Also by Cyn Balog
Fairy Tale
Sleepless
Starstruck
Touched
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2013 by Cyn Balog
Jacket art copyright © 2013 by Paul Knight (tree) and
Adrian Muttitt (background) for Trevillion Images
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
randomhouse.com/teens
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Balog, Cyn.
Dead River / Cyn Balog. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: “A weekend rafting trip turns deadly when ghosts start turning up … and want something from high school senior Kiandra that she isn’t sure she can give them”—Provided by publisher.
eISBN: 978-0-375-98578-2
[1. Rafting (Sports)—Fiction. 2. Ghosts—Fiction. 3. Death—Fiction.
4. Horror stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.B2138De 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2012005649
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
For Mandy Hubbard
for taking this wild journey with me
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Huge thanks go out to my agent, Jim McCarthy, and the whole crew at Random House Children’s Books, including my editor, Wendy Loggia. This story wouldn’t have been possible without John Anderson, who lured an unsuspecting and completely gutless author on a rafting trip on the Dead River many years ago. Thank you also to Jennifer Murgia, the best cheerleader there is, and to the Debs, for nearly five years of inspiration. Thanks also to my kids, for always keeping my spirits afloat. And never least, my deepest appreciation goes to my husband, who pulls me back onto the raft, time and time again.
Prologue
“Who are you?” I asked, my voice flat. Seven-year-olds are all about blunt. No “Hi, how do you do, nice weather we’re having.” After all, he was fishing in my spot.
“No one worth knowin’,” he said in a gooey Southern twang, turning back to his fishing pole. “Fish’re bitin’ like mosquitoes on a hog.”
I took a step closer. His fishing pole wasn’t a nice one like mine. Just a stick with string tied to it. His jeans were holey and dirty, too. He didn’t have a shirt; from the color of his skin he was probably one of those boys who went shirtless from May to September. Freckles like tiny coffee beans mingled with the deep russet hue on his shoulders and nose.
I kicked a stone with my big toe. “You’re in my spot,” I said as the stone skittered off the bright red paint of my dinghy, nicking it.
My spot was the best on the whole Delaware. It was on an island twenty yards off the bank on the Jersey side. The island was big enough for only a couple of shade trees, my cooler of lemonade, and the spot where I’d plant my backside. A lot of times when it rained, it was underwater. But now it wasn’t. It was a perfect time for fishing.
He wiggled his toes in the mud, looked around, patted the ground beside him. “Room enough for two.”
Just barely. I eyed the spot suspiciously. That was where I usually put my cooler. His backside was where mine usually went. I couldn’t tell how old he was; most everyone on my street was so much older than me, they might as well have been from another planet. He was a younger older, though. Maybe only a decade or so older. That made him the most interesting thing I’d seen all day. So I deigned to sit beside him on my mound in the river. “You talk funny,” I said.
He laughed. “Way I see it, you’re the one talking funny, kid.”
I gave him a big “hmph” and cast my line. He watched my every move, silently, like a cat, until his string began to bob. He pulled a big fat silver beauty out of the water and grabbed it in his hands as its tail swished back and forth, painting dots of midnight blue on his faded denim. Then he smiled and let it go.
“What did you do that for?” I asked.
“Don’t eat fish,” he answered.
“Then why catch them?”
He shrugged. “Somethin’ to pass the time.”
I shook my head. “There’re a lot funner ways to pass the time, if you don’t eat fish.”
He chuckled. “Well, kid, if you must know, I’m waitin’ on someone.”
“Oh yeah? Who?”
“A missus. She’ll be along in a shake.”
“A what?” When he didn’t answer, I asked, “Your girlfriend?”
“Nah.” His fishing line bobbed again. He pulled in another one, silver and beautiful. The fish dangled from the fraying, sad excuse for a line as he inspected it closely, smiling with pride. I looked at my own rod, glittering red in the sun, a present from my mother for my birthday. The sinker floated on the water, still.
“Well, she’s not taking my spot,” I muttered as he tossed the fish back. “You’re just catching the same fish over and over again. What bait you using?”
“Just some worms and bugs I dug up.” He looked at my pole. “You ain’t gonna catch nothin’ with that gleamin’ piece of horse manure. The fish’ll spot that thing a mile away.”