{"product_id":"there-are-ghosts-here-isbn-9798217027903","title":"There Are Ghosts Here","description":"\u003cb\u003eWilla has no memory of anything before arriving at Dorsey House, and when she meets two sinister girls who seem to already know her, she slowly begins to lose her grip on what is real . . . and what is a lie. A haunting contemporary speculative thriller for fans of \u003ci\u003eKill Creatures\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWe Were Liars\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWilla Childs doesn't know why she's at Dorsey House. The tragic accident that banished her to the mysterious reformatory perched at the edge of the sea is lost in the recesses of her murky memory. The Dorseys themselves offer no answers, and the only other wards, Caroline and Ivy, seem intent on keeping Willa in the dark—and on the outside of their obsessive friendship.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYet as the days pass, it begins to feel like the sinister twosome know\u003cbr\u003eWilla better than she knows herself. And as her memories gradually return to focus, the girls become even stranger, doing their best to convince Willa that she’s been at Dorsey House before. Only, that’s impossible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr is it? If they’re telling the truth, Willa can no longer trust her own mind. The line between reality and nightmare begins to blur. Willa is certain Dorsey House is haunted, but by what? And if she can’t remember leaving, how will she ever escape?\"Adrienne Tooley has written a razor-sharp fever dream of a book. Both \u003cb\u003estaggeringly beautiful and deeply unsettling\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThere Are Ghosts Here\u003c\/i\u003e weaves elements of grief, girlhood, and self-worth into an evocative seaside horror that kept me awake well into the night.\" —Kelly Andrew, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eYour Blood, My Bones\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eAs haunting as it is healing\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThere Are Ghosts Here\u003c\/i\u003e will stay with you long after you close its sea-soaked pages. I couldn’t put it down.\" —Trang Thanh Tran, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eShe Is a Haunting\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eNo one does haunting prose like Adrienne Tooley.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003ci\u003eThere Are Ghosts Here\u003c\/i\u003e is as breathtaking as it is insidious. Brackish as olive brine and smooth as a silk bow, Tooley’s foray into horror is a must-read for fans of Rory Power, Kelly Andrew, and Ava Reid.\" —Clare Edge, author of \u003ci\u003eNatural Selection\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThere Are Ghosts Here\u003c\/i\u003e is an intimate, affecting exploration of trauma, mental health, and abandonment. For Willa Childs, everything at Dorsey House is elusive: her memories of the fire that still burns on her skin, a friendship with the prickly codependent girls who share the home, and the relentless secrets of the ocean’s taunting tide.\u003cb\u003e Tooley’s ethereal, devastating prose left me gasping for air;\u003c\/b\u003e this is a story I will return to again and again.\" —Jen St. Jude, author of \u003ci\u003eIf Tomorrow Doesn’t Come\u003c\/i\u003eAdrienne Tooley grew up in Southern California, majored in musical theater in Pittsburgh, and now lives in Brooklyn with her wife, their dog, eight guitars, and a banjo. She’s the author of multiple novels for young adults, including the speculative contemporary thriller \u003ci\u003eThere Are Ghosts Here\u003c\/i\u003e, and the fantasy novels \u003ci\u003eSweet \u0026amp; Bitter Magic\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eSofi and the Bone Song\u003c\/i\u003e, and the Betrayal Prophecies duology. She’s also an occasional singer\/songwriter who has released several EPs. Find her online most places.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s a fire in the back of my throat. Dense and sticky and thick enough to bite. Though my eyes are heavy and my stomach is roiling, it’s the ash coating my tongue that demands my full attention. It’s a powerful taste, made worse each time I swallow—­raw, angry tissue burning as I choke down a mixture of saliva and regret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am aware of my physical form, though I can’t seem to fully access my faculties. Toes won’t wiggle. Knuckles won’t crack. My cheek and temple are pressed against cool glass, a welcome relief from the fire within. Without warning, my body is jerked to the left, but I don’t go flying. Something holds me in place, digs into the thin skin of my neck, working against momentum and the sharp angle of a turn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA seat belt. I’m in a car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s one of Peter’s drivers—­I can tell by the soft leather armrests, the soothing spa soundtrack humming at a low volume, the way I can’t hear the engine like I can when Mom’s driving her midnight-­blue junker. I ought to be terrified, waking up in the back seat of a vehicle driven by a stranger, but my stepfather is addicted to this app, uses it to call a car every time I need a ride rather than spend a single second alone with me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy eyes are gritty, surely bloodshot as I peel them open. I have to blink ten times to clear my vision. Just as I expected: black leather seats, and the back of a stranger’s head. I try to catch the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror, but no matter how I crane my neck all I can see is a smooth expanse of skin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe