Excerpt from Watch Over Me by Nina LaCour, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The ghost hovered in place on the moonlit field. It lifted its arms to the sky and spun in a slow circle. A girl, I thought, by the way she moved. And, in spite of myself, I was mesmerized.

"No," I whispered. "No, I'm not afraid."

I didn't know if I was telling the truth.

All I knew was I wanted to watch her spin forever. I wanted to be her. The soft, dark grass on my bare feet. Free of the fears I carried with me. We watched her, Terry and I did, until she had spun herself invisible. What a wonder it was, to stand side by side with someone and watch the same thing. And then all that was left was an open field and a moon and some cabins in the distance.

"Julia and I were warned before we bought this place that there were ghosts here. We didn't believe it, or maybe we didn't care. But the first time I saw them, I dropped to my knees."

I turned toward him, waited for more. But he shook his head as though to break the memory. "Shall we?" he asked.

The mudroom was stocked with raincoats and boots and a full shelf of battery-­powered lanterns. He handed a lantern to me and took one for himself. "Whenever you head into the dark, bring one of these with you. The paths are uneven and the field can get muddy. Keep one in your cabin and then bring back the others when you return to the house."

We stepped out and crossed right through the space where the ghost had been. I thought there would be something—­a scent, a breeze—­but she was gone completely and the night was only the night.

"We'll start with the bathroom," he said, striding past the row of three cabins to a smaller structure behind them. "The door sticks sometimes. Push down a little bit. Lean into it."

I tried and it worked. It was a simple, clean space with a toilet and a counter with a sink and a new bar of soap.

"It gets very cold. Not quite ideal for the middle of the night, but I hung this hook on the back of the door in case you wear a jacket over. The shower is around back." We held out our lanterns and walked the perimeter of the building to a high gate that enclosed a patio of sorts. First there was a bench and several hooks. A few steps over was a showerhead, and next to that was a round, metal trough, the kind that animals might drink water from. I realized it functioned as a bathtub. "It is not the most comfortable, but it does the trick if you want a soak," Terry said. "And you're welcome to bathe in the house anytime."

Back at my cabin, he stood at the doorway. "I'd like to show you a couple of things. How to light the fire, where to stack the wood. Do you mind if I come in?"

"Not at all."

He checked the supply of wood. "Oh, good," he said. "Billy made sure you had plenty. You'll meet him and Liz tomorrow, along with all the children. Breakfast is at seven thirty in the kitchen. Have you used a wood-­burning stove before?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"The best way to learn is by doing," he told me. "So go ahead and take two logs from the pile and a few sheets of that newsprint."

I did as I was told, placed them in the stove. He took a matchbook from a blue dish, began to hand it to me, and then froze—­his arm in mid-­reach, the matchbook between his fingers. I didn't look at his face but I could see him breathing. My heart lunged into my throat—­he is afraid of me, afraid of me—­but then I remembered that he didn't know the whole story, so he had no reason to be afraid. He was sorry for me, then. He thought it might be difficult.

"I don't mind," I told him. "I'm not afraid of fire."

"Good, good," he said. I took the matchbook from his fingers, tore off a match, and struck it. After the newsprint was lit, I closed the doors of the stove and latched them.

"Just one more thing and then I'll go."

I waited.

"You're free to leave anytime. You are not a prisoner here. But if you do want to leave, all I ask is that you let us know so that we can drive you into town. Some people have set out walking. It isn't safe."

Excerpted from Watch Over Me by Nina LaCour. Copyright © 2020 by Nina LaCour. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher