The guest list for the bonfire party had been finalized by an individual call to everyone invited: Meghan and Erin Kilmeade, who had sounded rather confused the entire time, but who both expressed much gratitude; Ruth-Ann; Kathleen Howser, a schoolfriend whom Maggie had never spent much time with outside of a trio with Winnie but whom she recalled in an endearing light; and, a bit resentfully, Sophronia, whom Maggie had thought of as a way to parlay any past antagonism between them, and who accepted the invitation a bit apathetically.

 

“I was already invited to a party that night,” sighed Sophronia during the call. “Some of Simon’s pals from school are home for a few weeks. But I guess I’ll go to yours. I never know what kind of mischief those boys are going to get themselves into.”

 

“Okay, great,” replied Maggie, putting cheer into her voice to mask her annoyance. “I’ll see you, then.”

 

“Mm-hm,” Sophronia said, then ended their call.

 

Mama, blessedly, stayed out of Maggie’s planning and preparation, allowing Maggie to put together a menu for the night with Mrs. Putnam’s aid and approval: hot apple cider, popping corn, caramels, toasted cheese sandwiches, and coffee with steamed milk.

 

“A very unsophisticated list, Miss Blaylock,” commented Mrs. Putnam. “I admire the simplicity. I do hope none of your well-to-do friends are disappointed in the lack of decorum.”

 

“We’re going to be spending most of the night outside by a fire pit,” said Maggie. “I sincerely hope no one is expecting a fancy soiree.”

 

Mrs. Putnam’s comment made Maggie revisit her original idea to pitch a couple of tents in the yard for them to sleep outside, which had sounded rather appealing in theory but dreadful when she imagined the outcries from Sophronia (and, possibly, the Kilmeade sisters). 

 

Instead, on the afternoon of the party, Maggie set out sleeping pallets and a collection of pillows and quilts on the drawing room floor. Mama was aghast at the notion of Maggie’s guests sprawled on the floor “like a group of hapless vagabonds,” but Maggie herself was thrilled at the thought of a good old-fashioned slumber party, the likes of which she hadn’t experienced since she and Winnie were in high school, and which Victoria had never experienced (“Unless you count sharing a room with twenty other girls of all ages for most of my life who sometimes used to cry themselves to sleep, and then later on with some Sisters who went to sleep before nine and hushed you if you tried to talk,” commented Victoria. Maggie admitted that no, those instances did not count).

 

Maggie dressed in her new flannels and awaited her guests in foyer, relishing the warmly spiced air, courtesy of the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, the first to arrive were the Kilmeade sisters, who had walked from down the block. Timidly, they presented Maggie with a shoebox full of their mother’s cider donuts, then joined Victoria in the drawing room, carrying along their matching rucksacks. There, they sat on the settee opposite Victoria and whispered between themselves.

 

Ruth-Ann arrived next, all smiles and cheer, throwing herself at Maggie in an unexpected hug. 

 

“It’s too good to see you again, Maggie,” she mumbled into Maggie’s hair. She then held Maggie by the elbows, shaking them rather forcefully. “I hardly hear from the other girls anymore. I believe this is the first social event I’ve been to in…gosh, I don’t know how long!”

 

Maggie, caught off guard by this burst of excitement, nodded and said something commonplace and agreeable. She led Ruth-Ann to the drawing room.

 

“Yoo-hoo!” called a voice from the foyer. All heads turned to the hall, from henceforth came Sophronia, who strode into the room donning a deep red cloak.

 

“That looks flammable,” commented Victoria.

 

One of the Kilmeade girls—it was uncertain which—giggled.

 

Sophronia glanced down at her attire, then lifted her blonde head high. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“I think Victoria’s just reminding you we’ll be out by a fire,” said Maggie.

​

“Well, it was an awful way to say it,” pouted Sophronia. “And my clothing is perfectly suitable for a fireside, thank you.”

​

“She looks like Little Red Riding Hood,” Maggie heard Victoria whisper to the Kilmeade sisters, who chittered. Either Sophronia didn’t hear it or else ignored the jab.

​

Kathleen arrived last. She made herself at home right away, dropping her overnight bag on the floor and immersing herself in conversation with Ruth-Ann. 

