyes so hard her whole head lolled back. “Your nose looks great, Cara.”

“‘Great’ as in ‘Great Wall of China’: Massive. Astonishing. Visible from space.”

“Fact check: the Great Wall is not, in fact, visible from space.”

“Unlike my nose.”

Holly sighed but followed. Around us, the paper mill sprawled like a box of dumped LEGOs, all smokestacks and boilers and crumbling warehouses. Off to the right, pilings held part of it out over the burbling Snoqualmie River.

“Perfect.” I framed the scene, checked the sun again, then stepped in front, leaving room for Holly in the shot. “See? Much better.”

Holly leaned in to check Camera One, which was really just my dad’s old smartphone. “Your nose looks exactly the same.”

“Like a tanker ship, and twice as oily. But now less obvious! Gotta get the shadows right.”

“You gotta get therapy.”

Easy for her to say—Holly’s flat nose fit her face perfectly, completing her whole round-cheeked pixie thing. Plus, she had the luchador mask.

“Just roll camera,” I said.

“Not until you agree I’m right.” Holly’s Bantering Face softened into the giant puppy eyes of Concerned Face. “Seriously, Cara. You look like Robin from Stranger Things.”

“So I look like the weird one?”

“You said she was the hot one!”

“Also true.” I’d let Maya Hawke explore my Upside Down any day. And I did kind of look like a redheaded version of her. In the right light. If you forgot your glasses.

Holly gave a triumphant grin. “So you admit you’re a total snack.”

There was no stopping Holly in Mom Mode. The wrestling mask wasn’t just a disguise—she was merciless in her friendship, taking you apart in the Emotional Support Octagon.

“Okay, fine! I’m gorgeous and confident and definitely don’t have a giant zit I’m gonna edit out in post. Now will you please hit record?”

Holly gave me one last evaluating look, then pulled on her mask. She tapped the screen and ran over to stand next to me.

The thing is, I was proud—mostly, at least. While only sociopaths are completely proud of themselves, at eighteen, I’d spent plenty of years learning the hard way not to give a shit what anyone else thought of me. And while I might not love my nose, my outfit today was as snatched as always: a form-fitting maroon coverall that matched my cherry Docs, unzipped to the waist to flaunt a black-and-white-checked top and a black bandana. Plus my signature white shorty moto jacket.

I might not be the best ghost hunter on YouTube, but I was damn sure the best-dressed. I gave the camera a wide smile.

“Hey there, hunters! Welcome back to Caranormal Activity. I’m your host, Cara. And with me as always, ready to provide spiritual security, is the Catholic commando herself—the one and only Masked Exorcist!”

Holly grinned through red-and-gold polyester and did a bicep curl with her Bible.

“Today we’re at the old Stossel Paper Mill. Founded in 1926, it was shut down in the eighties. While it was operating, the mill was a nightmare of acid burns, dust explosions, crushings by giant logs—all the sorts of traumatic deaths primed to generate hauntings.”

I made my face go somber.

“Sadly, not all the deaths are historical. A little over a year ago, local high school senior Aiden Reyes lost his life in one of these buildings, leading to renewed calls for the site to be torn down.” I paused respectfully, then grinned. “Which is why we’re investigating while we still can! Now let’s go find some ghosts!”

I held the pose, giving myself padding for the edit, then relaxed.

Holly ran back to the phone. “Got it!”

“All right, let’s move in.” I slid my backpack off my shoulder.

Holly picked up the tripod and grimaced. “Do we have to go inside?”

“Um, yes…? Obviously?” I pulled out my Maglite. A headlamp would leave my hands free, but it was literally impossible to look cool in a headlamp.

“Yeah, okay.” Holly still didn’t sound happy.

I took a closer look at her. “You’re scared.”

“No!” She made an offended face, then snorted. “I mean, okay—yes. It’s just … that guy died here.”

“Yeah, and if it turns out he’s an angry ghost, you can go all Matthew, Mark, and Luke on his ass. Just not until I’ve recorded it.”

I wasn’t quite as cavalier as I sounded about tromping through somebody’s tragedy. It was one of two reasons I’d agreed to put off hunting in the mill for this long, despite its convenient location.

But then yesterday I’d gotten the letter.

Dear Cara,

The admissions committee has reviewed your application, and unfortunately …

That had clinched it. Finding a ghost was now officially my only ticket out of Stossel’s suburban purgatory, and there was no time to waste. If that meant dancing on some upperclassman’s grave, then lace up my fucking pointe shoes.

Holly wouldn’t want to hear that, of course. A part of me wanted to tell her anyway—to remind her that this wasn’t just a hobby for me, that some people didn’t have their perfect life all laid out and humming along, ready to carry them away after graduation.

