Ghost Ride Read online

  MARINA COHEN

  Copyright © Marina Cohen, 2009

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Editor: Michael Carroll

  Design: Erin Mallory

  Printer: Webcom

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Cohen, Marina

  Ghost ride / by Marina Cohen.

  ISBN 978-1-55488-438-4

  I. Title.

  PS8605.O378G56 2009 jC813’.6 C2009-903257-0

  1 2 3 4 5 13 12 11 10 09

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  www.dundurn.com

  Dundurn Press

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  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  M5E 1M2

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  LA1 4XS

  Dundurn Press

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  For Nonna

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to extend a heartfelt thank-you to the following people: to Dr. David Jenkinson and Martha Martin for their critiques of the manuscript; to my husband, Michael Cohen, for his love and support; to Marsha Skrypuch for her advice and encouragement; to Joni Miyata, Nora and Loic Tuchagues, Anna Marie Crifo, and Grace Wong for cheering me on; and to Sydney, Oscar, and the gang at Castlemore Public School for creating a fabulous book trailer. A very special thank-you to my wonderful agent, Margaret Hart, for believing in this story. And for their expertise, professionalism, and enthusiasm, I would like to thank my editor, Michael Carroll; my publisher, Kirk Howard; and all the people at Dundurn Press.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sleepy Hollow. That’s what the real-estate agent called it when she dropped off the keys that afternoon. That’s what the sign at the crossroads read. An arrow pointed north.

  Sam McLean aimed his cellphone straight out the windshield of the Volvo station wagon and clicked. He hit the options key, found the email address he was looking for, and pressed send.

  His father frowned. “Put that thing away, Sam. Stop text-messaging and enjoy the ride.”

  “I wasn’t texting. I was sending Mike a picture.”

  “Of what? The road?”

  Sam sighed. “Of the sign. So he’ll be able to find me — if he should ever make it out to the butt-of-beyond.”

  “Watch your language,” scolded his father. “Sit up straight and stop slouching.”

  Sam’s thumbs zipped across the keys: Ill caL U l8r. “Let you know what life’s like in Creepy Hollow,” he said under his breath.

  “What’s that?”

  “Uh, nothing.”

  Robert McLean narrowed his eyes. He volleyed glances between the country road and his son in the passenger seat beside him. “You’ve only had that thing for a week and I’m already regretting buying it.” He shook his head. “Remember the deal? Fool with it too much and I’ll cut your minutes.”

  Cut my lifeline, you mean. Sam sighed again and stuffed the phone into the pocket of his jeans. “When are Mom and Miranda getting up here?”

  “Just as soon as your mother gives the old house a hundred final checks. You know her. She’ll search every corner — make sure we haven’t left anything valuable behind, like some dirty dishtowel or old curtain rod.” He chuckled.

  “I guess,” Sam said. But what he wanted to say was: We did leave something valuable behind — MY LIFE!

  “Hey,” Robert said, reading his son’s expression. “Ringwood’s a nice little town. You’ll love it. You’ll see.”

  “I might — if we were actually going to live in Ringwood. But seeing as we’re seventy kilometres out of town in the middle of a cow field …”

  “It’s seven kilometres, and Sleepy Hollow is hardly a cow field.” Robert’s voice dropped to lecture tone. “They’re huge old homes. You should feel privileged.”

  Sam rolled his eyes and leaned back against the black leather seat. Privileged. Right. He’d rather be underprivileged and go back to Toronto where he belonged. Where he had Mike. Who was he supposed to hang with here — the cows?

  “Start of high school is the perfect time to make a change,” his father said.

  Sure, thought Sam. Perfect if you’re one of the cool kids. Or a jock. Or goth. Or emo. Or even in the freakin’ band. Not so perfect for a nobody. Thank goodness he’d grown more than twelve centimetres over the summer — at least he wouldn’t be the shortest nobody. As the green sign faded into the distance, Sam swallowed a bitter taste.

  The station wagon cruised along the Tenth Line, dodging potholes like a snowboarder racing down a mountain of moguls. New housing developments crowded the west side of the two-lane road, while cornfields sprawled east, broken up now and then by clusters of evergreens. Sam caught glimpses of a train that snaked around the trees and farmhouses. “I don’t see why we’re even moving here,” he muttered. “I thought you never wanted to come back.”

  Robert’s grip on the steering wheel tightened for a moment, the skin across his knuckles stretching white before relaxing again. “Things change. People change. Childhood memories fade.”

  Sam furled his brow. “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His father flashed him a warning. “It means we got a good deal on a great house. The rest is none of your business.”

