Page 1 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

One

The morning of my grandfather’s funeral, I open the last email he sent me, the one that’s been sitting in my inbox for six weeks. Sitting there unread, and even now, I don’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt about that.

I pop it open, read and—

Fuck.

The text is innocuous enough.

Dear Samantha,

I think you need to see this.

Douglas Payne (your grandfather)

Who the hell signs an email to their twenty-six-year-old granddaughter that way?

The same guy who insisted on calling me Samantha when from birth I was Sam, named after a character in a book my mother loved.

As for the “your grandfather” part, that was just him being passive-aggressive, because he’s a jerk.

Was a jerk.

Damn it.

I sit up in bed and roll my shoulders, as if I can slough off the prickle of guilt.

“Douglas Payne (your grandfather)” never deserved my guilt.

Never deserved my respect. Never even deserved my love.

He’d wanted the respect, and he’d sure as hell wanted the guilt, but the love was immaterial.

He did not give it, and he did not expect to receive it.

As for the respect, he forfeited that when he cut my mother off without a cent after my father’s death.

My father’s suicide, which is how Dad chose to deal with the fact that I’d caught him burying Austin Vandergriff.

I instinctively stanch the surge of rage. Then I pause, letting it wash away the irritating wisps of that misplaced guilt.

I cross my legs and pat the bed for my cat, Lucille. Then I remember Lucille is gone, put down last week because I couldn’t afford to treat her cancer. Grief washes over me, only to lift guilt back to the surface. The guilt of grieving over a cat but not my grandfather.

Well, one had been there for me, and one had not.

I wipe away tears and go to delete the email, only to remember why I’d cursed. Not because of the message, but because of the podcast link below.

My finger hovers over that link. Hey, maybe it’ll be so bad that I’ll have an excuse to skip the funeral.

I can’t do that. I’m going for my aunt. I owe Gail that and more. So much more.

I click the link, and as soon as I see the episode title, I exhale in a long hiss.

Paynes Hollow: The Bermuda Triangle of Upstate New York?

“The Bermuda Triangle isn’t a thing,” I mutter. “It had a normal amount of accidents for a high-traffic zone.”

I know that’s not the point, but I still seethe. At least the title tells me this will be nonsense. Thankfully, there’s a transcript, so I don’t need to listen to the episode.

Paynes Hollow is swathed in shadow when I visit.

Massive maples and oaks cast the world into shade and shadow, the only sound the distant roar of Lake Ontario.

It’s an empty place, desolate and overgrown, the wind howling through the trees, wisps of fog settling over the land.

The kind of place where you feel as if you’ve stepped back in time, and the Headless Horseman will ride out at any moment.

I snort. “Wrong part of the state, dumbass.”

“Sleepy Hollow” was set in Tarrytown, just north of Yonkers, over a hundred miles from Paynes Hollow. While my grandfather did claim that Washington Irving wrote his story after a visit to Paynes Hollow, that was just more of his bullshit.

Also, it’d be weird to have the wind howling while it’s foggy, and the idea that Paynes Hollow is a desolate wasteland is ridiculous. I remember forests and beaches and a picture-perfect summer getaway spot, bustling with visitors.

I keep reading.

It’s not the Headless Horseman that resides in Paynes Hollow, though. It’s the Grim Reaper himself, riding across the land and slicing down the unwary. Yet the dead here don’t fall to the ground. They disappear.

For two hundred years, people have vanished around Paynes Hollow. Hikers. Boaters. Campers. Even local residents. Gone without a trace.

Until Harris Payne murdered a thirteen-year-old boy and was caught red-handed—literally—by his own daughter.

That’s how the story goes.

But is it the truth?

I don’t doubt young Samantha Payne saw something that day, but I believe, in that shadowy place, where nothing is what it seems, what she really witnessed wasn’t her father, but the Grim Reaper of Paynes Hollow.

My shaking finger jabs the X to close the tab and keeps jabbing long after it’s gone.

I know what I saw. I wish to God I could say otherwise, but I can’t.

I take a deep breath. This is why my grandfather exiled Mom and me from his life. Because he believed there was another explanation. Our father wasn’t the monster. We were, for thinking Dad could do that.

The last time I saw my grandfather, I’d been sixteen. He’d invited me to visit, and Mom wanted to seize the olive branch. I’d endured a week of my grandfather trying to convince me that I was wrong about Dad, until I broke down, shouting at him, my voice raw.

“Do you think I want to believe he did that? Do you think I wouldn’t give everything to be wrong? I loved my father. I adored my father. If I had any chance of getting him back—even just getting back the good memories—don’t you think I’d jump on it?”

I sit on the bed, fists clenched. When my phone buzzes, I almost pitch it aside, as if it’s my grandfather reaching out from the beyond. Then I see the text.

Gail: Pick you up in an hour? Grab a fortifying breakfast before the service?