​

For a while they all lingered in that room, as Mrs. Putnam brought them a platter of toasted cheese sandwiches sliced into immaculate little triangles and a silver urn of coffee with a pot of steamed milk. They descended upon the array eagerly and then fell into separate little discussions. Maggie nodded to Ruth-Ann’s story of how she’d gotten her hair curled earlier that day, distracted by the gnawing sounds occurring from the sofa across from her, where Meghan and Erin chewed at their sandwiches like nervous squirrels.

 

Victoria, meanwhile, spoke with Sophronia; or, rather, Sophronia spoke at Victoria, waving her one hand which bore a glistening gold-banded ruby on one of her pale little fingers, which Victoria could only assume was intentional.

 

“…of course, Central Park is absolutely breathtaking at this time of year. Surely you can imagine.”

 

“I can,” replied Victoria.

 

Sophronia settled back against the sofa, her eyes drifting dreamily toward the ceiling. “I just can’t help but think of how incredible it would be to live so near a magnificent piece of outdoor architecture all year long. All in good time, I suppose.”

 

The sky grew darker. The party moved outdoors to make their bonfire in the crisp, clear air. The kindling in the tiny pit grew to a steady blaze without any complications, and they set to popping the corn that Mrs. Putnam had left out on a little table nearby. For a few minutes, the only sound that accompanied them was the crackle and spit of the flames and the popping kernels. Once their snacks were ready for consumption and they’d all settled into a chair, the time was ripe for storytelling.

 

“Let’s tell some ghost stories,” Victoria suggested excitedly.

 

In the glow of the dancing flames, she saw Sophronia roll her eyes. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

 

“It doesn’t matter if they’re real or not,” countered Victoria, “they’re fun to talk about.”

 

“I have one,” piped up Meghan, her eyes round as saucers. It was the first time she’d spoken—besides to her sister—all evening; everyone hushed, eager to hear what she had to say next. This reaction stunned Meghan for a moment, but she blinked and then elaborated. “Our grandmama passed in January—God rest her soul—”

 

“God rest her soul,” whispered Erin.

 

“—after a long illness. She was receiving care in our home, of course. Mother won’t stand for those new old folks places. Anyway, the night she died, we both woke up with a start—Erin and I, I mean, we share a room—and our room was cold.”

 

“So cold,” murmured Erin, with a little shiver.

 

“We could see our breaths coming out like fog, like we were standing outside. The fire in the fireplace had gone to coals, which usually doesn’t happen so early—it was only around eleven-thirty, I checked the clock. We heard a little rustle, and both looked over to the window, and there was Grandmama, standing there, smiling at us. We didn’t know that she’d died yet, you see, and we were confused about how she managed to get into our room undetected. So I called out to her, ‘Grandmama, is that you? What are you doing?’ and all she did was stare back at us. We were so tired that we fell back asleep in no time, but when we woke up, we both still remembered everything clear as day.”

 

“Were you scared?” asked Kathleen, who gripped the arms of her chair, wearing a mischievous grin. 

 

Meghan looked to Erin, who shook her head. “No, not very. Anyway, you can imagine our parents’ shock when we told them what we saw. They said it was ridiculous, because there’s no way Grandmama, who had been lame for years, could have done such a thing. And, of course, they never even thought of the idea of Grandmama being…a ghost.”

 

“My mom says ghosts are the lost souls of hell,” Ruth-Ann said, matter-of-factly. “I’m inclined to agree.”

 

This comment made Meghan and Erin shrink back into themselves. Maggie burned with annoyance; she didn’t remember Ruth-Ann being so contemptuous.

 

“We used to have weird things happen all the time at Our Lady of Second Chances,” said Victoria. “That was the orphanage where I lived for a long time. A lot of the kids got ill and a lot of them died—”

 

“How awful!” gasped Kathleen.

 

“Yes, it was. A lot of them arrived sickly, though. There was only so much the Sisters could do for them.”

 

“That doesn’t surprise me much at all,” commented Ruth-Ann. “Catholics are wicked. And they worship idols, like witches.”

 

Everyone pretended they didn’t hear this. Victoria continued.