shiver is involuntary. Outside the car is a blur of trees, a gray sky. Fog creeps closer until the windows are coated too, my confusion turned tangible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where are we going?” Each word wavers with effort; each syllable feels like coughing up thumbtacks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe driver doesn’t respond. They never do. Peter probably requested silence. It’s his way of ensuring I never find a father figure, not even for the fifteen minutes it takes to get home from school. But the scenery outside is nothing like the suburban sprawl I’m used to. We’re somewhere far from tract homes and town houses. And I am all alone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI reach for the door. The driver says nothing but clicks the locks with a chastising \u003ci\u003esmack\u003c\/i\u003e. I rattle the handle. Nothing happens. Child locks. For safety, of course. The app wouldn’t want a lawsuit on their hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith effort, I swallow. Take a deep breath. Try not to panic. I’ll just call Mom and get this sorted out. I pat the pocket of my oversized hoodie. No phone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s a bag at my feet. Mom must have packed it for me. I take inventory: shirts folded into tight, neat squares, socks rolled carefully in pairs, sweats wrapped protectively around a second pair of shoes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat is all this for?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI rummage through the zippered pockets. Toothbrush, hairbrush. Still no phone. In the final pocket, a folded piece of newspaper. I shake it out and gape at the headline—­Town House Fire Tied to Teenager\u003ci\u003e.\u003c\/i\u003e My school photo takes up half the page.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt wasn’t a dream, then. The fire in my throat, my hair stinking of smoke. There was searing heat. Shouting. Then the whole world went black.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI skim the first few lines of the article. \u003ci\u003eThe flames that ravaged the complex began in the bedroom of sixteen-­year-­old Willa Childs. Whether the fire was accidental or an act of arson is under investigation. Fire Chief Richard Ortiz urges parents to talk to their teenagers about the dangers of an open flame in the home.\u003c\/i\u003e I crumple the newspaper in my fist. Peter must be pissed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis paints the bag at my feet in a brand-­new, vaguely ominous light. If there was a fire at the town house, we no longer have a place to live. I have a bag full of clothes, no phone, and a newspaper article implying that I’m an arsonist. My heart sinks into my stomach. I’m more certain than ever that this car is taking me somewhere I don’t want to go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe driver navigates his vehicle up a rocky hill, the sky somehow grayer than before. I half expect to be dumped at a concrete juvenile detention center or, if I’m lucky, a boarding school for troubled teens. Instead, out of the fog emerges a house, a dilapidated Victorian manor, whitewashed and sagging like a deflated balloon. The car comes to a stop beside an ancient red pickup truck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What is this place?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe driver says nothing but unlocks the doors with a dismissive flick. I assume this means I’m supposed to disembark. With effort, I collect my things and stumble out of the car, legs unsteady on the gravel driveway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSalt whips in the wind, clinging to my hair, the strands wilting the same way my shoulders sag beneath the canvas backpack that may well hold all my remaining earthly possessions. The car’s windows are tinted; I can’t make out the driver’s face before he speeds away. When I turn to glance over my shoulder, not even a tire track remains.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wind howls and the house before me emits a great, terrible groan, releasing years of pent-up aches and pains. I make my way toward the front door, the weathered slats of the wooden porch creaking beneath my feet. The supports buckle like bum knees. As the porch lurches, I realize the house teeters mere feet from the edge of a cliff. From below comes the roar of the sea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI read somewhere that if a person falls into water from too great a height, the water turns hard as slate and their body shatters, spine compressed, neck snapped. I refuse to meet such a brittle end. Shuffling backward, I nearly lose my balance and tumble down the steps to a different kind of demise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore I can knock, the front door opens and a girl with a blunt blond bob emerges. The thighs of her linen overalls are streaked with dirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re early.” Her green eyes are bright with suspicion, bangs stuck to her forehead in a way that makes me want to reach out and smooth them back into place. As if she can read my mind, she brushes her arm across her face, and the strands fall perfectly into line.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where am I?” Between the roar of the ocean at the bottom of the cliff and the space between us, I almost have to shout.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe girl flinches, then smiles, showcasing a gap between her front teeth. “At Dorsey House. New girls hardly ever arrive before noon.