Part of a series of student-submitted Halloween ghost stories.

WRITTEN BY Nyana Steinberg // ILLUSTRATION BY Alex Sevastopoulos

The children spoke in whispers of the ghost up on the old hill. You could say it was just the wind whistling through the branches of the gnarled willow tree, or the shadows cast in the dry brush by the tree’s enormous branches; often, these were the excuses the adults gave. 

“You have such active imaginations,” they’d say. “There’s no reason to be scared.”

But the children knew that at a certain time, when the fading light of dusk shone on the hill just right and the gusts of wind in their brisk little town picked up, the Specter was there.

That was the name for the thing on the hill. Nobody knew who had deemed it so, or if the word had simply always been there, waiting for someone to voice it. It hovered just out of sight, on the edges of vision, there one second and gone the next. It was never seen directly, merely fleeting glances here and there, like sightings of a frightened rabbit. If you listened to the sound of the wind and the rustling of the willow’s leaves, you could hear its voice woven into nature’s symphony, a foreboding undercurrent in a sea of noise.

The children talked of the Specter often, speaking about it with the sort of reverence given to subjects of folk or fairy tales. Of those claiming to have talked to it, none were truthful. 

Eventually, a child came along who didn’t believe the stories told on the playground in between breathless games of tag, or those murmured in the dead of night at sleepovers. His name was Hendrix, and as he grew up he’d brag loudly about his fearlessness to the others.

“A ghost? I think you guys are just sissy scaredy-cats,” he’d laugh. The kids were torn between resentment and awe of this boy who didn’t share in their collective apprehension. One day, as is common in this situation, it coalesced into a challenge.

Go up the hill, then. They threw the words out, not expecting Hendrix to agree. If you’re so brave, if you think we’re paranoid, go up there yourself. You’ll see.

To Hendrix, there was no other choice to be made. 

So he stole away to the old hill at dusk the following evening, and stood before the slope of dead grass illuminated by dying sunlight. He took a step. Then another, and another. He crept up to the willow at the top of the hill, shivering from what he told himself was only the cold.

The wind whistled, high and keening, and the tree seemed to creak in answer to his tentative footsteps.

He looked around, scanning the empty space for any sign of a supernatural entity, and found nothing.

Hendrix let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, chuckling at himself for almost, almost, falling for the stories, and reached up to pick a single leaf from the willow tree. Evidence of his trip up the hill, a piece of proof for those who would be skeptical of his bravery.

Task completed, he turned to go.

And the world went dark.

Hendrix returned to school the next day, and the children were shocked and impressed. They idolized the hero who conquered the hill. Whispers followed him through the hallways, and he was instantly the most interesting person in the town. Interesting to the kids, anyway. The parents thought it was a good thing that there was one among their children who wasn’t scared of those silly stories of the Specter on the hill.

It was a shame, really. If they’d believed those stories, they may have noticed the way Hendrix’s eyes flickered like shadows in dying sunlight. They may have heard the wind howl in his roaring laugh, or the willow shake in the swishing of his hair.

Not one in the town noticed that the Specter was now living among them.