 

“Sometimes, you’d hear laughing or running feet down the hall—and then you’d go to check and see if some kid had gone loose, and there’d never be anyone there.”

 

Sophronia shrugged. “Kids are good at hiding.”

 

“And, you know, some children have imaginary friends. But once in a while there’d be someone with a pretend friend that told them things they couldn’t possibly know, like the full name of a child that had once lived at the orphanage, or where someone had been at a particular time, or where that lost shoe was that had gone missing. And speaking of going missing, there were times when things would just disappear—like a toy, or a hairbrush, or something like that. They’d just be missing from where they’d been, and occasionally they’d show up days or even weeks later in the oddest of places, like in the corner of the kitchen or behind a desk.”
 

“That’s not really that convincing to me,” said Sophronia, picking at her popcorn. “Children play stupid games all the time. You have no idea if some were just pulling a bunch of tricks.”

 

“I like the idea of a haunted orphanage,” said Kathleen. “It’s like something out of a book.”

 

“Exactly,” commented Ruth-Ann. “Because it’s nonsense.”

 

“What a lot of fun you all are,” grumbled Maggie, no longer wanting to hold back her irritation. She rapidly consumed a handful of popcorn to stop herself from speaking any further.

 

Nobody said anything for a little while. A cacophony of gleeful whoops was heard from somewhere nearby, presumably from the other gathering of the weekend. Then Kathleen leaned forward in her chair with a roguish grin.

 

“You know about the Jersey Devil?” she taunted. 

 

The Kilmeade sisters shuddered at the proclamation.

 

“There was a woman who lived once in a wooded area, not too far away from here. She had nine children and swore that if she had any more the devil himself could take it; well, on the night of the birth of her tenth child there was an awful thunderstorm. It was a difficult birth. The woman cursed the child again, pleading for an end to her suffering. But when the baby was born, it hardly resembled a human at all: it was a twisted little creature with leathery wings and the face of a goat and hooved feet. The woman was disgusted. Everyone who looked at it fell sick on sight. They tried to contain the creature, but it fled right up the chimney. And on dark, stormy nights, still to this day, some people swear they can hear the awful wails of the creature as it stalks the forest, unloved and cursed and hideous.”

 

“It wails?” asked Victoria.

 

“I forgot to mention that, but yes,” Kathleen clarified. “The Jersey Devil has an awful cry. I’ve heard it sounds like death itself. My brother Joe swears on his life he heard the Devil last summer, while doing lumber work.”

 

“That’s a perfectly awful story,” commented Meghan. 

 

“It would have been more impressive if it was actually storming,” snarked Sophronia.

 

“Anyway, I had something weird happen to me that would put all your stories to shame.”

 

“I thought you said ghosts aren’t real,” Victoria snapped.

 

“They aren’t,” said Sophronia. “It was a strange experience, that’s all. It doesn’t mean a ‘ghost’ was the cause.”

 

“Well, what was it, then?” pushed Kathleen.

 

Sophronia tilted her head aside and swept some hair away from her face, her ruby ring gleaming in the flames. Whether or not she was about to elaborate they wouldn’t discover, because a yelp pierced the air—a decidedly unhuman one, rough and hollow.

 

“What was that?” gasped Ruth-Ann.

 

No one had an explanation to offer. Another cry echoed through the darkness, a chilling, unidentifiable noise that baffled Maggie, as she felt that she’d heard something similar before, though she couldn’t recall what it was.

 

“Come on, girls, ‘fess up,” sighed Sophronia. “Who’s making that awful sound?”

 

Not a noise was made except for the horrible call.

 

“Okay, now I admit I’m a little scared,” Kathleen said, picking up her chair and moving it closer to Ruth-Ann.

 

“It sounds like it’s coming closer,” said Victoria.

 

“Stop. No, it doesn’t,” Ruth-Ann protested.

 

But it did—the raspy shouting grew more frequent and louder each time. Everyone moved from their chairs and huddled close to one another in a tiny bundle. The fire had dwindled without anyone noticing; it lagged against the night chill. Maggie’s stomach twisted thinking about her party had fallen apart so quickly.

