***
“Allie! Over here!”
A hushed, but loud, whisper caught my attention from where I stood behind the crowd. Brooke gestured with her hand, patting the empty space next to her on the log bench. I eased my way through the audience, slipping in next to her, and apologizing to the woman on my right when I kicked her back. She glared at me before returning her attention to the storyteller.
Aaron, sitting on the other side of Brooke, waved at me. “What took you so long?” he asked. “Still soaking your muscles after your brutal loss this morning?”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. I was just off my game.”
Aaron shook his head and returned my smile. “You can prove it to me next time.”
“Thank you, thank you,” the storyteller’s deep voice bellowed from the stage as he bowed in appreciation. We turned our attention towards him. Clasping his hands against his black vest, he offered a gentle smile from behind his white goatee.
Brooke leaned over. “He just finished telling some of his favorite Aesop’s fables,” she whispered with excessive volume. “He was really good!”
“Shh!” The woman next to me threw another pointed look, scooting away. Brooke stuck out her tongue and scowled back. I suppressed a giggle, despite the immaturity of it all.
“And now,” the man continued, quieting the crowd, “It is my great pleasure to introduce the lovely and distinguished Alina Ivanova.” The audience gave a welcoming clap.
A middle-aged woman crossed the stage in a billowing skirt, dyed with purple, red, and touches of green ink flowing into each other. Her thin, long-sleeved yellow blouse swirled, belling out at her wrists as she curtsied. An olive-green scarf wrapped around her head, her hair tucked inside. Silver tassels decorated the fringe along her forehead, jingling together behind the gleam of the fire.
“Good evening,” she began, and the crowd softened. Her husky voice hinted of an accent. “Russia, where my family originates, has many tales. As a young girl, I sat around the dinner table while my babushka told us story after story, filling our minds with morals and lessons she wished us to remember. And now, in her honor, I pass these tales on to you.”
She paused, allowing the slight rustling of the trees to set the mood, the soft breeze twisting the dancing, orange flames. Her eyes scanned the crowd, now captivated into silence. I flinched when her eyes met mine, holding my gaze for an uncomfortable moment; a moment that tugged at my darkest secrets, my deepest fears, invading my privacy. I struggled to pull away, to resist her searching eyes. The woman released me, and then she began her tales, weaving in and out with descriptions that painted vivid pictures in our minds of the lessons and morals she wished us to know.
As the evening grew late, I stifled a yawn. The glowing embers flickered, a soft blush amongst the coals. Families shuffled out with sleeping toddlers gathered in their arms. As the numbers began to dwindle, the final storyteller played a gentle, concluding tale, rhyming and strumming on his guitar. Many from the audience stood up to leave, dusting off their pants as the final strum echoed a closing chord.
“Wait!” a dark-haired teenager called out, sitting with a few of his rugged pals. “No one told a ghost story. You can’t sit around a fire without a ghost story.”
His protest caused murmuring of agreement from other kids, their shadowed faces illuminated by the dying light.
“You want a ghost story?” a familiar Russian voice observed. Alina Ivanova stepped back onto the empty stage. Her pale eyes pierced through the smaller crowd. She smiled, heightening her sharp cheekbones and pinching the crow’s feet around her eyes. Those standing to leave hesitated, their interests peaked once more.
“I know a true one. It happened not far from here,” Alina began, pointing a long finger towards the lake hidden behind the row of cabins. “Just north of the river and east of this great lake, there lived a family: a mother, father, and their two children. The boy was the age of many of you,” she said, pointing at some of the teenagers present. A knowing look passed across her face.
“There was something evil in that boy, something dark festering inside of him. He was always in trouble. Always,” she emphasized.
The boy who requested a ghost story squirmed in his seat as she gazed at him before continuing.
“He trusted no one, and no one trusted him, especially not his father. His parents were protective of their little girl, whose age barely touched ten. She was a sweet girl, who adored her brother and saw the small spark of good inside of him. But she was the only one who could see it, and even that did not protect her from his malice.”