The thought of breakfast sets my stomach roiling.

Gail: And by “fortifying” I mean so leisurely that, whoops, looks like we’ll barely make it to the service on time

I have to smile at that.

Sam: Sounds good. See you in an hour.

Gail zips into the funeral-home lot and snags the last spot reserved for family. We jump out, and we’re moving fast when a couple catches up. They look familiar, but I can’t place them in any context related to my grandfather.

The man is in his fifties, rawboned and angular with silvering blond hair and a tanned face. He reminds me of a cowboy, and that nudges a memory, as if I’ve thought it before.

His wife is about the same age, with close-cropped curls, smooth dark skin, and wide-set brown eyes that radiate kindness.

I’ve thought that before, too.

“You probably don’t remember us,” the woman says, extending a hand and a tentative smile. “Liz Smits. This is my husband, Craig.”

“Oh!” I shake her hand. “Mrs. Smits. Sheriff Smits. From Paynes Hollow. Of course.”

“I was hoping to see your mother again,” Mrs. Smits says. “It’s been far too long.”

“Uh, yes. She … isn’t well.” I swallow. “Dementia. She’s in a home.”

She blinks. “Already? I know she has early-onset dementia but.…”

An awkward silence, broken as a young woman hurries up, her heels clicking. “Found it.” She passes the older woman a pack of tissues. Then she looks at me. “Sam?”

When I hesitate, she thrusts out her hand. “Josie Smits. I was that tagalong brat always following you and the other summer kids.”

“Josie. Right. Of course.”

I do remember Josie, not as a brat but as an adorable little girl who’d done her damnedest to keep up with the big kids. It just takes a moment to reconcile that little girl with the woman in front of me, tall and willowy, light brown skin, her short hair styled in a gorgeous twist-out.

I quickly introduce Gail, who shakes hands and murmurs, “We really do need to get inside, Sam.”

“Right. Yes. We’re already running late.”

“Then let’s move,” Josie says, and we head inside together.

The service lasts forever. Or that’s how it seems when I spend the whole time trying to keep a straight face as person after person says what a wonderful man my grandfather had been.

I’d wondered whether my father’s existence would be glossed over.

But Dad is there, especially in stories, where he comes to life as I remember him, and that’s when I do cry.

Do I notice people glancing my way, leaning in and whispering? Of course I do, because while my grandfather liked to forget what Dad did, no one else has. I will forever be Samantha Payne, the girl who caught her dad burying his victim.

Tragic figure worthy of pity?

Or a monster with savage blood running through her veins?

One can be both.

The service finally ends, and then it’s on to the cemetery for the burial. Gail manages to commandeer a separate town car, avoiding her brother and his family. At the graveside, we stand apart, and I retreat into my cocoon, where no one can see me, no one can judge me.

Sweat trickles down my face in the humid August sun. After the burial, my cousin, Caleb, plants himself in my escape route. His parents—Uncle Mark and Aunt Ellen—stand behind him.

I glance over my shoulder, but other mourners are talking to Gail, and she doesn’t notice the ambush.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” Caleb says. “You smelled money and swooped in.”

“No, I came to say goodbye,” I say evenly.

Caleb snorts. “You hated him. You blamed him for what your dad did, and you took it out on an old man who loved you, in spite of everything.”

In spite of the fact you were responsible for what happened. That’s what he means.

Dad’s the one who killed Austin, but I’m responsible for Dad’s death because I “tattled” to my mother, who was equally responsible because she took me straight to the police. To Sheriff Smits.

What’s that old saying?

A wife and daughter will help you move, but a proper wife and daughter will help you move a body.

“I’m sorry you think that,” I say, as placidly as I can, and I take my petty pleasure in seeing Caleb’s eyes burn with frustrated rage. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“You have a reading of the will to get to?” he sneers.

I look him in the eyes. “No, I have a mother to visit.”

“What? You’re not coming to the reading?”

I arch a brow. “You just accused me of being here for the money, and now you’re offended that I’m not staying for the will?”

Caleb seems almost apoplectic now, his pasty face dangerously red. “You selfish little bitch.”

“Caleb!” Aunt Ellen says, but her eyes gleam, secretly pleased.

“Wait a second,” I say. “So if I skip the reading, that makes me selfish?”

“Gail,” Uncle Mark says as my aunt hurries over. “We discussed this. You promised she’d be there.”

I slowly turn to Gail as Aunt Ellen says, “She needs to be there, Gail. The will can’t be read otherwise.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” I mutter the words under my breath, but Aunt Ellen still gasps, as if I shouted it at a funeral.

“I’m sorry,” Gail whispers to me. “I was going to tell you.” Then to the others, “I believe people want to express their condolences, and having us standing here whisper-hissing at each other does not look good.”

I clamp my mouth shut, and after a moment, the others back up and let us through.

Congrats, Gramps. You win. Again.

What a surprise.