The Ghost of Direwood: Darkhill Scary Stories, #1

By Keith Robinson

Ben, Emma, Nate, and Mia – four friends determined to film the paranormal in the creepy town of Darkhill. They call themselves DARKSEEKERS.

 

It's well known that a ghostly woman haunts Direwood. But to track her down and get evidence on film, the young investigators first have to get past a crazy old hermit.

 

The mostly fearless Darkseekers set out to brave the creepy woods and be the first to tell the world just how haunted their town is. In doing so, they discover there might be more than one ghost lurking in the shadows...

 

Written by the author of the Island of Fog series, THE GHOST OF DIREWOOD is the first in a supernatural series. If you're a fan of Goosebumps, you'll love Darkhill Scary Stories!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Unearthly Tales
• Release date: Jan 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798215773291

Keith Robinson

Keith Robinson is a writer of fantasy fiction for middle-grade readers and young adults. His ISLAND OF FOG series has received extremely positive feedback from readers of all ages including Piers Anthony (best-selling author of the Magic of Xanth series) and Writer's Digest. Visit UnearthlyTales.com for more.

Book preview

Our Town is Haunted!

Ben, Emma, Nate, and Mia are determined to film the paranormal in the creepy town of Darkhill. They call themselves Darkseekers. And there’s an abundance of spooky stuff where they live!

Though surrounded by sinister legends and terrible tales, nobody wants to go on record about it. It’s bad for business, the mayor insists. Never talk to reporters.

While most of the residents agree to keep their mouths shut for the sake of the community, a small team of twelve-year-olds is determined to dig deeper into the creepy stories and obtain actual evidence of the supernatural. The brave Darkseekers tackle case after case armed with mobile phones, plenty of enthusiasm, and at least a vague idea of the danger they’re getting into.

For fans of Goosebumps, these ghostly tales are complete stories and can be read in any order.

Chapter 1

The Old Hermit

Of all the sinister legends and terrible tales in this sleepy town, one of the oldest is about a ghostly woman in the middle of the woods. If anyone’s gonna get a clear photo of her, it has to be me. I don’t care how many times I have to come here after school, this legend is mine. When the story breaks in the local newspaper, or better still on the TV, it’ll be my name attached to it—‘12-Year-Old Local Boy Benjamin Pitt Proves Ghosts Exist in Darkhill.’ It has a neat ring to it.

But first I have to get past the crazy old hermit.

I’m hiding behind the thick trunk of a tree, scanning the woods for signs of movement. The hermit lives around here somewhere, and nobody in their right mind wants to bump into that nut job.

I’m here, I text to my fellow Darkseekers. Start making a ruckus.

Before I even have time to slide my phone back into my pocket, a whole lot of noise echoes through the woods—mostly the high-pitched shrieks of two girls, but also the clanging of the garbage can lid Nate brought along. Birds flap into the air, and rodents scamper about in the bushes.

Then a silence falls, and I wait.

No, no, no, no, no, a deep voice mutters.

Where the heck is that coming from? It sounds so close! This just goes to show how dangerous Direwood is. The hermit could be anywhere.

A soft scuffling and the sudden jiggle of a fern soon gives him away. An old man moves into view. He’s crouched low and peering intently in the direction of my friends’ hidey-hole at the edge of the woods—the source of the shrieking and clanging a minute ago. They’re quiet now, but the crazy old hermit has already pinpointed their whereabouts.

Talk about the heebie-jeebies! The man has to be three hundred years old judging by his severely weathered, deeply wrinkled face. He has a matted beard that sticks out ahead of him. Though mostly bald, unruly clumps hang off the back of his scalp. He wears the oldest, dirtiest, most raggedy raincoat I’ve ever seen, as well as nasty brown pants and ankle-high hunting boots.

He grips a long-bladed knife with a serrated edge. And as he takes off at a shockingly fast pace, I suddenly fear for my friends’ lives.

Ger outof there, I fumble into my phone. Hes heding rotward you.

Even auto-correct doesn’t have time to fix my garbled message. But Nate, Emma, and Mia will understand. At least, I hope they will.

The hermit weaves between the bushes, brandishing his knife like he’s pursuing a squealing wild pig. Way ahead of him, I imagine my friends scrambling down the steep bank and running for the safety of the road. They’ll be okay. Everyone knows the hermit never ventures outside the woods.