 

The yelping paused. Everyone stood with bated breath, too frightened to make a move. Suddenly there was a crash from out of the wooded area and a dark figure came racing towards them. Quick as a wink, the beast tackled Victoria to the earth.

 

Everyone else jumped aside. The Kilmeade sisters fell into each other’s arms and Erin began to cry.

 

Kathleen shook. “Oh my God, it’s the Jersey Devil!”

 

“Kathleen, it’s not the Jersey Devil,” seethed Maggie.

 

“Stop saying the word ‘devil’!” hissed Meghan, consoling Erin, who collapsed into a wail.

 

A shuddering cry came from the grass, and Maggie’s heart dropped—until she realized Victoria was laughing.

 

“I…I think I found Alexander,” managed Victoria, between face licks. She scrambled to her feet, then quickly bent down to retrieve the fox.

 

“Unbelievable,” breathed Maggie.

 

“Girls!”

 

Mr. and Mrs. Blaylock, armed with lanterns, rushed to them. Mama’s eyes roved the nervous bunch. “My goodness, what is the matter? What is—is that Alexander?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.” Victoria bounced the animal on her hip as if it were an infant.

 

The rest of Maggie’s guests stood slack and silent. The fire was on its last legs. Erin’s sobbing had reduced to tiny sniffles. Shivering abounded.

 

“It’s gotten so cold out here,” Mama said. “Why don’t you all head inside? Victoria, give Alexander to Mr. Blaylock. We’ll take her next door.”

 

The fox struggled in the transfer, but the task was done. Mr. and Mrs. Blaylock tramped over to Mrs. Gibson’s, and Maggie’s party shuffled inside.

 

No one really knew what to do next once they walked in. They dawdled around for a bit, but Maggie’s parents didn’t return. Mrs. Putnam marched out from the kitchen, bewildered at the sight of the group standing around.

 

“What is the matter with you all?” she scoffed. 

 

Maggie informed her of the situation. Mrs. Putnam’s tired eyes grew wide, and she settled her hands on her hips.

 

“They’re most likely trying to console that irrational grandmother of yours.” Mrs. Putnam waved at Maggie. “You didn’t hear that from me, by the way. You’re lucky you didn’t cause more of a scene than you did. Now, away with you all. Occupy yourselves or go to sleep. It’s nearly ten. Good night.”

 

Mrs. Putnam pattered away, and the girls meandered into the drawing room. Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace, so the room had a nice cozy glow already settled in it.

 

“Oh, I can’t stand just sitting here, doing nothing,” groaned Kathleen. She had slumped herself onto one of the sofas, but she pulled herself to standing. “Why don’t we play a game?”

 

“What game?” asked Victoria, her eyes alight.

 

Maggie, who now realized she hadn’t properly thought the night through, felt like an awful hostess; Mama would be appalled. Embarrassed, she remained silent.

 

“It’s near Halloween—should we play a spooky game?” Sophronia bit her lip. “Maggie, do you have an Ouija board?”

 

“We will not use an Ouija board,” Meghan nearly shouted.

 

“No one said you had to,” retorted Sophronia. “The rest of us could, though.”

 

“No, I don’t have one,” said Maggie. 

 

“Girls, I have an idea,” Ruth-Ann chimed in. “Let’s do that Halloween ritual with the staircase and the mirror—you know which one I’m talking about. You walk down a staircase backward holding a mirror and a candle, and you’re supposed to see the face of your future husband.”

 

“Oh, God.” Sophronia rolled her eyes. “How childish.”

 

“Sounds interesting,” piped Erin.

 

“You won’t play with an Ouija board, but you’ll do that stupid ritual?”

 

“I think it could be kind of funny,” said Maggie. “I can go get my hand mirror.”

 

She did. When she returned downstairs, everyone else was gathered eagerly at the bottom of the stairs. Victoria had taken a candle from the drawing room.

 

“Who’s going first?” asked Maggie. “It’s not going to be me.”

 

“I will,” volunteered Meghan.

 

Maggie handed her the mirror and the candle, which Victoria swiftly lit. They all watched Meghan ascend the staircase rather slowly. Once she had reached the very top, unseen behind the curve, she called, “I think I’m ready!”

 

“Then start!” Maggie shouted back.

