Page 16 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

Twelve

“Sam!”

I startle awake to Gail’s panicked scream, and I half roll, half fall out of bed. Then I race in to find her at the open porch door, hand over her mouth.

“What’s wrong?” I run toward her. “What happened?”

She points. I follow her finger but see nothing except that open stretch of grass and sand, like last night.

She saw him. She saw—

“Down there,” she says. “I didn’t mean to scream. It’s just…”

I step out and even without my glasses on, I can see a heap of fur and blood and bone. My brain goes wild, that girl gibbering in terror. Austin was here. Last night. He did this. I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to retreat for my glasses. Then I walk out onto the porch.

Again, it takes a moment for my brain to resolve what it sees. I’m thinking of the rabbit from yesterday, and this doesn’t look like that. Because it’s not. The fur is white and brownish red and the head is—

Fox. I’m seeing a fox. My stomach roils, those old memories surging, that terrified girl peeking out.

I push her back and firmly tell her this is not the same.

Am I sure?

After what I saw last night?

I shush that little girl. Calm myself. Analyze and deal with it, and whatever happens, do not let Gail see how this affects me. Be the rational, former premed student who can deal with this.

At first glance the fox seems whole. It’s lying on its stomach, all the body parts where they should be.

Except it’s been dismembered, like the rabbit, and all the internal organs laid with a small gap from where they should be attached, like a macabre puzzle, the pieces waiting to be pushed back together.

“I’m calling Sheriff Smits,” Gail says. “Take photos of it. He’s not going to be able to brush this off as a bird kill.”

I turn.

“What?” she says, a little belligerently. “Don’t tell me not to call him, Sam. Someone did this. A human someone.”

“I know. Just … don’t demand he come running out. We’ll notify him, and I’ll take pictures, and he can come at his leisure.”

She grumbles, but I know she sees my point. If we demand an immediate response to a nonemergency, we run the risk of him not hurrying when it is urgent.

“You call then,” she says. “I need a shower.”

She stalks back inside and then stops, looking over her shoulder. “I’m sorry. That was snippy. I’m angry with whoever is doing this and taking it out on you.”

“You’re shook. I get that.”

She peers at me. “And you’re not?”

How do I answer that? Inside, I’m trying so hard not to freak out.

“Sam?” Gail steps outside and envelops me in a hug. “You’re obviously in shock. Let me handle taking the photos while you call the sheriff.”

I hug her back. “No, I’ve got it. Former premed student, remember?

” I’m about to also remind her how I’d been fascinated by the anatomy of dead animals as a child, but I stop, a little voice inside whispering that won’t help.

It’s why I couldn’t tell anyone what Austin did, in case they blamed me.

Then, after what my father did? In high-school biology labs, I’d always pretended to be repulsed by the dead critters we had to dissect.

Because if I treated it in the proper way—as an interesting science specimen—I knew what my lab mates would say.

Sam Payne, daughter of a killer.

Instead, I say, “I’m sickened that someone did that to a fox, but I’m okay with the gore. I got used to it in my undergrad classes. You go have your shower.”

Sheriff Smits arrives just after we finish breakfast. Josie isn’t with him this time, and that makes me nervous, as if he left her behind so he could tell me I’m paranoid.

If that was his intention, it doesn’t happen, probably because it’s impossible to blame the dead fox on any predator who doesn’t walk on two legs.

I don’t even need the photos, though I still show them.

He rubs his mouth. “I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t imagine…” He shrugs. “Well, I just plain can’t imagine what would make someone do that.”

My father murdered a local child, I want to say.

But Smits means that he can’t imagine a person mutilating an animal to send a message to the killer’s daughter.

“Someone wants me gone,” I say.

He hunkers down, prodding the fox with a stick. “No sign of a bullet or trap. Of course, the, uh, damage could be hiding that. Might also have been found this way.” He quickly says, “Found dead, I mean. Not found like this.”

He keeps prodding as he talks. “Someone finds a dead fox. Hit by a car or died of natural causes. Chops it up as a message.” He sighs and shades his eyes to look up at me. “Not that it makes much difference, I guess.”

“Well, using the corpse of a dead animal is different than killing it.”

He keeps studying the fox, his gaze on it as he says, “I know you’re under orders to stay on the property.

Part of your granddaddy’s will, apparently.

I can’t say much about that, except that it’s another thing I can’t quite wrap my head around.

But, if I understand correctly, if you leave the property, you don’t get the property. ” He looks over at me. “That right?”

I nod. “I need to be here for a month, and I can’t leave for more than an hour.”

He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath that sounds like “rich folks.” I can imagine how my grandfather’s stipulation seems to him. Like some kind of game show, the rules set by an old man with too much money.

He continues, “So if someone scared you off, you’d forfeit. Who gets it then?”

“Ah. I hadn’t thought of that.” I lower myself onto the porch steps. “It goes to distant relatives I’ve never met.”

“What about…?” His gaze shoots to the house, where Gail works inside.

“No,” I say adamantly. “My aunt already received her inheritance, and she’s here to help me get mine. Otherwise, she’ll insist on giving me part of hers for my mother’s care. Gail would gain nothing by scaring me off.”

“Isn’t there another brother? And a cousin? Didn’t come here much?”

“My uncle Mark and my cousin Caleb.”

“Bet they aren’t too happy about you inheriting. Especially the cousin. You two are the only grandchildren, aren’t you?”

I nod. “Both Mark and Caleb got a share of the house, like Gail. It was split three ways. They’re also not in line to inherit the property if I fail, though.”

Smits shrugs. “They could contest it. Easier to do that if it’s going to distant relatives. Might also not matter whether they inherit, if they’re upset enough. How do they feel about this?”

