**A thoughtful and gripping exposé of the troubled teen industry, this supernatural thriller explores how a haunted past collides with a traumatized presentto reveal truths that were meant to stay hidden.

<Welcome to The Farm.<**

Hazel Perez thinks her school project on the abandoned Oakwell Farms School for Girls&mdash;the Farm, as it&rsquo;s known to locals&mdash;will be just another assignment. But after a late-night research trip ends with her falling unconscious, she awakens with a desire for revenge that isn&rsquo;t her own.

Desperate to free herself from these sudden violent urges&mdash;and the haunting visions of an unknown girl she sees in the mirror&mdash;Hazel decides to investigate.

As she delves deeper into Oakwell Farms&rsquo; past, Hazel discovers theharrowing experiences of the girls who were once forced to live under thewatch of sinister men and encounters the spirits who still linger there. With the help of some unlikely allies, Hazel must navigate a treacherous path of corruption, history, and the supernatural to bring peace to the restless spirits and learn the truth about her family&rsquo;s involvement.

Autorentext
Diana Rodriguez Wallach is a lover of ghosts, historical murders, and all things spooky. She is also the author of eight YA novels, including her YA horror novels Small Town Monsters and Hatchet Girls. She currently lives in the Philadelphia area with her husband and two children.

Klappentext

**A thoughtful and gripping exposé of the troubled teen industry, this supernatural thriller explores how a haunted past collides with a traumatized presentto reveal truths that were meant to stay hidden.

Welcome to The Farm.**

Hazel Perez thinks her school project on the abandoned Oakwell Farms School for Girls—the Farm, as it’s known to locals—will be just another assignment. But after a late-night research trip ends with her falling unconscious, she awakens with a desire for revenge that isn’t her own.

Desperate to free herself from these sudden violent urges—and the haunting visions of an unknown girl she sees in the mirror—Hazel decides to investigate.

As she delves deeper into Oakwell Farms’ past, Hazel discovers theharrowing experiences of the girls who were once forced to live under thewatch of sinister men and encounters the spirits who still linger there. With the help of some unlikely allies, Hazel must navigate a treacherous path of corruption, history, and the supernatural to bring peace to the restless spirits and learn the truth about her family’s involvement.

Leseprobe
Chapter One

Hazel

The first time I communed with the dead—­at least officially, if you don’t count my dreams—­resulted from a project assigned in US History.

Our teacher bellowed the dreaded words, “All right, class, partner up! No more than four in a group!”

No eyes turned my way.

It wasn’t that I was disliked by my classmates. To the best of my knowledge, no one hated me. But no one thought about me either. I was the girl you sat next to in science, the one who always lent you a pencil. Kids knew my name, Hazel Perez, but that was because there weren’t many Latinos in our school district. There was this one girl, a volleyball player, Marissa ­Rodriguez. She was in tenth grade, and I was in eleventh. People sometimes called me by her name. We looked nothing alike.

My gaze skirted around a room that was modern and sunlit. Our high school had been recently rebuilt, so most classrooms featured high-­top tables with scarlet metal stools like art rooms, even in history or calculus. My tablemates, three guys on the Ridgefield High lacrosse team, automatically excluded me from their group, which was fine. So I tried to make eye contact with Evelyn Kaplow and Mary Beth Long, but they were so tightly huddled together that their matching best friend charms practically clanked. Quinlynn Dubicki, who I sometimes spoke to in chorus, was already in a foursome. And Landon Berk managed to squeak in with the band kids.

Clusters formed around me, and my stomach dropped someplace dark and cold, the deep pit known by every kid picked last on the playground. Loneliness welled in my throat. Popularity was never something I aspired to—­I just wanted to be someone’s first choice, the friend you’d call when you were really excited. I’d had that once, but for years now, I’d been a walking ghost in this building. My cheeks grew slick with sweat, sliding my clear plastic glasses down my freckled nose. My auburn hair hid my eyes, and I punched my Breathe app. A turquoise flower vibrated on my wrist. It swelled and retreated with my inhales and exhales. A conversation formed in my mind, preparing a response to Ms. Kravitz’s inevitable question: “Oh, we were supposed to partner? I didn’t realize. That’s okay. I can do the project by myself.”

And I could.

Each group needed to research a local landmark and put ­together a trifold poster board with photos and historical facts. Then we had to write a ten-­page research paper, with firsthand interviews from community members familiar with our chosen site. It all ended with an oral presentation. Even if I found partners, I’d end up doing all the work myself anyway. So why not claim all the credit?

Being alone wasn’t scary; it was just empty.

“Becca, what are you wearing?” Ms. Kravitz’s voice cut through the din of chitchat. “Do we really have to do this every day?”

Eyes shot toward Becca Mercer, her wavy blond hair cascading over her shoulders as she tugged at the hemline of her cobalt-­blue tank top. It was cropped enough to show a strip of pale skin above her baggy sweatpants. “Yeah, we do, ’cause it’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t make the rules.” Our teacher gave a look that conveyed an eye roll without actually giving one.

“No, but you enforce them. Look at Jack! He’s wearing a basket­ball jersey.” Becca pointed a bubble-­gum-­pink nail.

Jack Gibson was, in fact, wearing a sleeveless blue Sixers ­jersey with MAXEY emblazoned on the back.

“That’s not the same, and you know it. Just put on a sweatshirt.”

“Yeah, put your cleavage away, Becca!” Jack laughed, high-­fiving James Erieg.

Ms. Kravitz said nothing. She was a middle-­aged woman willingly upholding a dress-­code policy that supposedly prevented “distractions.” Because of course boys couldn’t be expected to concentrate if girls’ bare arms were flailing about.

“It’s not fair,” I grumbled, flipping my notebook page a little too loud.

Eyes shifted my way.

“Did you say something?” Ms. Kravitz sounded surprised.

There were plenty of students who talked back to their teachers, dropping sardonic remarks and well-­timed quips. I was not one of them. Reaching a rank of fifth in a class of more than four hundred required a lot of obedience—­the kind that left me in charge when a teacher stepped out of the classroom.

I cleared my throat. “Rules should be enforced equally, not based on gender.” My voice was small, but everyone heard. Their heads pivoted back to Ms. Kravitz, awaiting her response. All except for a single set of eyes that continued to drill into my skull.

Without even looking, I knew it was her, just like I knew her laugh, the real one when she snorted, not the fake one she tittered at school. Becca Mercer and I went back to the days of seesaws and family BBQs.

*Hazel, sweetie, something’s happened . .…