Excerpts Young Adult Read an Excerpt From I, in the Shadows by Tori Bovalino Maybe this is possession; maybe this is truly what it is to be haunted… By Tori Bovalino | Published on December 11, 2025 Comment 0 Share New Share Cyrano de Bergerac meets Beetlejuice meets Bottoms in this bewitching, passionate tale of the unlikely alliance between a ghost and the girl who moves into a haunted house. We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from I, in the Shadows, a young adult horror novel by Tori Bovalino, out from Page Street YA on January 13, 2026. There’s a ghost haunting Drew Tarpin’s new room. Liam Orville has been dead for ten months and has no idea how to move on. But the longer he stays, the more likely it is he’ll degrade into an energy consuming husk—which Drew is more concerned about than her grades or her inability to make meaningful connections with other students.Drew is everything Liam never was when he was alive, but they do share some common ground: Drew finds herself hopelessly attracted to—and completely tongue-tied around—Hannah Sullivan, who happens to be Liam’s former best friend.After a run-in with a ghost-eating monster leaves Drew and Liam desperate for answers, they strike up a deal: In return for Drew investigating why Liam is still around, he’ll help her talk to Hannah. But Liam’s time is running out, and if Drew doesn’t help him move on, he risks becoming a monster himself. “The exorcism didn’t work,” I say into the phone, held not-so-securely between my cheek and shoulder as I fumble with my key with one hand and try not to drop the stack of library books teetering in the other. The stack is a mix of things: books on ghosts and ESP, a Bible, a Quran, a Torah, and a beat-up library copy of The Grapes of Wrath. I’m covering my bases here. And to be clear: The Steinbeck is for English class, not exorcisms. I don’t think this is a problem I can solve with breast milk. Finding the house key is a problem, but it’s a problem of my own making. My key ring is cluttered with keys to our old house (which probably no longer work): one to my best friend Andie’s house (definitely works, but is approximately eighty miles away); my car key (works, accessible, rarely used); Dad’s office (works, stolen); and Bee’s bakery (works, also stolen). On the other end of the line, Reece snorts. “I told you it wouldn’t,” they say. I hear a rustle of pages—they’re probably studying. I’m probably interrupting. The last thing they probably want to talk about is ghosts. “You’re the one who told me to handle it myself,” I grumble. “Bro, have you ever seen me do an exorcism?” I drop my keys, groan, and kneel to retrieve them, tipping over the stack of books in the process. At this point, I think it’s brave of me that I don’t curl up on the front porch and give up. It’s one of those days. “Oh,” Reece says, ignorant to my suffering. “How was the Stats test?” “NOPE!” I gather up my books, my keys, and finally find the right one. The door creaks ominously as it opens, but that’s not much of an omen when I already know the place is haunted. And possibly cursed. The sound would tip off Bee and Dad that I’m home, but neither of them are here. If they were, I would not be talking about exorcisms so openly. I would also, unfortunately for all involved, be answering way more questions about the Stats test. “But the ghost,” I say, redirecting with all my might as I drop my backpack and leave the stack of books on the table in the hall. “Do you know of anything else that will help? That will work?” “Not an exorcism.” “Thanks. Genius advice.” Buy the Book I, in the Shadows Tori Bovalino Buy Book I, in the Shadows Tori Bovalino Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget Reece is quiet for a moment. Usually, they’re the one who… well, does anything about ghosts. We can both see them. We’ve both always been able to see them. But I prefer to ignore them, whereas Reece has always taken a more hands-on approach. Unfortunately, due to proximity, there’s no avoiding this particular ghost—and if he does degrade in the way ghosts do, it could lead to a dangerous situation for me if I leave him alone. It’s one of those moments where I feel Reece’s absence keenly. My sibling has a much stronger understanding of ghosts than I do, and also a much better moral code. Even after… well, my entire life, I’m not sure if I’ve mastered the compass points just yet. I hang my keys on the strip of hooks by the door and make my way to the kitchen, the wooden floorboards creaking with every step. The house itself is really not that old. Our last place was an early nineteenth-century farmhouse. This house is bright, airy, and open-concept downstairs with big rooms and good closets upstairs. It’s everything Bee and Dad always wanted.  