One radiant afternoon in late summer, Amanda Tucker rode with her parents, her kid sister Sally, her little brother Jacob, and her best friend Roxanne to the Pinedale Lodge. Her father said the northwoods resort was somewhere on Lake Superior. Amanda couldn’t remember where exactly, and didn’t care. She only cared about one thing.

“I can’t wait to get there,” she sighed from the back seat of their blue minivan, as they finally turned off the ribbon of gleaming highway onto a winding gravel road. Soon, the crunchy gravel dwindled into a rutted dirt lane that bounced the van up and down.

“Yah-hoo!” screamed her sister Sally, bouncing happily up and down with each lurch of the minivan.

“Knock it off,” said Amanda. As she stared out the window, she knew it was a hopeless request. Sally kept on bouncing and yelling in her ear.

Their old beagle, Tulip, joined in with an occasional yelp. Having been on the road for most of the day, everyone’s nerves seemed a bit frayed, but Amanda saw that her father just clutched the steering wheel a little harder, and her mother sighed and ignored the noise. They all needed a nice quiet vacation, her father had announced a few months ago.

And now they were going to be trapped, all together, in a tiny cabin, for a whole week.

“Oh, joy,” Amanda thought.

She was thrilled when the van finally slowed, and then stopped. Her father cut the motor, and suddenly it was quiet.

“It’s so lovely,” remarked her mother, Liddy, as she surveyed the cluster of cabins sunk deeply in the shade. The little fishing resort was located on an inlet with a view of the cool waters of the big lake. Amanda watched as her mother—a delicate woman with dark eyes and brown hair—looked around at the rustic cabins and smiled.

Twelve-year-old Amanda had to agree with her mother as she breathed deeply of the air. The scent of pine mingled with the lake breeze.

Her friend Roxanne nodded vigorously. “Let’s go look around!”

Then an ancient woman emerged—in fact, she seemed to surface like an apparition—from the murky doorway of the resort office. Drying her hands on a dishtowel, she looked at them with narrowed eyes. Rather suspiciously, Amanda thought.

Wisps of gray hair danced about the old lady’s face as she approached, hobbling around to the driver’s side of the minivan.

“You must be the Tucker family,” she said. Her long, droopy face was turned slightly away from them.

Amanda’s father Steven introduced the family, including nine-year-old Sally and three-year-old Jacob, who was squirming to get out of his car seat. Sally smiled politely.

“Yeah, that’ll last,” Amanda thought. At home, Sally was always crashing around the house like an out-of-control football player.

Maybe the northern climate promised some wonderful relief from the intense heat of central Illinois where Roxanne and the Tuckers lived, and Amanda was just aching to get out of the minivan after the long, boring drive. But she didn’t relish the idea of spending these days with her family.

And she definitely thought this old woman greeting them was more than a little creepy.

“Good afternoon,” rasped the woman in a sleepy drawl as if she were just coming awake—or alive. With the droopy eyelids of a hound, she gazed through the windows. “I’m Blanche Farnsworth. What sweet children you have. They all yours?”

Liddy said lightly, “We claim Amanda, Sally, and Jacob. Roxanne here lives across the street from us in Maysville.”

Still not meeting anyone’s eye, the old lady muttered, “I’ll show you to your cabin.”

“Thanks. We’re a little tired after the drive,” admitted Steven, wiping his palms across his face. “And a little aggravated, thanks to our special little dog here.” He opened his door and out plopped Tulip.

Mrs. Farnsworth turned her narrow eyes to the ground. “A dog?”

Liddy chuckled. “That’s Tulip. She not just ‘a dog.’ She’s a member of the family.”

Ordinarily, the grizzled, slump-bellied beagle spent her life under one of the end tables at home. She normally roused herself only for meals and when forced outside to do her duty. Yet as soon as the family had begun to pack their minivan for this trip, she had waddled right outside, climbed into the back seat, and sat there as if she were the Queen of England.

Amanda’s parents knew Tulip didn’t want to go to the kennel, where she wouldn’t be treated like royalty. So they had given in and allowed the old dog to come with them.