  Sam knew when his father had reached his limit, and he knew it was a dangerous line to cross. Besides, what was the point in fighting a done deal?

  As the landscape slid past, Sam thought about that name. Sleepy Hollow. Why would anyone name a bunch of houses in the middle of nowhere after some freaky old legend? How did that story go again? Sam wracked his brain. All he could remember was that some dude had lost his head.

  His father accelerated as the Volvo proceeded uphill. The sun was low on the horizon, and the
twilight filter gave the air a hazy glow.

  Sam’s mind wandered as details of the old legend came back to him in bits and pieces. He half expected some old-fashioned covered bridge to appear out of nowhere with a headless horseman charging out of it. Thankfully, that didn’t happen.

  Although what did was almost as strange.

  As the car approached the top of the hill, something came at them. Instinctively, Sam dug for his phone, aimed, and clicked. The Volvo swerved to the left and came back too hard, lunging and nearly landing in the ditch as it struggled to correct itself. Everything happened so fast that Sam’s brain didn’t have time to register details until it was over.

  “What the …?” Sam began, swinging around as much as his seat belt would allow. But even as the words left him the image was taking shape in his mind.

  A bike.

  A red bike.

  Gliding toward them.

  Riderless.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sam tore at his seat belt and flung open the door as the car skidded to a halt. He raced to the back of the vehicle where the weird-looking bike lay on its side in the middle of the road about thirty metres behind them. Its rear wheel spun slowly. A chilly gust of wind rushed past Sam as he sent the first picture to his email account and snapped off another.

  Robert walked toward the bike. He stood with his hands on his hips, scanning the area, a strange expression distorting his face. “Stupid ghost riders.” He stopped the wheel with the tip of his shiny black shoe. “They don’t think of consequences.”

  Sam sent the second picture to his email account and clicked a third time.

  “I thought I told you to put that thing away!”

  After firing off the last picture, Sam tucked the phone out of sight. Then he joined his father by the bike. “Did you say ghost rider? As in the comic book?”

  Robert scowled and waved a hand dismissively. He was still searching the roadside for the culprit. “Grab the bike, Sam. Move it to the side before someone crashes into it.”

  Sam picked up the bike. It had huge wheels and fenders, straight handlebars, and a contraption on the back like a giant mousetrap. The word Kronan was written on the crossbar. This is so retro, he thought.

  A piece of nylon string was tied to one end of the handlebars. It was wrapped around the seat post several times and was attached to the other end of the handlebars, forming a perfect V. Someone had stabilized the wheel so that the bike would go as far as it could before keeling over.

  Why would anyone want to do that? Sam wondered as he carried the bike toward the shoulder of the road. He inspected the hilltop and surrounding trees. Not a soul in sight.

  “Let’s go!” Robert called.

  Sam hustled toward the passenger side. Before he shut the door, he couldn’t resist a last glance at the ditch that divided the road and fields.

  Nothing.

  Robert put his key in the ignition and shifted into drive. The Volvo began to roll. “Close call. Dumb kids.”

  As they picked up speed and got to the top of the hill, Sam gazed out the side window. A flash of bright red near one of the tree trunks snatched his attention. He did a double take, but before he could focus on whatever it was, the Volvo was descending the other side of the hill and the bobbing red blotch had disappeared from view.

  Robert shook his head. “Listen, Sam, just watch who you make friends with, okay? It’s all about choices. I’m counting on you to make good ones.”

  Sam nodded. But the way he saw it there were never any choices to be made. His father made them all for him.

  The Volvo left the housing development behind as fields stretched out on either side of the road.

  “What did you mean by ghost rider, Dad?”

  Robert looked at his son, then returned his attention to the road. “It’s a term for that kind of prank. You know — riding your bike hard and then jumping off and sending it down a hill without you.” His thumbs tapped nervously on the steering wheel. “Old stunt. Was even done way back when I was a kid.”

  Sam arched his eyebrows. His father was the most uptight guy in the world. Never did a single thing wrong. Was this a crack in his shining armour?

  “You did crazy stuff like that?” Sam asked, sitting a little straighter.

  “Who? Me?” His father’s voice rose as though Sam had asked the most ridiculous question in the world. “Not a chance. I’m not that stupid.”

  Yeah. Right. Course you aren’t. Sam sank into a slouch. He was mad at himself for even entertaining the idea that his father had ever done anything remotely fun.

  “Other guys tried it, though,” continued his father. “Most without, let’s just say, great success.”

  Sam was interested again. “Yeah? What happened to ’em?”

