Page 14 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

Eleven

After my shooting lesson, we reach my favorite part of the plan: the bonfire.

I’d made an easy dinner—mac and cheese with sausages—and gathered kindling while it cooked.

Gail had picked up a load of firewood. The kids apparently really are children, who weren’t home, but their mom said she’d tell them we’d like to buy in bulk.

That means I don’t really need the hatchet I brought from the shed earlier, but I use it anyway, splitting some logs and chopping up kindling before the brief lesson.

Now we have a full-on bonfire going, which is a little warm for the weather, but we’re enjoying it from a distance.

I’m popping s’mores like I didn’t just eat dinner a couple of hours ago.

I’m also on my second canned cocktail. Yep, this is how I handle stress—sugar and booze.

We’ve been out there for an hour before I realize Gail’s beer is nonalcoholic.

“Whoa,” I say, lifting the can. “Did you grab this by mistake?”

“No.”

My brows shoot up. She’s silent long enough that my heart races.

“Gail? Is everything okay?”

“I booked the appointment this morning,” she blurts.

My heart thuds so hard I struggle to breathe. “You’re sick?”

“What?” She peers at me through the dancing shadows. “Sorry! That came out wrong. I booked the IVF appointment.”

“What? Oh my God. Really?” I vault out of my chair and hug her so fast she startles with a laugh.

I hug her again fiercely before I return to my chair. “So you’re finally moving forward.”

“I am. Even after I found out about the money, I kept shifting the goalposts. Wait until I know whether it’s anything serious with Carlos.

Wait until I know how much the treatment would cost. Then wait for the actual money to come in.

Yesterday, I realized I don’t want to wait.

Carlos is out of the picture and the money is coming, and it’s enough.

If I wait, I’ll just keep raising more obstacles when the truth is…

” She looks at me, her eyes glistening. “The truth is that I’m just scared.

I want a baby so much, and I’m afraid the IVF won’t work.

Afraid I’m doing the wrong thing for a child, raising one alone. ”

“But you aren’t alone. You have a niece, who will be the best nanny and big cousin ever.”

She reaches out and when I extend my hand, she squeezes it. “I know that, Sam, but I also don’t want to give you one more responsibility. One more reason to not go to med school. One more reason to stay in Syracuse.”

I meet her gaze. “I am not going anywhere for the next couple of years. That gets you through the pregnancy and babyhood. Then, yes, I might go off to school, but I’ll come back, and by then, it’d be because I want to, not because you need help.”

“I want you to have your own life, Sam. The way it should be at your age. Out dating. Out with friends. Not working eighty-hour weeks and still barely scraping by.”

“By the end of the summer, that will be in the past.”

When she nods, I eye her. “That wasn’t another thing you were waiting for, was it? To be sure I’d get the money and wouldn’t need any of your inheritance?”

“No, no, of course not.”

She’s lying. I can see that. But I only wag my finger. “Good. And if you were, then I hope making that appointment means you realized I can do this. I can and will stay here until I earn this place.”

She reaches to squeeze my hand again. “I know.”

I’m adjusting in my lawn chair when something catches my eye. “Did you see that?”

“See what?”

I rise, squinting at the dark lake. “A light. On the water.”

“That’d be Canada.”

“Ha ha.” Yes, Canada is across the lake, but across from us is cottage country, like here, and it’s nearly fifty miles away. We aren’t seeing lights from that.

I rise and start toward the beach.

“Sam?”

“I saw lights out there last night, and I could swear I just saw another one.” I continue walking, crossing the hundred feet toward shore. “There! Did you see that?”

Gail rises from her chair. “A light, you said?”

“Right.”

“Like a boat?”

I slow as I near the water. I can call this a beach, but it’s hardly the kind of sandy shore where you pop up an umbrella. It’s rough, sand interspersed with driftwood and grasses.

I stand on the edge and peer out. The lake is empty.

While the occasional vessel goes by, we’re too far from a marina to see many pleasure boaters.

Fishing boats are farther out, and not out at all by this hour.

Lake Ontario is calm, water gently lapping at the shore, and I see nothing except ink-black water.

“I saw two lights under it,” I say. Then I peer up at the sky. “Could it be stars reflecting down? Bright ones?”

“Maybe?” Gail moves along the shore, craning to see what I do.

“I don’t see them now.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “Pretty view, though, isn’t it? We should get out for a swim tomorrow.” I glance over at her. “Hey, the canoe is still in the shed.”