Amanda didn’t really mind Tulip. The old mutt wasn’t half as pesky as her sister, whose nickname should have been Calamity.

As they all watched, Tulip strolled arrogantly through an open door into the nearest cabin. Turning around three times, slowly, she deposited herself next to the stone hearth, ready for someone in the family to build a fire to warm her old bones. She looked up at them and gave a big sigh, followed by a sneeze, as she settled down for another long nap.

Amanda scrambled out of the minivan, followed by the other two girls and little Jacob, freed at last from his car seat.

Dressed in a loose t-shirt and those ridiculous Oshkosh overalls, Sally immediately ran whooping and hollering through the woods, dodging trees and leaping over fallen branches, circling the cabins in a big loop.

Their father often joked that Sally would surely grow up to become a stunt-woman. Being older, almost teenagers, Amanda and Roxanne had had enough sense to wear stylish t-shirts and Levis, even on casual occasions like today’s ride to the northwoods, though there was hardly a chance they would be seen by other friends or classmates. And Amanda knew that she and Roxanne certainly weren’t the types to run wild through the woods like crazy banshees.

Then, Roxanne tore off through the trees after Sally, screaming just as loudly, followed by Jacob who did his wobbly best to keep up.

Mrs. Farnsworth stared oddly after the children.

Liddy Tucker noticed the look and asked, “Is there something the matter, Mrs. Farnsworth?”

Amanda hung back to hear the old woman’s reply.

“No,” Mrs. Farnsworth muttered vacantly. “It’s just that we don’t get many visitors up this way.”

She glanced at Amanda. “Your oldest daughter is certainly polite and well-mannered.”

Amanda blushed, her honey-blond hair swirling in the wind, as her parents gazed fondly upon her. They often told her that she was growing into an elegant young lady. She enjoyed their compliments, but lately she had grown tired of having to be so good. It was as if she had been cast in a sculpture that she now wished to shatter to pieces.

She had always been very feminine, never having gone through a tomboy phase—unlike her spitfire of a sister who was on her way to playing halfback for the Chicago Bears.

Amanda hated sports. She loved dance, art, literature—and nature. But nature in a quiet, contemplative way. She had liked to wander in the woods, and used to enjoy fishing with her father. She had once wanted to live on a farm, but not any more.

Lately she imagined herself as a grown-up living in a tasteful apartment in New York or even London, where she would become a fashion designer.

Her main fault according to her parents, especially her mother, was that she couldn’t get along with her sister. But then who could get along with that hellcat?

Amanda just couldn’t get over being bugged by Sally, whose jeans were always torn from carousing with their father and Jacob. Her kid sister was always throwing herself into neighborhood football, soccer, and baseball games. That was when Sally wasn’t spending time surfing the net on her computer or sending e-mail to friends. Amanda didn’t envy Sally’s passion for contact sports and technology in the least. Yet she resented that Sally was allowed by their parents to do seemingly whatever she wanted.

Amanda had always thrived on the praise of being well-behaved. She now wanted to become more independent. Yet she had never done anything on her own, and she wasn’t sure where to start.

So, for now, she simply tagged along with her parents as Mrs. Farnsworth showed them to their cabin.

Situated on a little slope, the cabin offered a fine view of the inlet and the expanse of Lake Superior from its screened-in back porch. A series of plank steps zigzagged downward to a dock, where they could see a cluster of half a dozen old rowboats of various colors.

Studded with boulders, the shore wound along the inlet to a narrow channel that led directly into Lake Superior.

“We’re not far from the Apostle Islands, are we?” Amanda’s father asked, gazing at the distant crease between sky and water.

“Not too far,” said Mrs. Farnsworth, looking at her feet.

Amanda wondered about this woman. This is supposed to be a tourist resort, yet she seems uncomfortable that we’re here.

“How did you find out about us?” asked Mrs. Farnsworth.

Amanda’s father grinned. “I found a website with a list of little-known vacation spots. But it’s strange, I couldn’t find you in any other travel guide. And when I went back to check that web page—Pinedale Lodge was gone. Luckily, I’d written down the information. So we thought what the heck, we’d call, make reservations, and come up on a lark.”