  Robert inhaled deeply. “Major gashes. A few broken bones. Lots of trashed bikes … among other things …”

  Sam eyed his father. Something was wrong. He wasn’t used to hearing a nervous twinge in his father’s voice. Was he holding something back? Was he more familiar with ghost riding than he was letting on? He studied his father’s profile. Nah. Not him. Not Mr. Perfect.

  The road dipped, and the open field ended abruptly in a forest on the left side. Near a tight huddle of trees the car slowed, and Robert punched the turn signal. The dusty lane they turned into was no bigger than a private driveway. It would have been completely hidden beneath overhanging branches were it not for two enormous stone walls spreading like doors at its entrance. Faded fancy lettering announced: welcome to sleepy hollow. On the right Sam noticed a small yellow sign. It read: no exit.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sam felt as though he were entering the mouth of a cave. The hanging branches of massive willows, oaks, and cedars blocked all remaining sunlight. The interior lights of the Volvo brightened automatically.

  As they entered the hollow, another set of headlights charged toward them, forcing Robert to yank hard on the steering wheel. The Volvo hugged the treeline just as an old blue Ford Mustang blew past.

  What is with this place? thought Sam, but his reverie was interrupted by what he spied ahead.

  About thirty metres from the main road, the small lane ballooned into a huge circular dead end. Seven houses lined the perimeter, each one larger and creepier than the previous. Fieldstone foundations, dark brick or faded vertical siding, looming octagonal turrets, and wide wraparound verandahs — they were all hideously magnificent.

  Sam’s eyes fixed on number four. A moving van was parked in front of it. The house was a two-and-a-half-storey monster with a complex series of roofs and a variety of windows. It looked at least a hundred years old. Part of it was covered in some kind of creeping vine. A worn basketball hoop with a ragged net hung from the detached garage set slightly back from the house.

  “So what do you think?” Sam’s father asked.

  Everyone in the family had already seen the house except for Sam. He had refused to go. It had been his way of protesting the move.

  “This is our new house?” Sam’s tone was a mixture of apprehension and awe.

  His father grinned proudly. “I told you you’d like it here.”

  Sam scanned the surroundings. The old homes and huge properties had to be worth a fortune. “Uh, Dad,” he began cautiously, “I know it’s not my business, but …”

  Robert finished his son’s question. “How can we afford it?”

  Sam raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  Robert opened the car door. The musky scent of country air seeped inside. He stepped onto the driveway and stared at the house. “It’s a funny thing. Growing up in the shabby bungalows in town, I’d known about these houses —” Sam’s father seemed suddenly thoughtful, almost sad “— but I never thought I’d ever be able to own one.”

  Stepping out of the car, Sam moved slowly toward the house. “Uh, Dad, that didn’t exactly answer my question.”

  “It’s not complicated. Housing prices in Toronto have gone crazy. The land alone is
worth a fortune in today’s market. Throw in a vendor desperate for a quick sale, and believe it or not, we pretty much traded even-steven.”

  “You’re kidding.” Sam thought about his house in Toronto. It was a bug compared to this beast.

  Robert smiled. “You just need to be willing to fix up a place. And be willing to move out to the butt-of-beyond.”

  Sam couldn’t believe it. His father had actually said the word butt. There was a first time for everything.

  Three men got out of the van and approached Sam’s father. While they discussed the logistics of the move, Sam’s mother’s car pulled into the driveway. Miranda sprang out before the vehicle came to a complete stop.

  “It’s great, isn’t it?” she cried, rushing up to Sam. “Did you check out the backyard? It’s huge and it has a ravine that leads down to a creek!”

  “We just got here, Moronda,” Sam said. “How could I have time to see all that?”

  Miranda slapped him on the shoulder and whined, “Mommm!”

  “Don’t call your sister names, Sam,” his mother said. She reached into her car and pulled out a box. “Why don’t you take a look around the neighbourhood? Let the movers get the large furniture into the house. You can start to unpack later. It’s going to be a long night.”

  Sam peered into the gloom. Neighbourhood? Is that what you call seven houses stuck in the middle of nowhere?

  “Why not?” he mumbled. “It’s not like we can get lost or anything.”

  Sam was about to head around the back of the house when his eyes were drawn to the topmost window. For a second he thought he saw a dark figure standing there. Then he blinked, and the shadow was gone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  At a quarter past ten in the evening Sam was unpacking his clothes and personal junk when he heard the doorbell chimes echo through the hallway and all the way up to the third floor. He flew down two flights of creaky stairs to check it out.

  Miranda was already at the entrance with Sam’s mother only a few steps behind. Sam hung back. He sat on the steps, watching his sister swing open the heavy wooden door.