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Text © 2024 Lisi Harrison and Daniel Kraus

Illustrations © 2024 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 978-1-4549-4458-4 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4549-4519-2 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-4549-4459-1 (e-book)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

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

Title: Season’s eatings / Lisi Harrison, Daniel Kraus.

Description: New York : UNSQ Kids, 2024. | Series: Graveyard girls | Audience: Ages 8-12. | Audience: Grades 4-6. | Summary: “Gemma tells a delicious Graveyard Girls tale for the holidays.”—Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2023043554 (print) | LCCN 2023043555 (ebook) | ISBN 9781454944584 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781454945192 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781454944591 (epub)

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

Classification: LCC PZ7.H2527 Sg 2024 (print) | LCC PZ7.H2527 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023043554

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023043555

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

Texture on printed case is vldkont/Shutterstock.com

Cover and interior design by Julie Robine

For the haunted-and the haunters.

CHAPTER 1ZUZU

Dear Jōurnal,

I hurt your feelings. I can tell.

When I opened you, your spine was stiff. Your pages have yellowed like an old man’s fingernails.

That’s how you get when you feel neglected.

And, yes, I did neglect you. For three whole weeks. And I’m super sorry.

But it wasn’t my fault.

Mōm and Dād made me spend every second of Thanksgiving break modeling the Jōhin Holiday Collection for their socials.

And before that, I was possessed.

Oh, you forgot that little detail?

Glance back at my November entries.

Start with the Sunday-night spirit-board sesh with the Graveyard Girls. You know, the one where Ginny Baker’s spirit slipped inside my body and wore me around town like a Zenati suit?

For, like, fourteen days?

It’s okay, Jōurnal. That time was a blur for me, too. I no-remember November, either.

But today is a fresh month and a fresh start.

Today is the first day of December.

And there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here at good old Crimson Creek Cemetery, journaling under the full moon’s light—legs stretched out on the damp grass, back pressed against Ginny Baker’s cold tombstone, admiring my work.

I just decorated some plots.

A little holiday spirit for my favorite spirits, if you will. To wit:

Silver tinsel on Helen Fulwig’s moss-coated obelisk. (Something shiny to help her forget how she was trampled to death by her horse in 1902.)

Red-and-green twinkle lights for pro baseball player Boris Leadbetter. (A distraction from the ouchy memory of getting his skull cracked by a fastball pitch in 1983.)

A menorah with blue-and-white candles for Obert Starr. (Something pretty to erase the recollection of being smeared between the cars of a roller coaster in 1961.)

Ornaments on the vines above Johnny Johnson’s tombstone. (Hopefully the shiny ornaments won’t remind him of the swarm of bees that stung him to death at summer camp in 1974.)

Snowflake lights and a Santa hat covered in gold sequins on the angel statue cradling a sleeping girl that marks Ginny Baker’s grave. (Silas Hoke took her leg and then her life in the 1920s—but there’s nothing gold sequins can’t fix.)

Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to bestow Ginny with the special hat but, come on. We literally shared a soul last month. Annnd I kind of need her help.

I’ve been trying to summon Ginny for days, but that troublesome jane has been giving me the silent treatment ever since Gemma, Sophie, Frannie, and Whisper ganged up on her at the mortuary and whipped insults (and metal eye sockets) at her (us) until she left my body and returned to her grave. Let’s not forget that Ginny also had to sit through my math class for two weeks, which is even worse than Death by Hoke. So I get why she’s leaving me on “read.” But I keep trying. Old obsessions die hard.

You know what else dies hard?

Silas Hoke.

Or maybe he didn’t die at all. I have no idea what’s real anymore because I’m staring at a fresh patch of grass where his grave used to be.

His cracked rectangular tombstone? GONE! The graffiti that said: ROTTEN AND FORGOTTEN, MAGGOT FOOD, REST IN PIECES? GONE! The six-foot hole someone left behind when they recently dug up his bones? GONE!

Silas Hoke, town legend and Ginny Baker’s murderer, is enog. (FYI: Enog is gone spelled backward because everything feels backward right now, and I’m honoring that.)

Ginny, do you know why Hoke’s grave and all signs of it ever existing are gone? I keep whispering that into the fog because if anyone knows what happened, it’s Ginny. No one wanted Silas Hoke out of Crimson Creek Cemetery more than her. Would you want to spend eternity a few yards away from your murderer? Didn’t think so.

But Ginny didn’t answer.

I tried touching the stone angel above her grave. If she can’t hear me, maybe she’ll feel me. Now I can’t stop yawning. Maybe Ginny wants to rest.

Just tell me if you saw anything, and I promise I’ll leave you alone.

Nothing.

Ginny, please!

Nothing.

There’s zero info online. No one in town is talking about it. It’s as if Silas Hoke never existed, and I know you know what’s up.

Nothing.

What about the rest of you? I asked my Spirit Squad of Helen Fulwig, Boris Leadbetter, and so on.

Like Ginny, they are dead quiet.

I took out a compact mirror, hoping they’d cast a reflection that might give me a clue. I turned on Criss Borderlyne’s famous G-Tone ghost recording device in case my Spirit Squad is trying to communicate but can’t be heard. (It can’t be easy, what with their decomposing jawbones and all that rotten soil between us.) But all I hear is the tinsel rustling in the chilly breeze. And all I see is a cluster of fireflies two rows over and—

Wait.

Fireflies? In Misery Falls, Oregon? In December?

Come on, Jōurnal. We’re going to investigate.

I know it’s just one line later, Jōurnal, but I’ve walked all the way over there already. And OMG. Get this. The fireflies? They’re hovering over Aimee Zwick’s grave. She’s the preacher’s daughter who got struck by lightning during Hoke Week two years ago. She was only a year older than us when—

Jōurnal, did you see that? A snap of yellow light just lit up the sky. Jagged as claw marks and quick as a whip, it just flashed—

There’s another one.

Technically, it’s lightning. But how? The sky is clear. Unless …

Gemma recently told me that electricity and spiritual energy have similar vibrational frequencies. That’s why some spirits communicate through technology, lights, and electronics. Since Aimee was literally killed by lightning … what if …

Another flash.

I lifted my face to the sky and called, Aimee, is that you? Are you trying to tell me something? Do you know where Hoke is?

Suddenly, the sound of bells chimed, and a distant girl’s voice began to sing: You can hear me in your mind … over and over again. Her tone was breathy and haunting. It trailed along my goose-bumpy skin like talons slowly scraping stone. You can hear me in your mind … you can hear me in your mind … you can hear me in your mind …

Oh. It was just my ringtone. NIVIRO’s “The Ghost.”

My hands were shaking when I pulled my phone from the pocket of my coat. Did, uh, Aimee Zwick have my contact info?

Turns out it was Gemma, which terrified me more than a spirit ever could. I totally lost track of time, Jōurnal. I was supposed to be at the Spirit Sanctuary thirty minutes ago!

I accepted the call, ready to blow Gemma’s mind with my creepy excuse, when ZAP!

A lightning bolt struck my phone.

My phone, Jōurnal. It flew out of my hand with a pop of pain and crashed right into Aimee Zwick’s tombstone.

Time to get out of here. For the first time in a long time, I’m actually freaked.