Mrs. Farnsworth studied him out of the corner of her eye.

“What’s that out there?” Mr. Tucker asked, pointing to a dark island across the inlet on Lake Superior.

Mrs. Farnsworth started. “You needn’t bother yourself about the island.”

“What’s that tucked in those pine trees on it—an old house?” inquired Mrs. Tucker.

Mrs. Farnsworth licked her dry lips. “That’s the old Stardust Hotel. Used to be quite the vacation spot in its day. All the rich folks stayed there.”

Feeling a vague anxiety, Amanda asked, “Why is it so dark out there when it’s bright and sunny everywhere else?”

Mrs. Farnsworth looked away. “That’s why they call it Shadow Island. It’s just because the pines are so thick. Though some say it’s haunted.”

Amanda’s dad scoffed, “Haunted?”

“Could be,” cautioned Mrs. Farnsworth.

“Well, I just want to get down to some serious fishing,” Mr. Tucker said. “We’ve only got a week’s vacation. How about it, Amanda? You ready to catch some dinner?”

Amanda made a face. “Fishing?”

“You used to love fishing,” her dad pointed out.

But now she hated it, Amanda thought, although she couldn’t tell him. She and her father had always been very close, but now she wanted her own life. And she didn’t know why, but she wanted that life to be the opposite of her parents.

“You can take your pick of any of the boats, except Old Foggy,” said Mrs. Farnsworth in a deadpan voice. “It’s the blue rowboat. It leaks.”

“Old Foggy?” mused Amanda’s mother.

Gazing at the rowboat, Mrs. Farnsworth shuddered, but offered no further explanation.

Amanda was still thinking about the haunted island. Maybe this vacation won’t be so boring after all. “Does anyone live on the island?” she asked.

Mrs. Farnsworth ignored her. “Once you get settled in, I can take you to the store at Pinedale.”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself,” Mrs. Tucker said. “We saw it just before we turned into the resort. We can find our way back up the road.”

After helping her parents haul baggage into the cabin, Amanda went out to check on Roxanne, Sally, and Jacob. “Keep an eye on your brother,” her mother called after her. “And your sister.”

Amanda rolled her eyes. She adored Jacob as much as she couldn’t tolerate Sally, yet she often got tired of being the responsible, oldest child in this family.

Funny, Amanda thought as she trotted through the woods to the lake, I used to like to run around like them, and Roxanne is my best friend. But then, I’m a year older than Roxanne. And I’m growing up. Once upon a time, I didn’t wonder about anything, but now it seems I have more questions every day about who I am and what I want to be.

With abundant energy, Roxanne, Sally, and Jacob had already explored much of the woods around the cabins. They were anxious to explore farther down the lakeshore, but Amanda’s dad called, “Up to the cabin, everyone. We have to do a little shopping. For bait.”

“And groceries,” Mrs. Tucker added.

“No way! We’re going to catch our dinner,” Amanda’s father declared, winking at her as the girls and Jacob straggled back.

The hamlet of Pinedale consisted of a rickety bait shop, a gas station, and a handful of tumbledown houses, all huddled together back at the corner where the Tuckers had turned down the tiny lane that led to the resort cabins. As the five of them strolled past the gas station with its single pump and ancient, peeling sign, Mrs. Tucker joked, “So this is the downtown?”

Amanda sagged. She had tried to tell herself that this would be a fun vacation, but she wondered why they couldn’t ever go to New York or Boston where there were exciting museums and shops. Instead, her dad always took them to quiet—and dull—places in the country.

She was glad that she’d brought a bag full of books. She’d have to read her way through each long day of this vacation.

A few old-timers were idling in front of the weathered bait shop, staring at them in silence.

“No one else is staying at our resort,” Amanda observed. “The place is deserted.”

“It’s the end of the season,” her dad reasoned. “And we’re in the heart of nowhere. We must have been driving on dirt roads for the last two hours. And then this road just about disappeared. Here, it’s no more than a faint trail through the woods. I’m surprised we ever found the place.”

