Page 3 of The Executioners Three

Creak, creak, the bell agreed, since it had no clapper—meaning when a wind tumbled through the cupola or Freddie wrapped lights around it, the poor thing could only give a sad squeal upon its hinge.

Still, that didn’t mean it couldn’t be the bell she’d heard last night… And there was only one way to find out. Freddie grabbed the bell now and shook it.

Creak, creak, creak, it said in reply.

She gave it one more heave, just to be sure…

Creak, creak, creak.

Yep, okay. Freddie could now say with absolute certainty that this was not the bell she’d heard, and if this thing had ever tolled with any dignity, those days were long past.

Which was fine. It didn’t need to ring. It was just a replica of the bronze bell over at the Allard Fortin mausoleum anyway.

Although, to be honest, the replica was looking pretty rough this year—like maybe the guy Mom had hired to make it hadn’t done a very good job.

Once she’d covered the bell in lights like a sad Christmas tree, Freddie scuttled down.

She was absolutely freezing now, and truly mourning the loss of her scarf.

“I’ll take Lance, please.” She thrust her hand at Divya.

Who scowled. Then also obeyed and withdrew the sacred keychain from her pocket. A heartbeat later, the face of Lance Bass gleamed up at Freddie.

And Freddie sighed a melty sigh as she accepted Lance’s flawless face. He fit so perfectly in her palm, a tiny slice of boy band magic. Whenever Divya (or Freddie) had it with her, good things happened. Magical things, like finding fifty-dollar bills in the road or repeated Good Hair Days.

Freddie blew Lance a kiss, then slipped him into her puffer vest. “Alright,” she declared, chin rising in triumph, “follow me, Madame Srivastava. I shall lead you to the archives!”

She marched them out of the schoolhouse. If she twisted slightly, she could see Le Moulin à Eau (the water mill) through a copse of coppery maples. Currently, no paddles spun.

South of that was Le Forgeron (the blacksmith), which technically had a working forge…

but also technically lacked a working blacksmith to use it.

It had been modeled on a smithy that had been in the original City-on-the-Berme in the 1600s—and it was thanks to the blacksmith at the time keeping meticulous journals that Mom had been able to make the replica bell that now lived in the schoolhouse without its clapper.

It was toward this storied blacksmith’s hut that Freddie and Divya now aimed. They reached the stream that fed its forge, glittering, burbly, and dark with cold. The sign in front that read Le Forgeron had a fresh streak of bird poop on it. So now it just read Le Forger (splat) .

Freddie scowled at the poop. She should probably clean it before the fête.

She and Divya were just rounding the building so they could embark into the woods when footsteps stomped out. A figure barreled into view. “Hey,” he said.

And Freddie’s heart lurched into her throat. Luis Mendez, star athlete and fellow senior at Berm High, had just spoken to her. Even more bizarre, he wasn’t done speaking and he was smiling. “Gellar,” he panted. “Nice to see you.”

Then he was past Freddie in a gust of sweaty air.

“Um…” Divya wiggled a pinkie in her ear. “Did Luis Mendez just say your name?”

“I think so.” Freddie was as fully stunned as Divya. Every day, the Berm High cross-country team ran the park’s paths. Sometimes they nodded her way, but 99.9999 percent of the time, they ignored her existence.

“Gellar!” cried a new voice. Then another and another, and suddenly an entire swarm (or was it a nest ?) of boys was charging past. Zach Gilroy and Darius Baker even slung out their hands for high fives.

Freddie complied, although she wasn’t entirely sure how. Her brain had basically disconnected from her body, and she could feel her jaw dangling low. In seconds, the entirety of the boys’ team had jogged past. Which meant that any second now, the girls would—

“Freddie!” shrieked Carly Zhang as she bounded by. “Nice job!”

“Nice job on what?” Freddie tried to ask, but Carly was already gone, and now cheers were rising up as a second stampede of bodies rushed closer.

“We have officially entered The X-Files, ” Divya said as feet and ponytails thundered past, and Freddie could only nod in agreement. Even the blacksmith’s hut seemed faintly astonished, its wooden exterior creaking on the wind.

Then, as fast as the Berm High cross-country teams had appeared, they vanished again.

Which wasn’t terribly surprising, given there were only seventeen runners across both teams. Last, because he was always last (except in the jack-o’-lantern contest of ’95), came poor Todd Raskin, ever determined to dominate his asthma through sheer perserverance.

“Do you need your inhaler?” Freddie asked as he heaved past.

“Nah,” he wheezed. “Thanks, Gellar. And good job!”

“I think,” Divya said, slipping her arm back through Freddie’s as they watched Todd tromp away, “that you’re popular now, Freddie. This is… well, monumental, certainly.”

