{"product_id":"the-hungry-ghost-isbn-9781782692690","title":"The Hungry Ghost","description":"\u003cb\u003eA mysterious white-clad figure leads a girl towards a family mystery in this moving middle-grade adventure story of family change and buried secrets\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFreja arrives in Singapore during the month of the hungry ghost, when old spirits are said to roam the streets. She's struggling to settle into her dad's new, 'happy' family, and dreams only of escaping home and leaving this hot, unfamiliar city.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen one night, a mysterious girl in a white dress appears in the garden. Freja follows this figure to lush, secretive corners of the city, seeking to understand the girl's identity. Her search will lead her to an old family mystery - one that must be unravelled before the month is over, to allow both girls to be freed from the secrets of the past.“Explores lost family histories and expat life, with a taste of Singaporean myth and folk tradition.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[Freja's] quest to solve the mystery of this unquiet spirit takes the pair into the thrilling territory of Chinese folklore and feng shui.\" -- \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eFinancial Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A gripping, moving, perfectly crafted story... one of my books of the year.\" -- \u003cb\u003eSinéad O'Hart, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Eye of the North\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eH. S. Norup is the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Hungry Ghost\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Missing Barbegazi\u003c\/i\u003e—a \u003ci\u003eSunday Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book of the Year in 2018. Originally from Denmark, she has lived in six different countries and now resides in Switzerland with her husband and two teenage sons. She has a Master’s degree in Economics and Business Administration and sixteen years’ experience in corporate marketing strategy and communications. When she’s not writing or reading, she spends her time outdoors either skiing, hiking, walking, golfing or taking photos.You can’t see the stars here in Singapore. Ghostly, dimmed\u003cbr\u003espots fade in and out on a sky that’s not black but a murky,\u003cbr\u003eyellowy grey.\u003cbr\u003e“I can’t see the stars today, Freja.” That’s what Mum\u003cbr\u003ealways says when she’s sad. Even if it’s the middle of the day.\u003cbr\u003eAre the stars invisible here, or is it just me?\u003cbr\u003eI give up on finding a star, and slump back into the cushions\u003cbr\u003eon the deep window seat. The only sound in the silent\u003cbr\u003ehouse is the low hum of the air-con unit. It blasts cool air\u003cbr\u003edown on my shoulders. Flyaway strands of hair blow into my\u003cbr\u003eeyes. I think about retying my ponytail.\u003cbr\u003eIt’s midnight, but I’m wide awake. My watch still shows\u003cbr\u003ethe time in Denmark. Six o’clock. I don’t want to set it to\u003cbr\u003eSingapore time yet. Perhaps I have jet lag, because it feels\u003cbr\u003elike my whole body is confused.\u003cbr\u003eI’m not sure when yesterday ended and today began.\u003cbr\u003eThe two have blended into one endless day, where too many\u003cbr\u003ethings happened. I remember looking at my watch exactly\u003cbr\u003etwenty-four hours ago, at six o’clock. That was when Aunt\u003cbr\u003eAstrid, Mum’s sister, handed me over to Dad in Copenhagen\u003cbr\u003eairport, like I was a parcel being passed on.\u003cbr\u003eOutside the window, tips of twigs scratch against the glass.\u003cbr\u003eThe tree’s so close I think I could jump to the nearest thick\u003cbr\u003ebranch, if I had to escape. But where would I go?\u003cbr\u003eSingapore is 10,071 kilometres away from home. The\u003cbr\u003edistance is almost impossible to understand. Once, with my\u003cbr\u003escouting troop, we hiked thirty kilometres in one day, to get\u003cbr\u003ethe activity badge. Even if I walked that far every single day,\u003cbr\u003eit would take more than eleven months to get back to Mum.\u003cbr\u003eIn the light from the yellowy sky, I can make out shapes\u003cbr\u003ein the room. My suitcase lies open on the floor, spilling a\u003cbr\u003ejumble of stuff I had to take out to find my pyjamas. The\u003cbr\u003eonly other things I’ve unpacked are my compass and the\u003cbr\u003eSwiss Army knife Dad gave me last summer for my eleventh\u003cbr\u003ebirthday.\u003cbr\u003eA beanbag leans against an empty bookcase. Two framed\u003cbr\u003eposters hang above the bed. One is of Mount Everest and the\u003cbr\u003eother of a jungle waterfall. Dad might have chosen them.\u003cbr\u003eAnd only them. Everything else in the room is pink and girly.\u003cbr\u003eChosen by Her. My stepmother. Clementine.