“That’s what you wanted,” Amanda’s mother teased. “To get away from it all for a little peace and quiet.”

“Peace and quiet,” Amanda mimicked. It had been her father’s plea since they had set out early that morning from Maysville. Well, she thought, I’m sick and tired of these boring family vacations with my annoying sister.

“Yep,” her father agreed. “I don’t care if we catch a single fish. I don’t care if we get a bite. I just want to relax for a few days.”

For the past few months, his job had been especially tiring. He worked at a small private college, where he struggled with a shrinking budget.

“Let this be a warning to you girls,” Steven Tucker intoned with mock seriousness. “Do whatever you want this week, but stay out of mischief. And remember: peace and quiet.”

Amanda glanced at Roxanne. Her friend opened her eyes wide and said sweetly, “Mr. and Mrs. Tucker, would we ever do anything like get into mischief?”

“Of course not,” smiled Liddy. “Not more than three or four times a day.”

Mr. Tucker added, “And no feuding with your sister. Is that clear, Amanda?” He swung his arm around his wife. “You know, girls, this is going to be sort of a second honeymoon for us.”

All three girls snorted with laughter, and Jacob asked, “What’s a honey moon?”

Ever so quietly, Mrs. Farnsworth materialized behind them.

Amanda’s mother gasped. “You startled me!”

The old woman looked in her odd style sideways down at the ground. In a monotone, she explained, “I . . . uh . . . thought I’d introduce you to the rest of us folks.”

She turned to the people gathered around the sagging bench in front of the North Country Bait and Tackle Shop. It seemed as though they’d all gathered to meet the new visitors to the secluded resort.

The old woman started by gesturing to a potbellied man dressed in flannel shirt and blue jeans, with his thumbs hitched in his pockets, “This is my husband Roger.”

Mr. Farnsworth had a bald head and bushy gray eyebrows like shelves.

One by one, Mrs. Farnsworth introduced the other folks, who shyly nodded or mumbled a hello. Like the old lady, they tended to stare at their feet.

Among the little cluster, one old fellow stood out. Amanda found the face of the man introduced as Mr. Willoughby to be quite striking. Lounging in the exact middle of the gray-weathered bench, he had a pure white moustache which matched his hair. And one violet eye sparkled at them from beneath his cap, which read “World’s Greatest Dad.” The lid of his other eye, the left one, was closed completely as he studied them.

Squinting at Amanda’s dad, he asked, “Ever been up this way before?”

“Nope,” Mr. Tucker said.

“The fishin’s great,” Mr. Farnsworth ventured, as if anxious to please them. “Only stay away from that island.”

Mr. Willoughby cast him a fierce glance with his one good eye. “What he means is . . . you want to stay away from the open water. The currents around that island are tricky.” He snapped his bony fingers. “And the weather will change just like that. You got to be careful.”

All the other old men, including Mr. Farnsworth, nodded in agreement.

Amanda’s dad grinned. “I hear the island may be haunted.”

Mr. Willoughby erupted, “Steer clear of Shadow Island!”

Then in a more subdued voice, he added, “Believe me, it is haunted!”

Amanda’s parents chuckled, but a few of the local people kept shuffling their feet and glancing away.

“Haunted?” asked Roxanne skeptically.

Mr. Willoughby glared at her. “It’s thick with ghosts!”

Roxanne shrugged. “I just don’t happen to believe in ghosts.”

“How ’bout you, little girl?” he turned his violet eye on Sally, who just stood there, her mouth hung open.

Amanda could have answered for her. If she knew one thing about Sally, it was that she positively believed in ghosts. She might be a gladiator in the clear light of day, but come night, she was scared of everything, especially creatures that might be lurking under her bed.

To sooth her fears, their father had once told Sally that there was a creature under her bed—a sweet little pony—which had helped her to sleep at night. Yet she had phobias about spiders, snakes, and just about anything else that could be imagined to be dangerous.

“And how ’bout you?” the old man pointed at Amanda with the rubber tip of his cane.

Amanda wasn’t absolutely certain. Who could prove that there weren’t ghosts? But for the record, she shook her head.

