A dark and twisted story about a sleepy town with a dark secret--and the three kids brave enough to uncover it. Perfect for fans of Stranger Things . Every thirteen years in the town of Eden Eld, three thirteen-year-olds disappear. Eleanor has just moved to the quiet, prosperous Eden Eld. When she awakes to discover an ancient grandfather clock that she's never seen before outside her new room, she's sure her eyes must be playing tricks on her. But then she spots a large bird, staring at her as she boards the school bus. And a black dog with glowing red eyes follows her around town. All she wants is to be normal, and these are far from normal. And worse--no one else can see them. Except for her new friends, Pip and Otto, who teach her a thing or two about surviving in Eden Eld. First: Don't let the "wrong things" know you can see them. Second: Don't speak of the wrong things to anyone else. The only other clue they have about these supernatural disturbances is a book of fairytales unlike any they've read before. It tells tales of the mysterious Mr. January, who struck a cursed deal with the town's founders. Every thirteenth Halloween, he will take three of their children, who are never heard from again. It's up to our trio to break the curse--because Eden Eld's thirteen years are up. And Eleanor, Pip, and Otto are marked as his next sacrifice. Raves for Thirteens : “Readers beware! This book is a trap: once you start reading,you will not be able to stop. Thirteens is a deliciously creepystay-up-all-night adventure that will shiver throughyou like a cold October wind. I loved every page!”— Jonathan Auxier , New York Times bestselling author of The Night Gardener and Sweep “Creepy, mysterious, and a whole lot of fun. Thirteens kept me up well past my bedtime. I can’t wait to see what happens next!”— Cassie Beasley , New York Times bestselling author of Circus Mirandus “A sensational, spooky tale. Thirteens has all the creepyelements that I adore: a town with a wicked history,lovable characters, great writing, plenty of scares, and mystery layered upon mystery. Sign me up for the next book!”— J. A. White , author of Nightbooks "'Wrong' in the right kind of way."— Kirkus Reviews "Eerie, atmospheric...will keep readers up at night."— Publishers Weekly " Marshall stokes the eerie vibes of her fantasy-imbued mystery right off the bat."— Booklist "An enthralling mystery."— School Library Journal Kate Alice Marshall started writing before she could hold a pen properly, and never stopped. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with a chaotic menagerie of pets and family members, and ventures out in the summer to kayak and camp along Puget Sound. She is the author of the YA novels I Am Still Alive , Rules for Vanishing , and Our Last Echoes . Thirteens was her middle grade debut, followed by its sequel, Brackenbeast . Visit her online at katemarshallbooks.com and follow her on Twitter @kmarshallarts. One Eleanor stared at the grandfather clock in the third-floor hall. It stood eight feet tall, made of dark oak. A bone-white pendulum hung within the case, carved like cords woven together in a loose diamond. It reminded her of the end of a key, but maybe that was only because of the keys that were painted on the wood around the clock face: thirteen identical keys in gold. The last key was almost entirely rubbed away. The clock must be very old. It felt like it had tracked the passing of years and years. But she was not staring at the clock because it was tall, or impressive, or old. She was staring at for three reasons. The first was that the clock hadn’t been there when she went to sleep last night. Eleanor was sure of it. It stood opposite her door, and she felt certain she would have noticed an eight-foot-tall clock outside her bedroom or heard someone moving it into place. The second was that those thirteen keys, gleaming against the dark wood, were the precise shape of the birthmark on her wrist. The third was that the hands of the clock were running backward. It’s just a clock, she told herself. Nothing sinister. Maybe it had belonged to her grandparents, and Aunt Jenny had inherited it along with this house and the old car in the back shed that didn’t run and the rambling, neglected orchard that spilled out behind the house like a half-grown forest. Except that it hadn’t been here last night. And that wouldn’t explain the keys. Or why the hands were moving backward—the second hand gliding from twelve to eleven to ten, all the way around to one; the minute hand clicking back every sixty seconds as the pendulum went left to right to left to right. The clock chimed. The liquid, bottomless sound filled the hall, bouncing off the walls with their faded green wallpaper, spilling down toward the spiral staircase. Eleanor counted the chimes. Seven. Her phone agreed with the chimes—seven o’clock—but the contrary hands of the clock pointed instead to five and twelve. Seven h