See the cover of HOLLY HORROR: THE LONGEST NIGHT
Find him, find me.
It’s been two weeks since Evie escaped the mines after solving the mystery of Holly’s disappearance only to discover that Desmond followed her but never came back. Evie knows he’s alive, lost wherever the Patchwork Girl resides. When Evie tries to reach out to Holly again for help, she realizes that her connection to the Lost Girl—and the shadow world itself—has been severed. Desmond is gone, and it’s all her fault.
Ravenglass slowly begins to move on from the tragedy of losing Desmond, but as winter creeps closer and the days grow shorter, a sinister being begins to threaten the lives of Ravenglass residents, stealing them away and bringing them back different. Wrong.
Evie knows that the only way to stop it is to connect to Holly again. With the help of her friend Tina, and the troubled newcomer Sai, Evie begins to follow the clues Holly left behind, determined to find the Lost Girl once more, at any cost.
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Cover design by: Hsiao-Pin Lin, Cover illustration by: Benjamin Dawe
Cover illustration copyright © Cloudco Entertainment
“Evie? Are you there?”
Evie Archer blinked. The voice on the phone was muted and distant, as if someone were calling to her while she was lying at the bottom of a swimming pool. It was peaceful down there, in the daydreaming. Quiet. There were no thoughts, no painful memories. There was nothing at all. And that was just fine.
She didn’t want to return to the surface, but she knew she had to.
Evie rubbed her eyes, dragging herself back into the present moment. She was sitting in the wicker fan-back chair in her bedroom, with Schrödinger purring in her lap. Around her, Hobbie House groaned and creaked like it always did when the cold, New England wind blew over the Berkshires. She pulled her patchwork quilt more tightly around her shoulders and readjusted the phone against her cheek. “Yeah, Tina, I’m here,” she replied. “Sorry, I just spaced out for a minute.”
“You need sleep,” Tina said with a sigh.
“You sound like my mother,” Evie said wryly. She had only known Tina Sànchez for about two months—they’d met on Evie’s first night in Ravenglass—but she already felt closer to the police chief’s daughter than she had to almost any of her friends back in New York. After all, she’d shared things with Tina that she’d never told anyone else. And Tina was there for her when . . .” Evie grimaced, wishing she was back at the bottom of that pool.
“It’s late,” Tina went on. “C’mon. We can go over this stuff again tomorrow.”
Evie clenched her fist until her fingernails bit into her palm. Schrödinger shifted and the purring stopped, as if he could sense the tension suddenly pouring off of her in waves. “No, no,” she said. “I want to do it now.”
“Evie, you’ve got to stop blaming yourself for—”
“Please, Tina. Now.”
It had been two weeks since that ill-fated homecoming night. Two weeks since Evie had fallen into the land of shadows, since she and her brother, Stan, had emerged from the gold mines unscathed. Two weeks since Desmond had gone in and never come out.
Sleep and peaceful daydreams weren’t going to bring him back. She had to focus. Concentrate. Remember. No matter how painful it was.
There had been a great deal of confusion the day after homecoming—at first, no one was even sure that Desmond had gone into the old mines at all. His friends at the dance had heard him say he was heading there, but no one had actually seen him go in. People held out hope that he’d taken a fall in the woods, that his phone had run out of batteries, that he’d come limping home the next day, feeling sheepish. Search parties had scoured the woods up on the mountain and the mine tunnels for two days straight, and if it hadn’t been for Mom putting her foot down, Evie would have joined them. Then, at the end of the second day, they’d found a boutonniere. A cream white lily, wound with a still-fresh spray of baby’s breath. It had been lying near the mouth of a mine shaft, hundreds of feet deep.
The news article in the Pittsfield Post described Chief of Police Victor Sànchez presenting the boutonniere to the victim’s parents and getting confirmation that the item did indeed belong to their son, Desmond King. There hadn’t been any further details, but Evie had imagined the scene in her head dozens and dozens of times. Chief Sànchez walking toward them, his face a mask of sorrow. Mr. King seeing the flower in the chief’s hand and falling to his knees. Mrs. King clutching a framed photograph of Desmond in her arms and crying out—No, not him, not my baby . .