“How would you know? You’re not from around here,” the old man said, leaning back on the bench, his gaze boring into Amanda.

“If you were, you’d know the story. Years ago, a lady by the name of Ruby Shaw owned that island and ran the hotel. She had a beautiful daughter name of Dora, who was loved by everyone hereabouts. That girl had blond hair and the bluest eyes you ever seen—but she was awful shy. She wanted to get married, but like all young women she was waiting for the right fella to come along.”

Old Mr. Willoughby shifted his gaze to Roxanne.

“Now, a wealthy industrialist named Big Bill Madigan, who’d made a fortune in copper mining, came to the island every summer with his son, Nathan. A likable lad, Nathan for a while even courted Dora.

“But the beautiful young lady didn’t seem to care for the fellow at all, despite the fact that the boy’s father was filthy rich. She just ignored his advances, looking shyly the other way when Nathan entered the room and that sort of thing.

“Still, Nathan didn’t appear to mind that Dora snubbed him. He was a quiet, easy-going young man. Pretty much the opposite of his father, who was prone to fits of rage.

“Sure enough, Big Bill Madigan was outraged that Ruby’s daughter had spurned his son. Though everyone agreed that Big Bill would never in a thousand years have allowed his precious son to marry an innkeeper’s daughter.

“He was just insulted that some ‘lowly hotel clerk,’ as he called Dora, would dare to reject his son. It was inconceivable to the tycoon, and infuriated him to no end.

“Big Bill was one of the richest men in North America, and he swaggered around that hotel like he owned it, constantly getting into one fight after another with Ruby. Folks even heard him threaten young Dora.

“No one took him too seriously . . . until Dora up and disappeared one night.” Mr. Willoughby paused for effect, and shifted his weight on the bench.

“Some people figured Big Bill killed Dora out of pure spite. And likely dumped her body in the depths of Lake Superior. But nobody knows for sure because to this day . . . they haven’t found her body.”

“Dora was deathly afraid of the water,” added Mr. Farnsworth nervously. “Ever since she was a child. She’d once had a boating accident and almost drowned. So, she had never left the island.”

Old Foggy, Amanda suddenly thought. A picture of the blue rowboat popped into her mind.

“Who’s telling this story, you or me?” snapped Mr. Willoughby.

Mr. Farnsworth cringed and mumbled, “Sorry.”

Mr. Willoughby waited for complete silence. Then he licked his old, dry lips and went on. “Naturally, Ruby was sick with grief. And she begun to act strange in the head.” He tapped a gnarled forefinger against his temple.

“She went around muttering to herself, and she never cared about how she looked anymore. Her hair was wild, and her clothes was always mussed up.

“Then . . .” the old man’s voice dropped almost to a whisper, “there was a second disappearance. “Big Bill’s son Nathan vanished in the night.”

The old man looked around at his listeners. “Big Bill had a fit, accusing Ruby of killing his boy in revenge. But nobody ever went to jail . . . because they never found the boy’s remains either.”

Roxanne chimed in fearlessly, “They could have weighted the bodies down with concrete blocks. And then dropped them into Lake Superior. I read that the water out there is nearly five hundred feet deep.”

Mr. Willoughby shrugged. “It could have happened that way. But I reckon we’ll never know for sure, now will we?”

He continued, “After his boy vanished, Big Bill Madigan swore he’d kill Ruby, and threatened to burn down the hotel. He was mean enough to do it. But instead, all of a sudden, he left the island. We heard he went to Florida. We ain’t for sure. But nobody’s ever seen him again.

“Well, Ruby got even crazier after that. She yelled at people staying at the hotel and scared them away. Finally she didn’t have any customers anymore. She became a hermit, living on the island with a few Ojibwe Indians. The Indians had been workers at the hotel, and some of ‘em just stuck around.

“Rumors were flyin’. They said Ruby had been smuggling bootleg whiskey from Canada. Some said she was working for Al Capone, the Chicago gangster. They said all kinds of things.