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI frown up at the sky, an indecipherable gray. “Dorsey House,” I repeat, testing it on my tongue. It’s salt cured and gristly, a carefully seasoned, muscular cut of meat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re right to look concerned,” the girl says. I can’t tell if she’s trying to intimidate me or offer me a warning. Either way, her words sting, small stones cast in my direction without ­kindness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I won’t be staying long.” I gesture to the bag on my back. If this was a permanent stint, surely Mom would have packed more robustly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA tiny crease appears between the girl’s thick eyebrows. “We’ll see about that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s that supposed to mean?” I swallow the uncertainty creeping up my throat like a spider.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat gets a laugh from the girl. It’s small, like a hiccup, short and bright and surprising. “You’ll find out soon enough,” she says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI bristle at her tone. She speaks with authority, not assumption, as though she can dictate how I’ll react before I do. But she’s a stranger. If \u003ci\u003eI\u003c\/i\u003e don’t know what I’m doing here, she certainly doesn’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe girl tugs at a gold chain around her neck, fingers closed around its charm. “So,” she says, her gaze so intense I shrink beneath it, “are you coming in or not?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNot\u003c\/i\u003e, I’m ready to say, until a second girl appears in the doorway. Her long dark brown hair is tied back from her heart-­shaped face with a ribbon. Her eyes hold the sort of impossible confidence possessed by only the very wealthy and the very beautiful. Unfortunately for me, she’s very likely both.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe buzzing starts in my chest. A shivering, suffocating want, like love at first sight but sharper, more brutal. A \u003ci\u003eknowing\u003c\/i\u003e, terrifying in its prophecy. It frightens me, this recognition. How can I feel so certain about a stranger when I am so unmoored from myself?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe new girl rests a hand on the blond girl’s shoulder, possession so casual it’s almost lazy. The blond girl slithers backward without even looking until she’s shrugged herself under the new girl’s arm, burrowing her head into the pale expanse of the other girl’s long neck. Together, they’re a veritable fortress of unreadable expressions. Cerberus, minus one head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re early.” The new girl’s voice is low and croaky, a stick scraping a window in the middle of the night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So I’ve heard.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer brown eyes glimmer dangerously. “You’d better come in before you freeze.” Her voice is less hoarse now, though there is still something electric about her—­the live wire to the other girl’s light switch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe clouds have descended in a swirl of fog. If I didn’t know where the cliff ended, I could easily walk right off the edge and into the sea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I like the cold,” I insist, even though my teeth have begun to chatter. Still, deference is a weakness, and these girls haven’t yet decided where I fall in the food chain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You get used to it,” the blonde pipes up, nuzzling herself further into the new girl’s neck. I’m equal parts envious of and repulsed by the ease of her affection.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ivy. Hush.” The second girl looks annoyed as she detangles herself from the blond girl, Ivy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTheir contact broken, Ivy wilts. “Caro,” she whines, reaching for the other girl, but Caro takes a step back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t teach her bad habits,” she snaps, turning her attention toward me. “Call me Caroline or die. You decide.” She doesn’t wait for my response. Instead, she turns on her heel and dis­appears into the house. After casting an uncertain glance at me, Ivy follows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe screen door catches on the wind, staying open just a crack. The darkness inside isn’t inviting, but it is alluring. Still, I bite my thumb as I consider my options, the tiny chip in my front tooth sharp against the pad of my finger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t know where I am, so I could run away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t know where I am, so I could stay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If you’re not careful, girl, your face will freeze like that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe old man’s voice catches me by surprise, faint enough that it might be the wind, rough enough that I know it’s not. I spin around on the porch and nearly stumble into him, seventy-something and gnarled in all the expected ways—­twisted knuckles and a perpetual sneer. The top of his head is nearly hairless; the few wisps he’s managed to hold on to stick up straight like he’s been shocked. The air is astringent with salt, and when I shudder, I don’t know if it’s because of my stinging skin or because I did not hear him approach.","brand":"Delacorte Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233773793509,"sku":"NP9798217027903","price":22.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9798217027903.jpg?v=1767742387","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/there-are-ghosts-here-isbn-9798217027903","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}