“Or just weird.” Despite Freddie’s greatest belief in her own fortitude, her knees were quaking inside her jeans. “Why would everyone like me all of a sudden? I don’t think Carly has talked to me since seventh grade.”

“Erm.” Divya’s face scrunched into something almost pained. “I think this means they all know you got the Fortin kids arrested. Which means…” She paused to bite her lip. “Well, the Fortin Prep kids probably know too. After all, Fred, it’s a small town.”

Freddie sighed. “And people talk.”

Leaves rattled beneath Freddie’s boots as she trekked down one of the many sloping hills in the park that spread beyond the Village. Beneath the leaf litter, mud squicked, and every few steps, water had the audacity to splatter. Good thing Freddie always wore her duck boots in the fall.

Divya was not as well prepared. “Are you sure this path is a shortcut?” she asked, ten paces behind Freddie and lagging farther each second.

Her feet, clad only in formerly-beige-but-now-mucky-brown Birkenstock clogs, were not faring well—and Divya had made sure to point this out almost every step of the way.

“Of course it’s a shortcut.” Freddie laughed as if to say Divya was ridiculous for suspecting otherwise. She did not mention that this path was really just an ephemeral stream that tended to fill with mosquitos in the summer.

“We’ve been out here five minutes—”

“Oh my god, five minutes .” Freddie made a Home Alone face. “Div, you’re the toughest gal I know. You can handle this trek—I promise. And if your shoes get too muddy, I’ll carry you.”

“Oh yeah?” Divya snorted a laugh. Her face was now as rosy as the cross-country team’s. “You mean like that time you carried me to my room after I twisted my ankle? I remember how that ended.”

Freddie flipped her hair. “I meant to fall down the stairs, Divya. It’s called comedy .”

“And this place is called horror .” Divya shivered. “I mean, we could die out here and no one would know! I don’t have cell service, which is always how slasher movies start—”

She broke off as wind burst through the trees. It carried leaves and dust. Freddie’s hair sprayed into her face.

Then the wind settled. One breath, two, before a loud creaking split the trees.

It was like groaning wood, but subtler. Higher pitched.

And cold trickled down Freddie’s neck. She gulped. “Did you hear that, Div?”

“The wind?” Divya shivered. “How could I miss it? I should’ve worn my winter coat.”

“That’s not it.” Freddie turned toward the sound. It had come from farther down the hill.

The creak repeated, shuddering deep into her ear. She knew that sound, and yet she couldn’t pinpoint how.

Divya scampered in close, worry pinching her forehead. “What do you hear, Fred?”

“Something isn’t right.” As soon as Freddie said that, she knew it was true. Deeply, terrifyingly true.

Divya tensed beside her. “Is it your gut?” Like everyone else, she knew that Freddie’s gut was foolproof. Freddie had sensed three tornadoes and a kitchen fire before they’d happened. Plus, she’d known Divya’s cat was dying before anyone else had even sensed Rasputin was acting sluggish.

She threw a hard look at Divya. Her best friend’s flush was gone; her lips were pale. “Div,” she said softly, “I think you should go back to the Village, okay? And call the sheriff. She needs to be here.”

Somehow, Divya’s face went even whiter. “What about you?”

“I’ve got experience with this kind of stuff.”

“What kind of stuff? Creepy forests? I’m pretty sure a few weeks riding last summer with Sheriff Bowman does not mean you can waltz through here looking for trouble.”

Freddie wasn’t just waltzing. She’d done two summer internships with her hero, Sheriff Rita Bowman, and even though they’d never encountered anything truly horrific, she had learned what to do at a crime scene. “Please, Div. Just go.”

“Absolutely not.” Divya took Freddie’s hand in hers.

And Freddie swallowed. She did feel safer having Divya there, and she supposed every sheriff needed a deputy. “Come on, then.”

They resumed their march, hands held and eyes watering against the wind. The trees blurred. Freddie’s boots kicked up mud and decomposing leaves. She barely noticed. The creaking sound was getting louder. It grated against her skin.

Then the forest opened up, and the girls skittered to a stop.

Freddie released Divya’s hand. She knew what the sound was now: the groaning of a rope. The gritting of fibers against each other as if a body was being towed downward and swung on the wind.

She spun and spun, but there was nothing there. Nothing but raging wind and spraying leaves—

A crow cawed. High and just beyond the clearing.

Freddie’s gaze lurched up, to a sycamore. To a branch so high, no human could have possibly reached it.

Yet someone had.

“Divya.” Freddie clutched her stomach. “Cover your eyes. We’re leaving.”