“Well, Ruby lived for years and years, hoping to find her daughter, but Dora never reappeared. After a few years, the last of the Ojibwes on the island died. Fellow named Joe Wolf. Jumped off a cliff.

“Some say Ruby pushed him, but most reckon it was suicide.

“Then one day, a big storm hit the island, with lots of lightning and thunder. And the day after, the old lady turned up dead herself.

“Murdered. Shot through the head with a deer rifle.”

Mr. Willoughby looked quickly down at the bait-shop porch, and Amanda almost thought she saw a quick smile flash across his lips. Maybe he was just enjoying pulling their legs.

“Who did it?” Sally asked breathlessly.

“Nobody knows!” Mr. Willoughby looked up and cackled. “Some say it was Madigan, who snuck back onto the island. Others say it was one of the Ojibwes come back and did her in. They was a surly lot, especially that Joe Wolf and his kinfolk. Best we can tell, they spent those last years robbing the old lady blind.”

Sally and little Jacob had their mouths hanging open. But Amanda scoffed, “Ghosts! There aren’t any on that island—or anywhere else.” She almost added that this was just the boondocks where nothing ever happens, but didn’t.

Sally spoke nervously, “You’re just trying to scare us, and it won’t work.”

“Then how come you’re trembling like a scared rabbit, young lady?” Mr. Willoughby noted.

The people assembled in front of the bait shop chuckled softly. Then Mr. Farnsworth said, “He’s giving you fair warning, folks. There’s something strange and dangerous about Shadow Island. All we know is that a lot of unexplained accidents have occurred out there.”

“Like the Bermuda Triangle?” Amanda didn’t believe how they were all stretching this yarn out.

“Yes, except we’ve recovered most of the bodies,” said Mrs. Farnsworth.

Amanda was still in disbelief. “You’ve found bodies?”

Mr. Willoughby nodded. “Mostly drowned. Although a couple looked like some beast attacked them—tore their arms and legs off. And a few went off the cliff like that Indian, Joe Wolf. Like they’d seen something terrifying, and fell or dove off the edge.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” explained another man who, from his greasy clothes, looked like he operated the gas station. “Nothing has happened recently. Just do us a favor, and don’t go over there. We’re hoping to build back our tourist business, and it’s not easy with all the rumors about ghosts and such.”

Amanda was sensible enough to be skeptical of the old man’s tall tales, as was her father, who winked at the girls, and led them into the general store. While Mr. and Mrs. Tucker bought groceries and bait, as well as a few lures to supplement her father’s fishing tackle, the girls and Jacob watched the gurgling minnow tank.

When they went back outside, Amanda asked, “Aren’t there any Indians around here anymore?”

“Not any more!” Old Mr. Willoughby spat. “And good riddance!”

“Indians are drunks and thieves,” Mr. Farnsworth agreed.

“People around here disliked Ruby Shaw for keeping that bunch of renegades on the island,” Mr. Willoughby said gruffly. “The funny thing is that she was always feuding with them. Especially that arrogant Joe Wolf. He always acted like he was some kind of chief.”

As they headed back to the cabin, Amanda was taken aback. She had studied about Native Americans in school, and in preparation for the trip, she had read up about the Ojibwe. The native families had lived in the area for many years. They fished in the summer. In the fall, they went to special places to gather wild rice. In the winter, they trapped and hunted.

And in the first thaws that signaled spring was coming, they would go into the woods to make crumbly maple sugar, a great festive time of gaiety and stories.

They had prospered as successful traders throughout the region, paddling their birch-bark canoes alongside French voyageurs. She had also read that many of the heroic deeds of “Hiawatha” were actually those of an Ojibwe spirit warrior called Nanabozho.

Sally was walking along wide-eyed, gripping her father’s hand tightly. Amanda started to say something to tease her, but her father gave her a cautionary look.

“Folks around here seem a little . . . different, don’t they?” he said.

“I didn’t appreciate their trying to scare the children like that.” Amanda’s mother was not amused.

“Oh, I think they’re serious,” said Mr. Tucker. “At least about how the rumors have hurt their tourist trade. It must be awful to have such a scenic island marred by gruesome tall tales.”