Instead, I looped an arm around her shoulder.

“Besides,” I said, “wouldn’t laying his spirit to rest be a good deed?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, because that’s totally why we’re out here. Your subscriber numbers have nothing to do with it.”

I spread my arms. “It’s a virtuous cycle.”

Holly crossed her own arms, still holding the tripod. “Whatever. I’m not worried about ghosts. I’m worried about becoming one—falling through the floor into some rusty chemical vat. Nobody even knows we’re out here.”

“Again: obviously.” I softened. “Look, people hang out here all the time. We’ll just take a peek, okay?” I tapped her arm gently with the flashlight. “Besides, what’re the odds we’ll both fall into a rusty vat?”

“You’re so comforting.” But she began walking toward the factory, using the tripod as a makeshift Steadicam.

A tromped-down path through the grass skirted the big buildings with their concrete foundations and yellow-brown brick. Glassless windows with rotting frames offered glimpses of arcane machinery—tangled pipes and mysterious tanks squatting in darkness. I shoved my phone inside to capture what I could. It might not be ghosts, but it was still atmospheric as shit.

Next to a particularly moody section, I raised a hand. “Hold up—let’s get a wide shot of us in front of this.”

Holly dutifully hauled the tripod out into the field, then ran over to stand next to me. The two of us clowned for the camera, me pretending to try to climb through one of the windows while Holly held me back.

And that’s when the other reason I avoided the factory came sauntering around the corner.

Sophia was supposed to be at track practice. I hated that I still memorized her schedule every year, but it made it easier to avoid her—except for today, apparently. Two boys and a girl followed, weed stench rolling off them like a roadkill skunk.

Sophia froze at the sight of us, a Disney-villain smile spreading catlike across angelic features.

“Making more videos, Cara?” Her words oozed false innocence.

I ran for the camera, but they were closer—stupid wide-angle shot. Sophia grabbed the tripod, tossing it back to her boyfriend. Brandon Hamm might be a barely sentient sack of creatine, but you didn’t need to be a National Merit Scholar to play flying monkey to Sophia’s wicked witch. He lifted the tripod up over his head, miles out of reach. “Oh,” he crooned, “did you want this?”

I stopped short, refusing to give them the satisfaction of watching me jump for it. “Give it back.” A distant part of me took pride in managing to keep the whine out of my voice.

It didn’t matter. The sharks smelled blood and spread out, circling me.

“Dance for us, Scarf Girl!”

“Release the kraken!”

“Don’t get too close now—she’s feisty!”

My hands clenched into fists at my sides, but there were four of them, and Crony Girl had her phone out, meaning anything I did now would be all over school tomorrow. Nothing to do but stand there, watching Sophia’s poison smile while her pet meat-mountain looked to her with a doglike hunger for approval.

Holly came running over, yanking off the luchador mask. “Knock it off!”

Sophia did an exaggerated double take, as if noticing her for the first time. “Holly…? What are you wearing?” As if she hadn’t hate-watched my channel plenty. When it came to researching your enemies, Sun Tzu had nothing on Sophia Franklin.

Holly ignored her, focusing instead on the Auxiliary Jock, a less beef-tastic dude with spiky hair. “Noah! Is this who you are? What would Cammy think?”

Noah the Arkless Wonder shrank under Holly’s flood of disapproval, but Holly was already rounding on the other girl. “And Madeline—you want your mom to find out you’re smoking weed?”

“I didn’t!” the girl protested, but she took a step back.

Sophia squared up to Holly. “Nobody would believe you.”

Holly crossed her arms. “Wanna find out?”

The two stared each other down—the popular girl vs. the girl people actually liked.

At last Sophia gave a sniff and reached back without looking. Brandon deposited the camera in her hand.

“Here.” She handed it over, tossing a final smirky side-eye my direction. “It’s nice you’re here to chaperone, Hol. We wouldn’t want Scarf Girl recording anything … inappropriate.”

“Don’t call her that!” Holly snapped.

But Sophia was already flouncing away, douchey ducklings trailing behind her.

Holly waited till they’d disappeared back along the trail, leaving me my pride, then put a hand on my arm. “You okay?”

My stomach quivered, muscles spasming with the strain of containing my shame. Hot tears pricked at the backs of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not for Sophia. Never again.

Holly squeezed. “We could come back a different day—”

“No.” The word came out sharp, but I couldn’t help it. Holly didn’t get it. Perfect, lovable Holly, who always came so quickly to my defense—she didn’t understand. We didn’t have time.

Because in four months she’d be gone.

And I’d still be right here.