 

“Okay!” was Meghan’s answer. There was a creak—an indication of a sudden movement—and then a few moments of pause. “Just...please make sure I don’t fall, okay? Someone make sure to watch me in case I do!”

 

“You’re not going to fall!” yelled Sophronia.

 

Another pause followed, and then, slowly, Meghan began her careful backward descent. The rest of the group stepped aside. It was a funny sight to see the candle’s flame trembling in her hand, Meghan’s wide eyes reflected in the glass. At last, she stepped onto the solid floor, a bit dazed.

 

“Well?” Erin asked. “What did you see?”

 

“Nothing but the darkness behind me,” said Meghan with a shrug.

 

“Yes, and thank God for that, because it would be absolutely ridiculous if you saw anything else,” muttered Sophronia.

 

“Let me try it,” Ruth-Ann said quite vehemently, tugging the mirror from Meghan’s hand. Meghan passed the candle gently to her, but Ruth-Ann marched upstairs so hurriedly the flame nearly flickered out.

 

Ruth-Ann’s process was decidedly more impatient; she came down the steps as forcefully as she had been on the way up, her face fixed in conversation. She jumped down the last step and turned to face the girls with a head raised high.

 

“It’s nonsense,” she determined. “Anyone else want to go?”

 

Everyone waited in silent curiosity. Erin sneezed. The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed ten o’clock. Finally, Victoria shrugged and said, “I will.”

 

Victoria took the necessary items in hand and began her climb up the stairs, highly conscious of the stares at her back. When she’d reached the very top, facing the upstairs landing, she took a few more moments to focus her thoughts. She thought she heard the front door creak open, ever so slowly, followed by footsteps. The group below tittered with whispers and muffled laughter. She was about to ask if everything was all right, but since no one sounded especially alarmed, she assumed that Mr. and Mrs. Blaylock had just returned home and took her first step backward.

 

She took her steps slowly, fixing her attention on the mirror, on the side of her own face illuminated in the little flame of the candle and the blackness beyond. The house was engulfed in a hush; any sounds of Maggie and her guests awaiting in the foyer had stalled completely. She felt uneasy then, like someone was playing a trick on her. She looked down at her feet—she supposed she was more than halfway down at this point—and then carried on, her breath rushing loudly in her ears. 

 

Then, in a flash of the dancing orange flame, there was another face, just beyond hers. She had just barely caught a glimpse of it, hardly having had a moment to process her confusion, when there was a shove from behind—or, rather, someone was shoved onto her—and a peal of shouts and laughter. Victoria and the intruder stumbled over each other on the steps, and her grip on the candle nearly slipped; she felt a warm hand grab her and hold her steady in her struggle, as the jeers continued. 

 

“Are you okay?” asked a familiar voice.

 

In her disbelief, Victoria waved the candle in the direction of the speaker: it was Simon, standing just a step beneath her, appearing just as befuddled as she was. 

 

“I’m so sorry—they thought it would be funny, to sneak up on you all,” Simon said. “I didn’t think...I wasn’t planning on being pushed.”

 

“I’m fine; it’s fine,” managed Victoria. For some reason, she couldn’t look at him directly. She started down, nearly stumbling again, still quite shaken. She stepped back into the small group, where Maggie shook her head. Two unfamiliar, grinning faces were amongst them, looking to be about Simon’s age; they pulled Simon down from the staircase, one of them clapping a hand on Simon’s shoulder. 

 

“You girls are too easy to scare,” one of them said, smirking down at Victoria. 

 

“You’d be scared too if someone unexpectedly crashed into you in the darkness,” said Victoria loudly, hoping they heard her irritation.

 

“Aw, you were playing kid games,” the other strange guest said. “We were just trying to shake things up a little bit.”

 

Sophronia giggled and stepped next to Simon until they stood arm-to-arm. Victoria peered at them, confused. 

 

“I think it’s time for you to go back to your own little gathering,” Maggie interjected, shooing them away. Neither she nor Simon acknowledged each other. Simon broke away from Sophronia and left trailing behind the other two nameless intruders, mumbling a half-hearted goodbye.