“That old coot Willoughby is enough to scare away most folks single-handedly. But look on the bright side. We have the entire resort to ourselves.”

Sally announced, “And I’m going to catch the biggest fish.”

“Yeah, right.” Amanda rolled her eyes.

“Well, I bet you won’t!”

“Girls . . . remember. Peace and quiet,” sighed their mother.

It was just like her sister to be so contrary, Amanda thought. The sisters’ relationship had long been marked by a spirited rivalry. For her first three years, Amanda had been an only child, and then this pest appeared. At first, Amanda had welcomed the little bundle of joy, but then Sally had grown older and gotten into Amanda’s stuff. Rowdy and rambunctious, she was always racketing around the house, and worst of all, drawing their parents’ attention away from Amanda.

Yet Sally curiously idolized Amanda. She followed her big sister everywhere, although the two of them had opposite interests and seemed never to agree on anything.

Roxanne was the outsider who calmed the storms between the two sisters. A demure, brown-eyed girl, she was friends with both Amanda and Sally, and just about everybody else at school and in the neighborhood.

As soon as they got back to the cabin, Amanda’s father dug his fishing gear out of the back of the minivan. Amanda watched him, thinking of how much he loved the outdoors, where he could luxuriate in the sunlight and smoke his raunchy old pipe.

“Isn’t this great?” he asked, patting Amanda on the shoulder. “The fresh air, the smell of pine trees.”

“You mean stinky pipe smoke!” Amanda teased, wrinkling her nose.

Smiling, her father gathered his fishing tackle, and Amanda and Roxanne followed him down to the the water’s edge, where a small, well-worn dock stuck out into the inlet.

The rowboats each had a name painted on the stern. From where the girls stood, they could see a few of the names: Peaches, Calico, Little Lil, Scuffy. They noticed an ancient blue boat at the end of the dock, which must have been Old Foggy. Amanda’s father selected a faded yellow boat, with its two oars in decent condition, named Clementine. When Amanda and Roxanne climbed in and found seats, they shoved off into the inlet.

Already Amanda’s mother, with Jacob in tow, and Sally were poking in the cattails along the edge of the water with minnow nets. They were hoping to catch quick little brown-and-green frogs called peepers, and maybe a crawdad or two.

“I wonder why Old Foggy’s off limits,” Amanda mused.

Her father shrugged. “Mrs. Farnsworth said it leaks.”

He baited their hooks with nightcrawlers and the girls cast their lines out.

The moment her line hit the water, Roxanne had a strike.

“Wow!” Amanda cried.

Straightening up on the nearby bank, Liddy, little Jacob, and Sally shaded their eyes with their hands and peered across the water to see what all the commotion was about.

“It’s pulling me overboard!” Roxanne cried.

Amanda’s dad smiled. “I doubt it’s that big, Roxanne.”

The fish sprang out of the water for a moment.

Her father whistled in amazement. “It’s a lake trout, Roxanne, and a big one! Easy now, don’t let it break your line.”

With his excited coaching, Roxanne slowly reeled in the fish, which zipped this way and that through the sparkling water. At other times it dropped with the weight of a brick toward the clear bottom, and twice shattered the surface.

Leaning over the side, Amanda’s dad finally netted the fish as it tired. Grabbing the lake trout under the gills with his fingers, he pulled it out for everyone’s inspection.

“It’s gorgeous,” Roxanne said as she gazed upon the fish glistening in the afternoon light.

Amanda elbowed her friend in jest, “You would be the first one to catch a fish.” A few minutes later she felt a tug. But the fish tossed the hook and got away.

Accustomed to vacationing on lakes overrun with stunted bluegill, Amanda’s father was overjoyed with the good fishing at the resort. But as the afternoon progressed, Amanda got an eerie feeling that someone was watching them.

As their boat rocked soothingly on the clear water, the oarlocks creaking in rhythm with the waves, everyone seemed to be lulled into a sweet feeling. Except her.

She kept glancing over her shoulder, but she only saw the shore edged with pine trees, beneath which the log cabins were quietly nestled.