“Sorry.” I turned back toward the factory, blinking with purpose, scrubbing my eyes dry by force of will. “Just keep recording.”

Holly still looked concerned, but she pulled her mask back on and followed, camera at the ready.

The trail came to an entrance, its door long gone save for a single rusty hinge. I took a deep breath, then forced a cheerful smile and turned, giving a thumbs-up for the camera as we headed inside.

The ceiling here had collapsed, sunlight illuminating a carpet of splintered wood and broken bottles. Graffiti covered the walls in a thousand shades of dick: Big spray-painted dicks. Small Sharpie-scrawled dicks. Dicks with pitchforks, dicks with faces, dicks proclaiming that Trump won or all cops are bastards.

“I’m sensing a theme,” Holly deadpanned.

“Welcome to the Phallus Palace.” I looked into the camera. “I’ve gotta say, I’m disappointed. Half of these are barely recognizable.” I motioned for Holly to zoom in on a particularly underwhelming example. “Like, what is this? A sad elephant?”

“It kinda looks like a croquet mallet,” she offered.

“There we go, then. Gentlemen, if you’re gonna draw a dong, take some pride in your craft.”

“You’d think a bunch of guys getting together to draw genitals would be less homophobic, too.” Holly leaned in to examine a scrawled message. “They didn’t even spell ‘Leviticus’ right.”

“Do better, people.” I moved through an archway guarded by a long, serpentine penis with scales and wings. Dongles & Dragons.

The next few rooms were all stained concrete floors studded with asymmetrical platforms and rusted bolts. Eventually we found ourselves in a chamber with its ceiling still intact. A row of small windows sloped rays of light like a Renaissance painting down onto a stained mattress ringed by burger wrappers and empty forty bottles. Still Life with Crabs.

I swept my hand out dramatically. “And here we have the honeymoon suite. Complete with bottle service.”

Holly covered the nose of her mask. “Please tell me that smell is animal pee.”

“Humans are animals.” A doorway at the other end led on into darkness, and I shined my flashlight through onto a stout tree of ductwork. It would have made for a creepier backdrop, but Holly was already clearly uncomfortable. I waved to a spot beneath the windows. “Let’s set up here.”

With the tripod positioned, I handed Holly our compass, then addressed the camera, holding up my own phone to display its screen.

“The Masked Exorcist will now use this compass to look for magnetic anomalies, while I scan for abnormal electromagnetic frequencies. You can see here I’ve got the EMF Detective app, but there are plenty of others out there—hint hint, sponsors!”

We set to work. After several minutes of nothing, I turned back to the camera.

“Okay, no anomalies yet. But don’t get discouraged! While unexplained electromagnetic phenomena can indicate a haunting, EM fields can also cause hallucinations. So a normal EMF reading just means that if you do see a ghost, at least you know you’re not trippin’ balls.”

I traded my phone for my spirit box and began scanning the static between stations, looking for spectral murmurs. Across the room, Holly stared down at the gross mattress with equal parts disgust and fascination. “You think people really sleep here?”

“I think they do more than sleep.” My traitorous mind immediately pulled up images of Sophia and her boyfriend. Thanks, brain.

“Ew.” Holly wrinkled her nose.

“What, you don’t wanna lose your virginity in an abandoned paper mill, surrounded by decaying Arby’s bags?” I held the radio up to my ear.

“How’d you know my wedding theme?”

We should really have been doing this in silence, but I figured banter was part of the channel’s appeal. Maybe the entire appeal, given that we’d never actually, you know, found a ghost.

Holly was still frowning at the mattress. “It just seems so sad.”

“Some people get off on sad.” I clicked the radio off. “They do not, however, get off on twenty minutes of static. Come on, let’s try the scope.”

I pulled out the plastic case and popped the latch, revealing a battered thermal imaging scope nestled in molded foam. Dad had been so excited when I’d asked for it for my birthday, even if I hadn’t wanted a rifle to go with it.

“Can I use it this time?” Holly asked.

“Sure.” I grabbed the tripod.

Holly put the scope to her eye and walked slowly through the rooms, scanning back and forth. I followed, trying for a nice action shot, then got distracted by some rare non-phallic graffiti of a Satanic goat head. I thought it might make for a good closing image: I could fade out until it was just—

“Cara.”

Holly stood frozen midstep like a deer, scope trained on the doorway to the unlit sections.

“There’s something in there.”

I sprinted over and snatched the scope, shoving the tripod into her hands. Through the digital lens, the concrete walls around us were cool purples, broken by the vibrant orange squares of windows. The lightless room beyond the doorway lit up just as bright, a rainbow of temperature gradients.


Copyright © 2024 by James L. Sutter