UNION SQUARE KIDS and the distinctive Union Square Kids logo are trademarks of Union Square & Co., LLC.

Union Square & Co., LLC, is a subsidiary of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.

Text © 2023 Lisi Harrison and Daniel Kraus

Illustrations © 2023 Union Square & Co., LLC

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 (including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

ISBN 978-1-4549-4456-0 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4549-4518-5 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-4549-4457-7 (e-book)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Harrison, Lisi, author. | Kraus, Daniel, author.

Title: Scream for the camera / Lisi Harrison, Daniel Kraus.

Description: New York : UNSQ Kids, 2023. | Series: Graveyard girls ; Book 2 | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Audience: Grades 4–6. | Summary: “Sophie tells a picture perfect Graveyard Girls tale.”—Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2022037214 (print) | LCCN 2022037215 (ebook) | ISBN 9781454944560 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781454945185 (paperback) | ISBN 9781454944577 (epub)

Subjects: CYAC: Storytelling—Fiction. | Horror stories—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.H2527 Sc 2023 (print) | LCC PZ7.H2527 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022037214

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022037215

For information about custom editions, special sales, and premium purchases, please contact specialsales@unionsquareandco.com.

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Cover and interior illustrations by Flavia Sorrentino

Cover design by Jo Obarowski

Interior design by Christine Heun and Julie Robine

I can’t sleep, Jōurnal.

My legs are restless, and my blood feels electric. No, carbonated. Both, actually.

It’s like tiny lightning bubbles are filling my veins, trying to burst through. Oh, and get this: I just pinned my long hair to the nape of my neck because I’m suddenly bob curious. I’m even contemplating bangs.

Yep, I just said nape.

When did I become the type of jane who says nape? Hold on. When did I become the type of jane who says jane?

Something weird is happening.

Today began like any other Sunday. I had brunch with my parents at La Roux and went shopping with Paisley Pollard and Miranda Young. When it got dark, I met the Graveyard Girls on the roof of the Spirit Sanctuary for a Ouija board session.

Fine. That last part is not Sunday typical. But things have kicked up a notch over the past three weeks. Ever since we discovered Silas Hoke’s empty grave, Gemma, Whisper, Sophie, Frannie, and I have been obsessed with contacting him. We searched the cemetery for clues. We set keyword alerts on our phones. We fired up that useless Borderlyne G-Tone. We even asked Madam Vera for help, but the psychic refuses to, and I quote, “meddle in the occult.”

So tonight Gemma borrowed a Ouija board from the shop. We put our fingers on the wooden planchette and began with some simple yes and no questions.

“Are there any spirits around us?”

The planchette moved to YES.

“Do you want to talk?”

YES

Now, Jōurnal, I know you’re thinking we pushed it over to YES. That’s the trick of the Ouija board, right? With so many fingers involved, it’s impossible to know who is doing what. But I know these girls, and the terror on their faces looked real to me.

Gemma got back to work.

“Do you know Silas Hoke?”

YES

“Are you Silas Hoke?”

NO

“Will you find him for us?”

NO

“Why not?”

The planchette started dodging around the board and spelled out:

BECAUSE

Gemma began biting her bottom lip. Whisper’s eyes were wide and darting. Sophie wiped her sweaty hands on her leggings. Frannie was practically panting. But me? My skin tingled with excitement. This was too good! So I asked:

“Because why?”

YOU JANES TALK TO ME

Hearts pounding, we lifted our fingers off the wood and looked up at one another, silently asking if we were bold enough to pose the next question and brave enough to receive the answer.

I put my fingers back on the wooden planchette.

One by one, the other Graveyard Girls did the same.

I asked the next question.

“Who are you?”

The planchette zipped across the board as it spelled out the spirit’s name.

G

I

N

N

Y

Whisper gasped. “Ginny Baker!”

In case you forget, Jōurnal, Ginny Baker was the girl who Silas Hoke, her school’s PE instructor, killed one hundred years ago right here in Misery Falls. We’re not talking about a nice, tidy, pushed-down-the-stairs type of murder, either. Ginny Baker mocked Hoke’s missing leg one too many times. He cut hers off, nailed it to his stump, and then took out Ginny with his wooden prosthesis.

In the few seconds it took us to recall that unpleasant tale, the planchette jerked again, lurching across the board ten times.

BE BACK SOON

That was end of story for Whisper. She bolted up, accidentally kicking the Ouija board off the roof, and ran inside screaming. Her screams, naturally, got everyone else screaming, so they ran inside, too, squirming and squealing as if they were covered in maggots.

Everyone except me.

I felt . . . different.

Occupied.

Like I wasn’t alone in my body.

I got out my phone and looked up the term janes. Turns out it’s slang from the early 1900s. Stylish party girls, called “flappers,” had all kinds of weird expressions.

And when was Ginny Baker murdered?

In the 1920s, of course.

My chest felt tight. Breathing got harder. Not because I was afraid but because it suddenly felt like someone was sharing my lungs.

I didn’t tell the Graveyard Girls. They were already super freaked, and they probably wouldn’t have believed that I had been possessed by Ginny Baker’s spirit anyway. I mean, you have to feel it to believe it, and I was feeeeeeling it.

It’s been about five hours since the Ouija incident, and I can hear Ginny’s voice as clearly as if I were wearing earbuds. She sounds like a super-wild sixteen-year-old who wants to get all dolled up (her words) and go hotfooting (her words again). I told her it’s a school night and I’ll get killed if I sneak out.

Don’t ever spit to me about getting killed, ya follow?

“Sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

It’s all jake.

“Thanks, bunny.”

That’s right, Jōurnal. I called her bunny!

I mean, she called me bunny. Or she called herself bunny?

I mean, I honestly don’t know what I mean. Or if I’m even me. All I know is that Ginny Baker has moved into my body and is trying to take over my brain. And this jane couldn’t be more excited to see what happens next.