Overhead the gulls swooped, glided, or hung suspended in the wind over the inlet.

“What is it, honey?” her father asked. “Do you feel all right?”

Amanda felt like telling him, I’m not a little girl, Dad. But she simply mumbled, “Sure, I’m fine.”

“You’re so white. Are you getting a little seasick?”

“Dad! Quit teasing me.”

“I’m not. You don’t look well,” he answered.

“And you don’t have to snap at me,” he added.

“Sorry,” she responded, and she was sorry. But she hated being sorry. Her parents were nice, so nice that they were suffocating her. If they were mean, even once in a while, she could at least be mad at them. A strange foreboding overcame her, but she didn’t want to ruin everyone else’s fun, so she said nothing.

Roxanne caught another good-sized trout, as did her father. Then the three of them switched to artificial lures, after which they each caught a walleye.

They kept enough of the fish to fillet for dinner. As the sun arced downward, coloring the water a luminous rose and orange, Mr. Tucker rowed slowly back to the dock.

To Amanda, the voices and laughter of her father and her best friend increasingly seemed to come from a great distance. Roxanne observed, “You do look pale, Amanda. Are you going to throw up?”

Just then Amanda caught a glimpse of it, low and brooding—the gray hulk of the Stardust Hotel. Staring at the distant building tucked among the dark pine trees on the island, she had the sudden irrational feeling that someone was watching her from within its walls.

The island seemed enveloped in shade, as Mrs. Farnsworth had told them it always appeared, although the sun was still burning vividly to the west.

Then across the waves she heard a moan, low and penetrating, as if someone were in terrible pain.

“Did you hear that?” Amanda whispered to Roxanne and her father.

“What?” asked Roxanne.

“Maybe a loon,” her father suggested. “They make a haunting sound, don’t they?”

“No . . . it was . . . something else,” Amanda insisted breathlessly.

Roxanne shrugged. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Me neither,” Amanda’s father added agreeably. “So, who wants to help me clean these fish?” he asked.

The two girls looked at each other and wrinkled their noses.

“Why am I not surprised?” Amanda’s father grinned. “You girls have all the fun, and I do all the work.”

As Mr. Tucker tied the rowboat up at the dock, Liddy, Sally, and Jacob waded over to them through the shallow water.

“Look at what we got!” cried Sally, holding out a bait bucket. “A whole bunch of slimy frogs!”

“And crawdads—with big pinchers!” Jacob added.

Both of the younger children were splattered with water and a good bit of mud.

Amanda was only vaguely interested. She was about to respond when her mother asked, “Do you feel all right, honey?” She placed her palm against Amanda’s forehead. “My God, you’re ice cold!”

Amanda’s father suggested, “It’s been a long day driving here and getting settled in. Plus that old geezer’s story. Why don’t you lie down, Amanda? I’ll clean the fish and fix dinner.”

Amanda felt like she was giving in to something she didn’t want to, but she whispered, “Okay.”

“I’m feeling a little chilled myself,” her father said. “I think we’re not used to this cool weather up north.”

Tulip had not moved from her place on the hearth. She roused herself briefly to sniff the fish, but as soon as Amanda’s dad built a crackling fire she plopped down again on the stone hearth and didn’t budge until dinner.

Amanda’s father cleaned the fish and fried them, with hashed browned potatoes. They had corn on the cob and sliced tomatoes, which they had brought from their garden at home. Amanda was able to eat her share, which pleased her parents.

But dark came early in those woods, and after dinner, everyone else seemed ready for bed. Her parents claimed one of the back rooms, putting Jacob on a small cot next to their bed.

Amanda shared the other bedroom with Roxanne and Sally. But she couldn’t fall asleep.

Instead, after tossing and turning endlessly, she felt herself drawn out into the night.

[First chapter from SHADOW ISLAND: A TALE OF LAKE SUPERIOR, by Raymond Bial, (Blue Horse Books, 2006), © Raymond Bial, is used with permission. Further reproduction is prohibited without the written permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Philip Martin, editor, at info@bluehorsebooks.org..]