We’ve only been here for about a month, so I’m in that weird phase in which everything about it is pseudo-familiar: the creaking of the floors in every room, worst on the stairs; the scratching of the trees against the windows at night; the far-off whistle of the trains as they pass through, headed for Ohio or across Pennsylvania. Oh, yeah. And the fucking ghost. He’s not here as I pull down a box of cereal, hop up on the counter, and eat it dry by the handful, as Reece still sighs and mutters on the line. The ghost tends to prefer my bedroom (it’s very inconvenient for both of us), which leads me to believe that it was once his bedroom. (You don’t have to tell me I’m a genius. When it comes to ghostbusting, I am a top student.) (I can’t say the same for real school.) But, back to the bedroom thing. To be clear, he’s not a creeper ghost, from what I can tell. He doesn’t watch me change, or leer, or do anything else that one would suspect of a semi-visible teenage boy now sharing a bedroom with a fully visible teenage girl. Who knows. Maybe he’s queer too. Maybe he likes running. Maybe he also is kind of bad at school. Maybe, if we were living in the same timeline, any of those things would be in the center of our little Venn diagram. Maybe, we would even be friends. Finally, Reece sighs. “I wouldn’t usually recommend this,” they say, their tone taking on a hint of the dubiousness, “but have you tried talking to him?” Now, it’s my turn to snort. Unfortunately, I do it around a mouthful of dry Cheerios, which leads to a lot of coughing and sputtering, which lessens the effect when I say, “Isn’t that breaking, like, Reece Tarpin’s Rule Number One of Ghost Management?” “Drew—” Reece starts. “Maybe Rule One is ‘do not bang a ghost,’” I speculate, this time with less choking on Cheerios. “Drew—” “Or ‘no kissing ghosts?’ But I’m pretty sure you broke that one with—” “ANDREA PENELOPE TARPIN,” Reece shouts. “DO YOU WANT MY HELP OR NOT?” I press my lips together. Stop swinging my feet. Set the cereal box down. “…Yes.” Reece sighs, and I can just imagine them pinching the bridge of their nose, eyes closed, trying to tamp down the frustration. I cause this expression a lot, so the image of it comes easily—along with that fierce ache of missing them. Reece is a freshman in college at Boston University, and they moved at the end of the summer, a couple of weeks before Dad and Bee and me relocated here. I’m still not used to the emptiness of my life without Reece’s constant presence—and Reece’s constant willingness to step in and take the lead on anything ghostly. But let’s get one thing straight: I am not asking for Reece’s help because I’m afraid of this ghost, okay? Fear has nothing to do with it. I just don’t like him, and I don’t want him in my room, and I am a growing girl, and I should be allowed my space and privacy. Plus, he’s very judgmental, which I can tell because he makes weird faces at me at night when I’m doing my ab routine. I find it very disruptive. And when Reece is in charge, they just… usually go away on their own. Or with gentle convincing from light rituals. They are not usually this persistent. Enter: Reece. “I’m video-calling you,” Reece says, resigned. “Switch over.” I pull the phone from my face and accept the video request. Reece’s face floats up, too close for a moment, their nose and septum piercing and top lip swimming on my screen before they back up. I scan over their freckles and shorn red hair—the shock of copper is the only thing we share between us that Dad does not also have—before focusing in on their brown eyes, still a bit tired. “Take me to the ghost.” “You won’t be able to—” “Just do it, mmkay? You’re the one who wanted my help.” I sigh, but I take Reece with me upstairs. I also nearly die on the way when I trip over my backpack, discarded on the first step, and I am annoyed to find that, for a brief moment, I understand why Dad is always getting on my case to hang it up or put it in my room. It’s the worst kind of self-betrayal to find that I agree with my parents’ nagging, even for a second. Reece doesn’t say anything until we’re in my room with the door shut behind us. Then, they shout, scaring me out of my skin: “HEY GHOSTIE. IT’S DREW’S BIG SIBLING. SQUARE UP.” “Reece,” I say, aghast. But something in it works. My eyes snap to a corner, where the bed is pushed against the wall: For the barest moment, the air shimmers, and then the boy appears. He’s sitting on the bed, back against the wall, one knee tented, arm thrown over it. He died wearing jeans and a short-sleeved top with three buttons at the throat, all open. He’s white, I think, with dark hair and brown eyes and a beaky nose keeping up his glasses. He looks a little nerdy but also kind of nice—not the sort of kid you’d think of dying at seventeen or eighteen or whatever age he was when he kicked it. He also looks mega bored. I would probably feel the same, if I were dead for an indeterminate amount of time and unable to communicate with the living. I turn the phone around. I’m not sure if Reece can see him over the video call, but it doesn’t much matter. Reece is good at playing things off, and they know the ghost is there. If I can see it, of course it’s there. The thing is, I did want to solve this on my own. All our lives, Reece has been the one who cared more about ghosts (see: when the going gets tough, I get avoiding) and knew how to deal with them. And when they lived with us, it was easy to let that be their thing, to let