Dead Voices

But Brian kept on staring sadly out the big window of the dining room. Coco felt a little guilty for being so happy that they couldn’t ski. Ollie looked like she was hardly listening to what people were saying. She was watching her dad and Coco’s mom.

Was Ollie upset about the hand-holding? Coco wondered.

“Maybe we can raid the kitchen and bake cookies,” Mr. Adler suggested. “I’ll teach you all to knit. Got any board games, Sam?”

“A couple,” said Mr. Wilson. “I’ll go dig them out after breakfast.”

“Maybe at least we can go sledding,” said Brian, still staring out into the white world. “It doesn’t matter if it’s windy for that.”

“Maybe,” said Mr. Adler doubtfully. “It’s really coming down, though.”

Coco poured herself more hot chocolate.

Suddenly Brian said, “Hey, guys. Look. Who’s that?”

Everyone turned to look. It was a car. A black car, covered in snow, making its creeping way across the parking lot.

“Huh,” said Coco. “Someone made it through the storm.”

“I’m impressed that anything besides a plow truck could get up here,” said Coco’s mom. They had all stopped eating their pancakes to watch.

The black car, skidding, finally made it across the parking lot and quivered to a halt beside the white lump that was all that could be seen of Susie the Subaru. The driver got out. He was wearing a black ski jacket.

They waited. The next second, there was the sound of the big front doors opening, and a shriek of wind from outside. Over the wind came the sound of Mrs. Wilson saying hello in her breathless voice.

An unfamiliar voice answered; the door slammed shut.

Mrs. Wilson said something else. The visitor laughed. Then Mrs. Wilson appeared in the dining room, the car’s driver trailing her.

As he came in, he briskly peeled off layers, shedding melting snowflakes. He wasn’t that tall: shorter than Ollie’s dad. He had freckles across his nose and a bony, serious sort of face, with black-rimmed glasses. He looked a little like their history teacher at school, Coco thought. As he walked into the dining room, he smiled at them and said, “Hello, all. So glad I made it. Do you mind if I sit down?”

The stranger didn’t wait for anyone to nod, but dropped at once into the seat next to Mr. Wilson. “Drove all night,” he said. “What a storm! I wasn’t sure I’d make it. I thought they’d be fishing me out of the river this spring, for sure. Is that coffee?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He seized a clean mug, poured himself a cup, and gulped.

Mrs. Wilson, Coco saw, just seemed confused. Maybe they were all a little confused by the sudden appearance of this stranger. Mrs. Wilson said, “I’m sorry, what was your name again? If I could just find you on the original guest list . . .”

“Oh!” said the man. “I’m not on it. Name’s Don Voland. I’m a reporter. On magazine assignment. Pleased to meet you.” He reached around the table, shook everyone’s hands, winked at the kids. His eyes were two different colors, Coco was startled to see. One green, the other dark. The two-colored eyes stood out strangely against his freckles.

Mrs. Wilson and Coco’s mom both suddenly looked really happy. “Oh!” said Mrs. Wilson. “A journalist! Here to report on our ski mountain? How lovely. Sam and I would be happy to answer any questions.” She sat down, folded her hands, and gave Don Voland a huge smile.

Coco’s mom said, “Which magazine? I’m a journalist myself.”

Mr. Voland looked slightly apologetic. He scratched the back of his neck. Coco noticed that, oddly, his first two fingers were exactly the same length. “Well,” he said, “it’s a magazine called Light, and I don’t really write about skiing, sorry, ma’am.” He bobbed his head. “I write about ghosts.”

He drank more coffee. Everyone at the table stared at him.

Mrs. Wilson looked instantly frosty. “What do you mean, ghosts?”

Mr. Voland had pulled a plate over without even asking and was helping himself to the pancakes. Mr. Wilson looked like he wanted to tell Mr. Voland that pancakes were for guests only, sorry. But even though he opened his mouth, he shut it without saying anything.

Mr. Voland said, pouring maple syrup, “Yes, I write about ghosts. Hauntings, odd occurrences, and things that cannot be explained. Ghosts!” He took a bite, chewed his pancake. “These are great.”

“My dad made them,” put in Ollie.

“Compliments to the chef,” said Mr. Voland to Mr. Adler. He was looking around the dining room with interest, still chewing.

Ollie watched Mr. Voland warily. Brian did too. Coco supposed she looked uneasy herself. The three of them had seen ghosts. And things they could not explain. In October. Behind the mist. Would Mr. Voland know about those things? Coco wondered.

“And what makes you think that Hemlock Lodge—” started Mrs. Wilson.