Four and Twenty Blackbirds (Eden Moore 1)

She shifted on the log and tried to make herself look smaller. It didn't work, and all eyes were on her, so she had to answer. "I mean they're not, that's all. Real ghost stories don't have punch lines, Mr. Joe. "

"They don't? Well, how should they go, then? Why don't you tell us, since you're the expert. "

I was thankful for the dimly bright fire, because it camo

uflaged the flush that was creeping up my neck. I knew everyone was looking at Cora, but she was sitting next to me, and there was a chance someone would later remember me when presented with the mental prompt of "ghosts. " I held my breath and waited for my new friend's answer.

"Real ghost stories . . . they're not whole stories," she said slowly. "You can't tell them like a joke, because you never know the whole thing. There's too much left out, and if you know the whole thing, it would take you longer than a couple of minutes to tell. "

I found myself nodding along to her words, then I stopped myself, lest I be singled out as a fellow "expert" and asked to testify. But she was right, and I knew that better than anybody. It made me wonder how she knew it so well.

"Would you like to tell us a real ghost story, then?" Mr. Joe went on, and all at once I deeply hated him for forcing the subject. He didn't understand at all; if you had a real ghost story, you probably didn't want to tell it to a whole bunch of people who were only going to laugh at you if you believed it.

Cora opened her mouth and then closed it. She looked over at me, then, for general support or maybe something more specific. I didn't know how to help her, though, so she glared back into the fire. "I don't have any real ghost stories to tell, Mr. Joe. Yours are fine. You should tell us some more of them. "

Her flat tone was utterly lost on our counselor, who needed only the barest hint of permission to make a further spectacle of himself. He happily began a new tale, and as he talked he stuffed another unfortunate marshmallow onto the end of his unbent coat hanger.

Cora let out a sigh of relief and uncrossed her legs.

"He's stupid," I whispered—and I'm good at whispering, so he didn't hear me. "Don't worry about it. " Then, because I wanted to establish to her that I 'got it,' and that she could tell me if she wanted to, I added, "If you've got a real ghost story and you want to tell it later on, I promise I wouldn't laugh at it. "

Cora rubbed her toes into the dirt and stared into the flames. "Yeah," she said, but I wasn't sure what she meant by it, so I just said, "Okay" in response, and we didn't talk about it anymore for a while.

That same night, I heard her humming to herself. I want to say that she was doing it in her sleep, but I don't think that was the case. I think she was afraid, and she was singing to herself all quiet, the way people do sometimes. Some people pray, and I imagine it has about the same effect. It gives you something else to think about, something else to dwell on besides what you're afraid of—but not something so complicated that you can't spit it out by heart if you get too scared to think on it. Having a strand of words to string together helps.

I rolled over on my mattress and faced her bunk, straining to listen. There was a beat to her breathy muttering, but no melody that I could discern. Must be a rhyme, I thought. Maybe it was a child's prayer, or a verse repeated so the familiar sound is a comfort.

I went ahead and asked her about it over breakfast, but in case it had something to do with any real ghost stories, I asked it on the sly—in private as much as I could. I waited until the other girls had taken their trays to the drop-off line, and then I leaned over to Cora.

"Last night I thought I heard something. I thought I heard you talking in your sleep. " It was a lie, but it was a polite one. It gave her an out, and let her pretend she didn't know what I meant if she didn't intend to fill me in.

"I don't talk in my sleep," she argued. "You might've heard me, but I was awake. "

"Were you saying your prayers?"

"No. " She said it matter-of-factly, not like it was the most outlandish suggestion in the world, but like it wasn't the correct one.

Cora didn't volunteer any more information, but she hadn't acted like it was something that embarrassed her, either, so I picked at the question a little more. "Were you talking to yourself? 'Cause I do that sometimes, too. "

She thought about it for a second, then nodded. "Something like that. It's this thing I do when I can't sleep. "

"Oh. " That made sense, but it wasn't very interesting. I hoped that wasn't the end of it, and I might have asked more questions but our roommates returned without their trays. It was time for camp games. I hoped they'd let red rover drop and move onto something else. My arms were sore, and if they tried to make me play that stupid game again, I was going to look Mr. Joe straight in the eye and tell him I had my period.

Thankfully, it didn't come to that. We played something else, or maybe we went swimming. I don't remember. The middle of that day was the least interesting part; and it wasn't until well after lights-out that things got interesting again.

I made a deal with myself that I'd stay awake long enough to see if Cora did it again, but I was worn out and I broke that deal.

I didn't stay asleep long, though. I woke up to a gentle shake, and it was Cora. She looked like she'd seen a ghost, and believe me, that's a look I know all too well. "What's going on?" I meant to ask, but she shushed me and widened her eyes into two wet, worried orbs.

"It doesn't always work," she said in that loud whisper that meant someone would wake up if she kept talking for long. "It isn't like a proper prayer, maybe that's why. I don't know any real prayers, do you?"

I nodded my answer and sat up, wiggling out from under the blanket and fishing around with my feet. "Let's go outside or something," I proposed, finding my sneakers and pulling them on despite my lack of socks.

"That's why I woke you up. I've got to go use it, and I don't want to go by myself. Will you come to the bathroom with me? Please?"

"Yeah," I said. "I'll come with you. Hang on. " The room was chillier than you might expect for a southern summer, but we were on top of the mountain so it wasn't such a surprise. Everyone packed a sweater to be on the safe side, and I pulled mine out to wrap it around my chest. When I stood, my feet felt small and damp inside my shoes.

Cora was talking to herself again, and I was almost sure it was a rhyme—something straightforward and Mother Goosey. She was repeating it to herself a little louder now, as if volume had something to do with the chant's potency. By the time we got outside, I could catch about every third word.