every little issue fall under Reece’s remit. But Reece is in Massachusetts, and I doubt they’ll be coming back—in the last few weeks, I’ve watched them talk about home less and less as they’ve made new friends and gotten used to Boston. I can’t even blame them. The world is a bit shit right now— I’m proud they’re finding what space they can, carving safety and protection into it. Either way, I thought that working through the ghost issue would make us closer. Bridge that gap that’s been building between us since Reece left. But they told me to figure it out, and I—well. I reached for the exorcism when I probably shouldn’t have. But in my defense, it’s actually very creepy to share space with a ghost. They don’t really knock when they want to come in— right now, the ghost and I can’t communicate at all, which means he spends his sentient hours staring at me from the corner like I kicked his puppy. Reece is good at making them go away, solving their problems and cutting their ties to the mortal world before sending them peacefully into the afterlife. Fixing the mess before wellmannered ghosts degrade into angry husks. I am patently not, and that’s what’s getting me into trouble. And yes, maybe I did go straight for an exorcism on purpose—because if I failed, I knew that Reece would have no choice but to help me. Selfish? Possibly. I just… I really miss them. This might be a shitty bonding experience, but it’s better than nothing. “Ready to do this, Dree?” Reece asks me. I press my lips together, glaring at the ghost so he doesn’t get any ideas. Reece is the only one who calls me Dree (and the only one who is allowed)—a shortening for Andrea, which annoys me. Everyone else calls me Drew, because my best friend, another Andrea, took Andie first. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I grumble. The ghost cocks an eyebrow. He doesn’t look pleased, either, but that might have something to do with the failed exorcism that happened last time I saw him. Yeah, I doubt he’s forgiven me for that yet. “Look,” I say, trying to soften my voice a bit. “I’m sorry about… the whole holy water thing. I am just trying to help you move on, okay?” He frowns, unconvinced. “Just do it,” Reece mutters on the line. I stick out a hand. If he comes forward, touches me, then I can bring him back into corporeality. Meld my spirit to his, even temporarily. And I’ll be able to hear him properly, to know what he wants. Reece is really good at it. They can listen to a ghost, figure out what they want, and get them moving on in record speed. It would never take my sibling three weeks to deal with a ghost. But I hate the squidginess of it, the vulnerability. Reece taught me how to do this when I was ten, and I’ve only done it a couple of times since then. When you open yourself to a ghost, you always take a bit of them, too—and I hate knowing those deaths, feeling the shattered fractals of their memories, and not being able to put them down. Not being able to forget them, when the ghosts do move on. Sure, they don’t become husks, the angry remnants of a soul left behind. But I keep the other half of memories no one else will ever share: the sweet bite of an apple in springtime eighty years ago, and the first kiss with someone’s wife, and the feeling of dirt in my hand as someone buried their mother, and the taste of blood in my mouth as someone wrecked a car. It’s all there, still mine, even though they were never really my memories to begin with. He regards the hand, then looks up at me. I know his name— when I moved in, small town that this is, everyone was stepping over themselves to tell me about the dead kid who lived here before—but I don’t want to think it now, when he could be in my brain soon. “It will help,” I say. “I’ll stop trying to get rid of you.” He tilts his head, a question there. He stopped trying to talk to me after the first week, when it was clear I couldn’t hear. That doesn’t mean I’ve stopped talking at him. Small things— announcing my presence when I come in, or reminding him that I can’t hear him, or apologizing for failing at exorcisms. “And if she can’t,” Reece says, “I might be able to.” He looks doubtful, but he shifts forward. Gets off the bed. He doesn’t need to walk, one foot in front of the other, but he does. He could just float, or appear wherever he needs to go, but I learned early on that he’s not very good at being a ghost. “I won’t hurt you,” I say. He rolls his eyes. Takes my hand. I take a deep breath, reaching for not just his hand, but the shadow of his soul still here on this mortal plane. It’s like surfacing from underwater, bringing him back into being. Like tasting every second of his seventeen years, two months, twenty-two days, eight hours, seventeen minutes, and eight seconds on my tongue, all those vague reminders of who he is hitting all at once—and I can’t hold back his name anymore. “You can’t hurt me,” the ghost of Liam Orville says. “I’m already dead.” Excerpted from I, in the Shadows, copyright © 2025 by Tori Bovalino. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>I, in the Shadows</i> by Tori Bovalino appeared first on Reactor.