 

Maggie’s parents had yet to return. The party settled into the drawing room. Maggie poked at the fire as everyone else changed into their nightclothes in the smoky dimness. They all claimed a sleeping pallet except for Sophronia, who had relinquished herself to a sofa. The Kilmeade sisters dragged themselves into a less illuminated area of the room. Victoria bedded down as close to the fire as safely possible, wanting to bask in the heat. 

 

Maggie wondered, as she lay down, if her little party had been successful. She worried that it had not been; she wasn’t entirely sure how she herself felt about the evening’s derailment. 

 

A light snore emanated from the far side of the room; either Meghan or Erin had already fallen asleep. 

 

“It was very nice for Simon and Bobby and Ed to pay us a visit tonight,” said Sophronia, sighing as she turned over on the sofa. Those awake mumbled their agreements, though all but Sophronia weren’t familiar with anyone but Simon. 

 

“Though unexpected,” Sophronia added. “I wish I had looked a little more presentable. “

 

“It was dark, I doubt anyone cared,” Kathleen said.

 

“Still, one wants to always look good for certain people.”

 

Victoria rolled over to face the ceiling, a horrible tightness rising in her chest. “So, Sophronia, I noticed that you have that lovely ring.”

 

There was a pause. Victoria didn’t peek over at Sophronia, but she ascertained that she was admiring it just now.

 

“Yes,” Sophronia said, finally.

 

“I just want to know—who gave it to you? Was it someone we know?”

 

Sophronia tossed on the sofa. “No.”

 

“Oh, really? Because the way you’ve been acting, it kind of seemed like someone we know did give it—”

 

Sophronia sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. “It was a gift from my mother, okay? It wasn’t from Simon; I know that’s what you were getting at.” Her voice caught. “We have seen each other recently, by the way, Simon and I, but we’re not together. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
 

Victoria didn’t reply. Sophronia tugged a blanket over her head, and the room filled with her soft sobbing. Victoria thought she heard Kathleen mutter, ever so softly, “geez,” but it might have been one of the Kilmeade sisters talking in their sleep.

 

“Well, good night,” declared Maggie.

 

“I feel like I missed some of the context of that conversation,” whispered Ruth-Ann. “Can you—”

 

“Good night,” said Maggie.

 

Ruth-Ann was effectively hushed. Sophronia sniffled. Kathleen yawned and stretched petitely like a cat, then fell silent.

 

Victoria lie resolutely awake for a long time, staring vaguely in the direction of the two lumps that were the Kilmeade sisters snuggled in a tiny pile. 

 

“Victoria?” It was Maggie, not quite whispering.

 

“I’m awake,” Victoria replied, and she sat up.

 

“Oh, good.” Maggie sighed and arranged herself with her back to the side of the hearth. “I’m not really that tired at all.”

 

“Yeah,” said Victoria, as if in agreement.

 

“I can’t believe her,” Maggie whispered, jutting her chin towards the sofa. “What a show-off.”

 

“So desperate,” Victoria said. “It reflects very poorly on her.” 

 

It was bold of them to speak ill of Sophronia when she lay less than five feet away, but Victoria also felt vindicated.

 

“Oh, Simon.” Maggie shook her head. “Can you even imagine—them together, I mean? Horrible.”

 

For some reason, the idea of a relationship, of a marriage, between Simon and Sophronia—between Simon and anyone—hadn’t crossed Victoria’s mind until that moment; it floated in a hazy realm of vague ideas, like the long-forgotten faces of her parents, or purgatory: things that might exist, but she didn’t care to ponder them for too long. It occurred to her that the odd epistolary friendship that she and Simon shared might be inappropriate; after all, if not Sophronia, there were surely other young ladies to factor in. With these thoughts whirring in her brain, Victoria was suddenly very sleepy, as if her mind was willing itself to shut down from any further prying into the matter.

 

“Can I tell you something?” Victoria asked Maggie, feeling half-asleep. 

 

“Yes. What is it?”

​

“Never mind...sorry,” Victoria mumbled. “It seems I forgot.”

​

“Okay,” Maggie said. “Well, if you remember, you can tell me tomorrow.”

​

Tomorrow, Victoria thought, sounded like a much better time to wonder on and decide upon worrying ideas.