The Hungry Ghosts by Miguel Flores

Author:Miguel Flores [Flores, Miguel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2021-09-28T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

a good witch is nothing without regrets

Milly sat on the upper half of the bunk bed she was sharing with Cilla. Cilla hadn’t talked to her all day. Talking to Edaline had given Milly a lot to think about, but it didn’t do anything to change her mind about Cilla. She needed to take the younger girl home. Doris would be worried sick about them.

On the opposite side of the room, Horace sprawled across the floor. (There hadn’t been a bed big enough to fit him.) Once he’d told Edaline about the shadows attacking her sister, Horace had been quiet, too. The only one who continued talking to Milly was Jasper, which felt oddly comforting and lonesome all at once.

For the past hour, Milly had been staring at the ceiling made of moving broomsticks, fiddling with the bottle she’d taken from downstairs. She knew she probably shouldn’t try to open it, especially if the memory didn’t belong to her, but she didn’t know who was telling the truth anymore. She didn’t even know if she was telling the truth to herself.

Maybe, just maybe, the answer lay in this bottled memory.

Milly had been wrestling with what she should do ever since the others went to bed. Every conclusion she came to felt wrong.

But her curiosity burned stronger than ever.*

The bottle smelled of deep, old magicks. For the first time in her life, Milly felt like she could actually understand what it was she was smelling.

But that didn’t mean she should open it, did it?

She groaned into her pillow. She wished she could ask someone for help. Anyone.

She lifted her head from the pillows and looked at the bottle again. Its dark liquid appeared even blacker now. Almost like ink.

Milly sat up and looked around the room. Horace snored loudly from the floor. When she peeked over the edge of her bed, she saw Cilla curled into a ball. Over by the open window, Jasper stared out into the woods without a word. The wind rustled against his fur.

Milly withdrew beneath her sheets and popped off the cork. It didn’t smell as horrible as she thought it would. It was like an overripened banana, on the cusp of becoming rotten but not quite. Perfect for making banana bread.

Here goes nothing.

She tilted the whole thing into her mouth and swallowed before she could regret it.

The memory tasted as sweet and brisk as an ocean of apples stirred by warm summer winds. It sent a happy chill down Milly’s throat, cool and warm all at once. But then, halfway through, it turned bitter. As if the apples had been picked too late, as if the winds had been bitten by an autumn chill. By the time the memory settled in her gut, it sunk like a cold stone.

She dropped the empty bottle onto her mattress.

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