\u003cbr\u003eI open the window to take a closer look at the tree, because\u003cbr\u003ea scout should always be prepared. The hot air that streams\u003cbr\u003einside is sticky and dense, making me cough. It smells like\u003cbr\u003esomething somewhere is burning. That calms me a bit,\u003cbr\u003ebecause bonfire smoke is my favourite scent.\u003cbr\u003eCicada song and something louder—frogs or perhaps\u003cbr\u003etoads—sound like an orchestra during warm-up. If they’re\u003cbr\u003etoads, then I hope they’re edible, unlike the ones we have\u003cbr\u003ein Denmark. I’ll ask Dad tomorrow. It sounds like there are\u003cbr\u003elots of them, and that could be handy in a survival situation.\u003cbr\u003eI’m glad I have rope in my suitcase, because the thick\u003cbr\u003ebranch is further away than I thought, and it’s too risky to\u003cbr\u003ejump from the first floor. Below, outdoor lights are burning\u003cbr\u003eon the covered terrace. Part of a sun lounger is visible next\u003cbr\u003eto the swimming pool. Behind the pool, which isn’t even\u003cbr\u003efenced in, the lawn and an overturned tricycle lie in halfdarkness\u003cbr\u003eunder a row of palm trees and flowering bushes. At\u003cbr\u003ethe back of the garden, where a high hedge blocks the view\u003cbr\u003eof the neighbours, something’s moving.\u003cbr\u003eA tall man sneaks along the hedge. He’s talking. I pull the\u003cbr\u003ewindow almost closed and creep back until I’m kneeling on\u003cbr\u003ethe floor, peeking down into the garden.\u003cbr\u003eThe man is near the house before he steps out of the\u003cbr\u003eshadow under the trees. Light from the terrace falls on his\u003cbr\u003eyellow hair. It’s Dad! He must be on the phone again, having\u003cbr\u003eanother business call with someone in London or New York.\u003cbr\u003eI get up and lean out of the window.\u003cbr\u003e“Dad,” I call in a stage whisper, expecting him to look\u003cbr\u003eup and wave.\u003cbr\u003eHe doesn’t. Still muttering, his arms by his sides, his hands\u003cbr\u003eempty, he turns and walks away from the house. He’s wearing\u003cbr\u003ePJ bottoms and a T-shirt. No pockets. So where’s his phone?\u003cbr\u003e“Dad,” I call again, a bit louder. He still doesn’t react.\u003cbr\u003eWhy can I hear him, when he can’t hear me? And who’s he\u003cbr\u003etalking to at this hour, if he isn’t on the phone?\u003cbr\u003eWhen Dad reaches the high hedge and changes direction\u003cbr\u003eagain, a bright patch starts following him. It looks like a\u003cbr\u003eperson. As they get closer to the house, I see that it’s a girl\u003cbr\u003ein a knee-length white dress. Graceful as a ballet dancer,\u003cbr\u003eshe cranes her long neck. One thin hand—with the palm\u003cbr\u003eturned up—stretches towards me, in either a dance move or\u003cbr\u003ea plea for help.\u003cbr\u003eDad isn’t talking any more, and he doesn’t pay any attention\u003cbr\u003eto the girl. It’s almost as if he doesn’t know she’s there.\u003cbr\u003eBefore they emerge from the shadows, the girl pirouettes and\u003cbr\u003eturns away, with a swirl of waist-length dark hair.\u003cbr\u003eWho is she? And what’s she doing here in the middle of\u003cbr\u003ethe night?\u003cbr\u003eI get down and rummage through the suitcase to find\u003cbr\u003emy big torch. But when I return to the window, the girl has\u003cbr\u003evanished. And so has Dad.\u003cbr\u003eThe stairs creak. Dad crosses the landing outside my\u003cbr\u003eroom. If he can’t sleep either, perhaps we can go downstairs\u003cbr\u003eand have a night-time chat. I want to ask him about the girl.\u003cbr\u003eAfter springing across the room, I open the door and stick\u003cbr\u003emy head out, just as the door to the master bedroom closes.\u003cbr\u003eIn the glow from the night light on the landing, I notice the\u003cbr\u003eletters again. Wooden animal letters glued to the outside of\u003cbr\u003emy door: a frog, a rabbit, an elephant, a jellyfish, an alligator.\u003cbr\u003eThey spell my name: FREJA.\u003cbr\u003eI remember a door with letters like these when I was\u003cbr\u003elittle. I think there was a monkey too. But there’s no M in\u003cbr\u003emy name, so that memory must be false.\u003cbr\u003eThe letters remind me that this isn’t just a holiday. That\u003cbr\u003ethis is my room. My room for the next year, in my new home,\u003cbr\u003ewith my new happy family.A mysterious white-clad figure leads a girl towards a family mystery in this moving middle-grade adventure story of family change and buried secrets","brand":"Pushkin Children's Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304586858725,"sku":"NP9781782692690","price":12.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781782692690.jpg?v=1767739870","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-hungry-ghost-isbn-9781782692690","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}