But there’s always a first time.

Come on, come on, I mutter to my phone. Tell me you’re safe.

My hand is shaking. The old hermit is far away from me by now, but oh-so-close to my friends, bobbing about among the thickets in the distance, making for the uphill slope by the roadside. It takes all my effort to control my thudding heart.

I turn my focus elsewhere—to the deep, deep woods where nobody ever ventures. Instead of waiting for confirmation from the others, I should really be using the distraction to my advantage. All right, Ben, it’s clear. Now’s your chance. Go!

Leaping out from behind my tree, I begin the reckless dash into the old hermit’s territory with head low and full concentration on my feet. Don’t trip!

This is it. We’ve planned for this moment. It’s my own stupid idea, and I can’t back out now. All I have to do is run, swiftly and quietly, straight through the old man’s stomping grounds and into the heart of the woods. He’s always so busy watching for intruders on the outskirts that he can’t possibly spend much time farther in.

A glance to my right shows me the hermit is poised in full view on the top of the rise in the distance, framed against the daylight of the world beyond, his back to me. Yep—he’s staying well within his territory. As far as anyone knows, he fiercely protects what he considers his property but is scared witless of what lies outside. Has he ever left the woods in his life?

I have to watch my footing for a moment, but my next quick glance reveals that he’s given up his pursuit and is turning away.

I choose that exact moment to trip and fall flat on my face.

Maybe it’s a good thing. It’s like a well-timed duck. If the old man so much as suspects I’m here, that I’ve snuck past him and am now running wild in his woods, he’ll be after me in a flash, hunting me all afternoon and into the night until I’m dead. My solo mission to track down the ghost depends on secrecy, being able to explore quietly and methodically without being chased all over creation.

Yeah, it’s best he doesn’t know I’m here. Being deep in the woods with a ghost is scary enough without a knife-wielding, centuries-old, homicidal maniac on my trail, thank you very much!

Lucky for me, I did my spectacular face plant beside a thick mass of thorny brambles. It shields me pretty well, and there are gaps I can see through. Still on the brow of the short hill, the hermit turns this way and that as if sniffing the air, like he can sense a disturbance.

Is it my imagination, or are the woods colder than before? It’s your imagination, Ben, I mumble.

But no, actually it had been a pretty warm and sunny Friday afternoon when we’d arrived. Now it feels like dusk, with the sun going down and a chill settling in. Shivering, I pull my shirt collar tight around my throat.

In the distance, the hermit descends the slope, pauses, peers around again, and sheathes his knife. I can only see him from the waist up now, but that’s enough. Unfortunately, he’ll probably see me from the waist up if I stand and make a run for it. So I hang tight while he resumes his patrol of the trees.

He comes right back to where he’d started, and I notice for the first time a makeshift shelter with a tin roof, so covered up with ivy that it’s no wonder I passed it on my way in. Obviously a sentry station, maybe one of many.

There has to be a chair or something crammed under the small space because the hermit drops almost out of sight. All I see now is his head. Luckily, he’s facing sideways and appears to be lost in thought as he chews on something. Late lunch? Probably a piece of the last person who ventured into his territory.

The thought makes me shudder. I just want to put some distance between us, and crawling around on hands and knees is not easy, that’s for sure. When the woods thicken, I risk standing to check if the old nut job is still enjoying his meal.

Only then do I take out my phone and check for messages. Mia has written, You okay?

I send her a thumbs-up emoji, then tuck the phone away and move on. The first phase of Operation Direwood Ghost is complete. Now it’s onto the second phase—to locate said ghost and get some pictures. That might take a while.

But we’ve planned this mission down to the finest detail. The four of us cycled here straight from school, and we don’t get homework on Fridays, so we’re free and clear. That means we have nearly three hours before the girls head home and I go on over to Nate’s house for dinner at six. I’ve figured in about an hour to eat, just to be polite, even though the two of us can probably gobble it down in six minutes flat.

We’ll have another two hours or so afterward. Maybe the girls can pop over then as well. We all live in the same subdivision. We can use that spare time to examine my excellent photos and film footage and prepare for our spot of fame on the TV.

First, though, I have a ghost to find, otherwise there will be no such photographic evidence.