Her gaze drops to my ankle.

“Right,” I say. “I can’t leave the property.”

“We’d be fine if we stuck to the shore. And just went to the end of the property.”

I shake my head. “I’m not taking the chance that they can say the property ends at the shoreline.”

“Maybe a quick swim? The monitor is waterproof.”

I don’t answer. I’m trying very hard to see the bright side of my “house arrest.” It’s summer, and I’m at the lake. But part of being at the lake is swimming and boating and going into town for ice cream.

I shake it off. I’m being immature, pouting because I can’t do the things I did as a child. There is plenty I can do, along with work I need to do. If I can pull this off—which I will—I can go to the damn Caribbean this winter if I want. Enjoy the beaches there.

I’m turning away when something rises from the water’s surface. Seeing it out of the corner of my eye, I spin, and it disappears.

“Did you see that?” I say.

“The lights?”

“No, something popped up.” I point. “You can still see the rings where it went down.”

“Oooh.” Gail cranes to look where I’m pointing. “Otter? We used to get them all the time when I was a kid.”

“I don’t think so.” I mentally replay what I saw. It had looked like a head. “It was bigger. Maybe twice the size.”

“Huh. The back of a fish? Breaching and diving back under?”

“Maybe.”

I walk closer. Water laps at my bare feet. I’m wearing shorts, and I start to wade out, but Gail grabs my arm.

“No swimming at night,” she says.

I roll my eyes. “I’m wading.”

“Still off-limits. You know the rules. The undertows here can be wicked.”

I look over at her. “Have you ever felt one?”

“No, which is why I’m still alive to talk about it.”

Her tone is light, and I suppress the urge to argue. Why ruin our good evening fighting over something I don’t even really want to do? It’s just …

I look out to where I saw something pop up.

Don’t go in the water after dark. It isn’t safe. Undertows.

People often talk about undertows in the Great Lakes, and they are a thing—rip currents that can pull you off your feet. But if I fell where I am, with the water barely over my ankles, I’m hardly going to get dragged out into the lake. Yet we grew up hearing that.

Don’t go in the water after dark. Yes, that includes wading. No, it doesn’t matter if you’re only up to your ankles. Just don’t do it.

I stare out at the lake.

“Fire’s dying down,” Gail says. “It should be small enough to pull our chairs closer.”

After one last look, I take the hint and follow her back to the bonfire.

That night, I toss and turn, haunted by memory and nightmare. Again I wake imagining I heard hoofbeats, and again, once I’m up, everything is silent. I curse under my breath and toss a few more times before rising, putting on my glasses, and heading into the living room.

We’ve left the windows open. It was too hot and stuffy with them shut, though Gail made me promise to keep my bedroom one closed. At least in here I can breathe, and I move to the window and inhale the night air, thankfully free from the stink of rotting rabbit.

The lake is dark. No lights on it. No lights shimmering beneath the surface. A quiet and still night.

After a minute, I ease open the door and walk onto the porch to properly enjoy the summer night—and calm my nerves from the unsettling dreams. I lean on the railing and lift my face to the sky.

When I open my eyes, I’m gazing out at endless stars, and that makes me smile.

Living in the city for so long, I’ve forgotten what the night sky looks like.

I’m standing on the porch, drinking it all in—the starry sky, the pine-scented air, the distant hoot of an owl—when lights appear under the water.

I blink, certain it’s the aftereffect of looking at the stars.

But even after a few blinks, the lights are still there, seemingly right below the surface.

I head down the steps. From here to the lake, it’s open land, kept clear, and I can walk easily across it in the moonlight.

Soon I’m at the water’s edge. The lights are still there, three or four of them, bobbing under the surface.

I squint, as if that will help me see better, but again, my out-of-date prescription means my vision is less than twenty-twenty.

I peer into the sky. While I do see bright stars—probably actually planets—they aren’t clustered the way these lights are.

It must be something bioluminescent. I meant to look that up and forgot. Maybe I could ask Ben. He’s lived here all his life.

Uh, no, I’m not asking Ben anything. I’ll ask Josie.

I’m turning to leave when I notice something off to my left. Marks in a patch of sand between the tufts of grass. They look like … footprints?

Earlier, we’d walked straight from the fire, which is to my right, and these are to my left.

I walk over and peer down. Bare footprints head inland, the sand slightly damp, as if someone was out swimming.

They’re roughly my size. Could they be mine from earlier? Gail and I had both been barefoot.

I put my bare foot down beside the print.