Chapter One Go Time I lace up my old hiking boots, which are at least a half size too small, and brace myself for what Jackson, Alison, and I are about to do. Gritting my teeth, I ignore the pinch in my toes and imagine the article I'll be able to write after -tonight. THE LADY IN WHITE: FACT OR FICTION by Josie Trainor, Alison Woskin, and Jackson Leeds The Lady in White. It's a legend we've all heard. Maybe you heard it for the first time at a sleepover where no one ended up sleeping. Or at camp over a roaring fire and s'mores. Or maybe you heard it from a friend who loves ghost stories. However you first learned about this spine-chilling ghost legend, we bet you'll never forget it. But is the Lady in White real? Keep reading to find out! My heart pounds harder just thinking about it. No, it's not the type of article I'd usually write with my friends, but it's the type of article I need to write. There are five rules of journalism, and even though "take risks" isn't one of them, it should be. Sometimes getting an exciting story is dangerous, and a good journalist needs to be brave. There's a series of quick, hard knocks on my front door. I clomp--hobble over to it, one boot still untied. Looking through the peephole, I see that the person not--so--patiently waiting on the other side is my best friend, Alison. Her mouth is downturned, her face wrinkling as a blast of wind hits her from behind. I open the door just as she lifts her hand to knock again. "Sheesh, Josie. What took you so long?" she asks, pushing her way past me. Her long blond hair is in a ponytail that's tucked up under the hood of her rain jacket. Tendrils are spilling out and dripping water down the plasticky front. "It's raining cats and dogs out there." I can't help it; I laugh. Alison looks like a cool girl: trendy clothes, perfect hair, and makeup skills even high schoolers would be jealous of. But she's still a dork. She has all these sayings that make her sound like someone's grandma instead of the twelve--year--old she is. Raining cats and dogs is definitely one of them. She rolls her eyes at me and shrugs the duffel bag off her shoulder, tossing it into the corner of our entryway. "Whatever. Is Jackson here yet?" I shuffle back to the couch, careful not to step on my dangling laces. "What do you think?" "Ugh. Of course he's not. Did you tell him to meet us at four--fifteen instead of four--thirty, like we agreed?" "Yup," I answer. "Maybe I should have told him four, though. He's not good at being on time." Seriously, the guy was late to a meeting at school about how often he's late to school. It's like he's in a different time zone. Alison fishes her phone out of her pocket and taps the screen. "It's already four--thirty--five. Normally I'd say let's just wait, but tonight is . . . uhh, different." I snort. No kidding tonight is different. Instead of making popcorn and bingeing candy while we watch scary movies like we normally would on Halloween, we'll be sneaking around Bachelor's Grove, a two--hundred--year--old cemetery. Not just any two--hundred--year--old cemetery, either. A two--hundred--year--old cemetery that is considered one of the most haunted places in the world. My eyes glide to the Halloween display Mom arranges every year on a table in the corner of the living room. I honestly love the little light--up buildings and figures. There's a ghostly library, a spooky theme park, and even an eerie mansion. They're all so detailed, too. Like someone shrank down an actual haunted village. I squint at the figure I like the most. It's a mummy. He's got both arms stretched out in front of him and is walking past an old--fashioned light post that has a pile of jack--o'--lanterns lit up at the -bottom. Something about the mummy makes me a little sad tonight even though his expression is happy. I get it: Halloween is a blast. Right now, it's all fake cobwebs and plastic headstones and trick--or--treaters outside. But in here things are so much more serious. I want to write this article, I do. But I wish we weren't giving up the most fun night in the world to do it. There's another knock at the door. Alison motions for me to finish with my boots while she answers it. Jackson bursts in like a tornado. He's wearing a black puffy coat, jeans, and the biggest snow boots I've ever seen. "What . . . what are you wearing those for?" Alison asks, laughing. Jackson's dark eyebrows scrunch up. "You guys said to wear boots!" "We're going to a cemetery, not the ski slopes!" she says, her eyes still lit with amusement. "Well, excuuuuuse me," he retorts. "Some of us don't have rain boots, and we have to wear snow boots." Folding both arms over his puffy chest, he nods at Alison's boots. "It's pretty cold out, Al. Hope your piggies don't freeze in those. They look awfully thin." Alison looks down at her pale blue boots---which are adorable but, yes, thin--looking---and scowls. Jackson smirks. "No fighting," I say, stepping between them like a referee. I take Jackson's backpack and toss it on top of Alison's. "We don't have time." Jackson pulls his hood down, letting his trademark floppy brown hair tumble out. It always looks like he just woke up, but somehow it works. I wouldn't say girls at Summit Hill Junior High like like Jackson, but they notice him. Between the wild hair and clothing choices like the snow boots, I guess it's hard not to. "So," Alison starts, "you guys sure you're ready for this?" I nod without hesitating. We have to be ready. I met Jackson and Alison our first week of sixth grade because we all showed up for a meeting about being on the school newspaper. Since then, we've been . . . how does Alison say it? Oh yeah, three peas in a pod. We even created a column that runs every month called "The Magnifying Glass," where we investigate and report news from our school and town. To be honest, the articles are usually pretty boring, but we never miss a deadline. Problem is, not missing deadlines isn't enough to get us editorial spots on the paper next year in eighth grade. Not when there are only three spots, and people like Trisha Harvey and Andrew Konsky want them, too. No, to get those spots we need to make a name for ourselves. We need to write an article everyone in the whole school reads and talks about for days. Maybe even weeks! And that's exactly what we're going to do. Tonight, in Bachelor's Grove, we'll find out if the Lady in White is real or not. "I'm more than ready. Just wish we could ride our bikes or take the bus or something. My parents don't really love me taking Ubers," I say. "We can't bike anywhere in this weather. And definitely not in the dark." Alison swipes across her phone screen a few times and sighs. "I don't think the city buses even go out there, do they?" "Doubt it. There's isn't much around there except the forest preserve. You sure the Uber will pick us up?" Jackson asks. "I think you're supposed to be eighteen, and not to sound like a jerk or anything, but Alison is the only one of us that even looks fifteen." "They aren't going to ask us for ID. But if they do, we'll find another way." I say this confidently even though I have no clue what our other way would be. There's zero chance we could convince Alison's older brother to drive us around, and Jackson's sister is the worst driver I've ever seen. We'd be safer riding unicycles to the cemetery than getting into a car with her. Excerpted from It's Watching by Lindsay Currie All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. 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