My body mimicked those around me, sitting with my back straight and tense. We waited with eager ears.
“For one day, the boy, furious with his father for threatening to send him away, burned the house to the ground. Trapped, with no hope of escape, the blackened walls collapsed upon themselves, burying the family in a fiery prison. Heavy, hazy smoke circled the remains like vultures.” There were small gasps from the crowd.
“Yes. Mother, father, and sister. All three suffered a vicious, painful death, unable to escape from the sudden bursts of flames that engulfed the house in the quiet night—a night that broke the silence with screams of terror and agony as their skin was seared from their bones.”
I shuddered, my face grimacing in distaste for the story.
Truly, it could only be a story.
Brooke gripped Aaron’s arm with her left, holding my hand with her right. She stared straight ahead with a look of horror on her face.
“At night,” Alina continued, “if you listen, you can hear their wailing through the trees, the mourning of a family lost, murdered by the callous hands of their only boy. But sometimes,” she concluded, voice just above an audible whisper, “it might only be the angry wind whistling a haunting tune. That is for you to decide.”
In answer to the insistent knocking, I flung my cabin door open. A bright light flashed into my hazel eyes.
“Hey!” I protested, blinking away the glare. There was a quiet click and the light disappeared. When I could see again, Brooke awaited me with two teenage guys flanking her sides.
“So, are you ready?” she asked.
“Err, ready for what, exactly?”
Brooke’s eyes brightened as she held up a large flashlight. “For an exciting adventure, that’s what! Come on!” She grabbed my arm, tugging me after her. I dragged my feet and released myself from her hold.
“Hang on a second, Brooke. What do you mean?”
“Will you please just be spontaneous and—”
A voice behind me interrupted Brooke’s pleading.
“Did I hear someone say ‘adventure’?” Aaron stepped out the door, stretching his arms behind his head. The veins in his biceps bulged, attracting Brooke’s attention.
“Uh—Brooke? You want to explain?” I said, nudging her from her smitten stupor.
“Huh? Oh—right.” She beamed at us with a mischievous glint in her eyes, looking around before she spoke with a low voice.
“So I was just sitting on my porch when these two happened to stop by and say hi.” She gestured towards the guys beside her. “Adam and his brother...Brad, was it?”
“Brett,” the shorter of the two corrected, appearing disappointed in her memory lapse.
“Yeah, that’s what I meant. Anyway, they were at the storytelling last night, and Adam says the ghost story is true!”
Adam nodded emphatically.
“Ghost story—ha!” Nick scoffed. I turned around in surprise, not realizing my stepbrother had joined our small circle. “If that’s the best she’s got, I could be a storyteller. That was the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, it really did happen,” Adam affirmed.
Nick looked at him with mockery on the edge of his lips.
Adam stepped forward. “I’ve heard the rumors before about the fire. Last year, I checked it out with my friends. We drove up to the location of the fire close to midn
ight. The remains of the house were still there. Just when we started walking around, a windstorm picked up out of nowhere. I swear we could hear a little girl’s voice in the wind, like crying.”
Everyone became silent. I wrapped my arms around myself, looking at the ground with uneasiness.
Slow, rhythmic clapping disrupted the mood. All eyes followed Nick’s clapping hands. “Bravo,” he said, looking down at Adam. “I suppose I should congratulate you on your efforts to pick up on girls with made-up stories, but if that’s the best line you have, maybe I should be offering my condolences.”
Adam glared at him. “It’s true,” he defended again. He puffed up his chest and crossed his arms.
“Why don’t you come with us if you don’t believe us?” Brett interjected. “We’re going right now.”
Nick prepared to object.
“Not a bad idea,” Aaron said. “We’ve got nothing better to do tonight, anyway.” He put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “What do you say, man? Are you up for some teenage drama?”
Brett and Adam scowled at them while Brooke, equally insulted, put her hands on her hips.
“You’re not that much older than us,” she stated, upset by Aaron’s demeaning slight.
Aaron put his hands up. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Come on, we’re ready. Lead the way.”