“Yousaw Campton?” the deputy interrupted.
“Yes!He pulled me over and gave—”
“Lookslike we got us another one,” the man said over his shoulder, and the seconddeputy nodded.
“Anotherone?” Dad said, just as Mom asked “Another what?”
“Another,uh,”—the second deputy searched for a word—“sighting, I guess you’d say.You saw Deputy Campton?”
“Yeswe saw him,” said Dad, pointing at Went. “And I told him about this guy. Can’tyou radio him or something? He’ll back my—”
“Can’tdo that, sir,” said the first deputy, the older of the two. “Old CharlieCampton died pursuing a couple of drag racers almost eleven years ago.”
“OldCharlie,” Isabel whispered, while behind her, Dad sounded a bit strangled.
“Whatare you talking about? Campton pulled us over. Talked to all of us. Even gaveme a ticket, for Christ’s sake!”
Dad reached into his shirt pocket to fetch thehalf-crumpled piece of paper to wave at the deputies. He poked, prodded, andpatted, moving from shirt to pants, checking every pocket twice.
The ticket wasnowhere to be found.
The ThinPlace
MorganSylvia
Analea was nothing but shadows and mist,the first time I saw her.
I was in the garden tending my roses, myblack and white husky, Lela, dozing at my feet. My husband, Jacob, was at sea,so I was home alone. I’d just finished watering the flowers, and the rich,earthy smell of plants hung heavy in the late summer air. In the fading goldendaylight, the blood-red roses looked so vivid that they almost glowed. Throughthe towering pines in the back yard, I could see the rocky cliffs of ourcoastline, and the blue-silver-gold waters of the harbor. Lobster boats andwindjammers dotted the waves, a peaceful and familiar sight.
Someone called my name and I looked up,startled. Though we lived near town, our house stood on a wooded, isolatedroad. With the exception of old Mr. Harrett, who never missed his daily stroll,few people walked past.
I didn’t see anything at first. But as Iturned, I smelled smoke, which immediately made me uneasy. It had been dry,that summer. Too dry. Wildfires blazed across lower Maine, and the weatherreports were filled with warnings and fire restrictions.
Fire terrified me. Just the smell of it,the sound of crackling flames, made me nervous. Not long after my wedding, amassive wildfire had ravaged the island, razing everything in its path.Everyone had to evacuate, and fast. Local fishermen took dozens by boat, whilebulldozers worked frantically to clear the main road so vehicles could getthrough. Jacob was at sea, so I drove our new Chevy through the inferno,joining the caravan of cars fleeing the flames. My best friend, Marie, satbeside me, her face pale and frightened in the flickering orange light as wesped through a blizzard of sparks, the night sky above us lit with a hellishglow. Flames licked the side of the road, transforming the ancient forest intoa hellscape.
The smell of smoke brought it all back.I could almost see the flames approaching. Uneasy, I looked around.
That’s when I saw her.
A pale thing stood in the trees at theedge of the yard, on the border between shadow and sunlight. She wore a whitedress, and her hair fell long and loose. I could not see her face. I thought atfirst that she was real; a lost tourist, perhaps, exploring the wrong trail.
Then I realized I could see through her.
The ghost did not move or speak, butjust looked at me. The world went silent around us: the familiar sounds ofseagulls and the waves crashing against the shore seemed distant, muted.
A moment later, she was gone. I wouldhave doubted that I ever saw her, but Lela looked in that direction and tensed,growling. I grabbed her collar just before she lunged, and spent what seemed aneternity hauling her back inside.
Jacob and I had always suspected that weweren’t alone in the house. Strange, though trivial, incidents had plagued ussince we’d moved in. Doors opened themselves. Things disappeared, only to turnup in strange places. We would find rooms we never used rearranged. Once, wediscovered the attic window open, though neither of us had been up there inweeks. We’d heard things, too: sobbing coming from the cellar, childrenlaughing outside, footsteps running through the kitchen. The dirt basement wasthe worst: its spiderweb-draped beams and dank earthy smell always made menervous. Even Lela refused to set foot—or paw—in it. The previous owners hadleft a big wardrobe down there, an elaborate, antique mahogany piece withmirrors on the inside of both doors. I often found it open, though the latchwas sturdy. That wardrobe always gave me the creeps.
Grandma sensed it when she visited us,the summer before she died. As I was showing her the house, she had paused atthe cellar door and looked down the stairs, frowning.
“What is it, Grandma?” I asked,frowning. “You look pale.”
“Just a vision,” she said, putting herhand to her forehead. I took her arm and gently guided her to a chair. Hervoice was weak and shaky, as was she. “This is a thin place, child.”
A thin place, according to Grandma, wasa spot where the veil between worlds was thin.
“There are many types of thin places,”she told me. “Doors, windows, mirrors, lakes, caves. Even a cupboard or acloset can be thin. There are thin times, as well. Like Samhain, when the doorsbetween worlds open. And ghosts aren’t the only things that can come through.”
“What do you mean?”
“These northern woods are full ofphantasms,” she said. “Ghosts and werewolves and all sorts of beings. Andfetches, spirit doubles that come to take the dead. Some say that such thingsdon’t exist. But mark my words, child, the old myths are true. I myself saw oneof the ghost ships that sail these waves, The Aria, a phantom spirit ather bow.”
I believed her. How could I not? We’dall grown up hearing about The Aria. Our tiny harbor had its fair shareof ghost stories. Haunted inns, farms, caves, and forests: we had it all. Thatwasn’t even counting the numerous tales of ghost ships and sea spirits. Storiesof the restless dead hovered around the campfires of August and the fireplaceflames of December alike. One legend held that the gates of hell were