My answer must show, because he nods. “Could just want to scare you off so you don’t get it. Being petty. Jealous. Let me ask around town, see whether anyone’s been through who looks like your uncle or cousin. Even your aunt.”

I nod. Can I imagine Uncle Mark or Aunt Ellen doing this? I look down at the fox and shudder. No. Caleb, though? Scaring me off so I don’t inherit, just to be vindictive.

Oh, yeah.

Especially if he’d somehow heard what happened all those years ago.

“Let me clean this up for you.” Smits waves at the fox. “Then I’ll take a walk around. See what I can see.”

Sheriff Smits stays for another hour, while I work inside with Gail. I don’t mention his theory that one of our relatives could be behind this. I need to think on that.

While Smits investigates, I try to work, but my mind keeps sliding back to last night.

How do I explain what I saw?

The obvious answer is that I was dreaming. I’d seen a figure in the shed, with dark “liquid” eyes, and then I saw Austin coming up from the water with similar eyes. Clearly a dream. Except I woke with sand on my feet, and Gail mentioned me getting up last night.

Could I have been sleepwalking again?

Being back here could trigger it. Combine sleepwalking with a nightmare about Austin Vandergriff.

Was that a thing? Could you be partly conscious while sleepwalking, your environment impacting your dreams?

That must be possible—I would have been partly conscious while sleepwalking as a child, if I kept going places where I might find my father.

Maybe I should contact that old therapist. I’d liked her, and I’d gone to her for years, until we couldn’t afford it.

Can I afford it now?

Silly question. No, I cannot.

I take a deep breath, close my laptop, and say to Gail, “I’m going out. Can you see how the sheriff is doing?”

She nods distractedly. She’s filling out some kind of form, and while I don’t mean to spy, I glimpse enough to know it’s a medical form for IVF. That makes me smile, and I squeeze her shoulder as I go past.

When I reach the porch, Sheriff Smits’s pickup is gone. He must have finished and didn’t have anything new to tell us.

I look out toward the lake. Then I find myself slowly heading there, caught between compulsion and reluctance. I continue to the spot I’d been in last night. I can see my footprints in the sand, the clear signs of me walking one way and then just the balls of my feet as I ran for the cottage.

There are no other prints.

What did I expect? The still-wet footprints of a thirteen-year-old boy chasing me? A dead boy chasing me?

I stare down at the empty expanse of sand and shiver, arms wrapping around me. Before I can process what I’m doing, I’m heading into the forest. I keep walking until my feet automatically find a path. After a few hundred feet, I turn onto a smaller trail, almost overgrown.

I walk until I see the massive maple tree. Then I stop, calm my breathing, and walk around the trunk, fingers on the bark as if to steady myself. By the time I get to the other side, my breathing has picked up again.

I don’t want to see it still here.

And what do I want? To have imagined it? Imagined all of it?

No, I just want it gone. Erased by time and the elements.

It is not gone. It’s right there, a spot where the bark had been chipped away and a picture carved in the open space. It’s little more than a stick figure. A girl with pigtails, her hands raised to her chest, holding something there. At the bottom, the initials: A.V.

Time flickers, and I’m twelve, staring at this picture carved into the wood, hearing footsteps behind me.

“Do you like it?” Austin says.

I don’t answer. I know better. I don’t even look over at him. I just stare at that picture, trying to figure out what it is. I know who it is—who it always is. But what does it depict? I’m afraid to guess.

“It’s you,” Austin says. “You’re trying to pull out the knife.”

My breath catches, and my gaze flies to the figure’s torso. I see it then. She’s holding something sticking from her chest. A knife. Blood drips down. Drops of blood that he’s painted bright red, the only color on the carving.

I don’t look at him.

I set my shoulders, lift my chin, and start to walk away.

He grabs my arm. I yank free, and stumble. My foot slides, and I fall to the ground. I scramble to get up, but he kicks my leg out from under me.

“You’re kinda stupid, aren’t you, Sam?” he says. “I tell you not to ignore me, and you keep doing it. I make that”—he points at the picture—“to show you why you shouldn’t ignore me, and you still do it.”

My hands clench at my sides. “I want you to leave me alone.”

“Or what? You’ll tell your mommy? You know what she’ll say—that you shouldn’t be mean to me. I like you, that’s all. I just don’t know how to show it.”

My face flushes. That’s what everyone says when I complain about Austin following me around.

He likes you.

He’s a nice boy.

Just play with him.

That’s all he wants.

I swallow. That’s how it started. Everyone thought it was cute. We were just kids, after all. He had a crush. Nothing wrong with that.

As much as I’d hated being around Austin, I’d given in. I’d been a good girl. I’d been a nice girl. I played with him and made sure he was included when the summer kids played together.

Only this year things changed. He didn’t want me playing with the other kids.

He didn’t want me talking to other kids.

I ignored that. I might have been forced to play with Austin, but that didn’t mean I liked him, and now that we weren’t little kids anymore, I decided I could stop hanging out with him.

So he’d started doing things like this. Carving pictures of me in trees. Me stabbed. Me hanging. Me dead.

My gut told me that this was different. My mom wouldn’t make me play with him if I showed them this.

But what if they did? What if Mom didn’t see what I saw and said it was just a crush?

I could tell Dad. He’d always said that I didn’t need to play with Austin if I didn’t want to, and if I showed him these pictures and told him about the dead squirrels—

“Sam.”

I jump, slingshot back to the real world as I spin around. For a moment, time stutters, and I’m turning to see thirteen-year-old Austin looming over me. Only it’s not Austin. It’s Ben. And he’s standing back, frowning.

“Hey,” I manage to croak, hoping my voice won’t shake too much with a single word.

I move to the side quickly, away from that tree, away from the picture. But even as I do, his gaze shoots to it.

“You saw that?” he says.

I nod mutely.

“He carved that,” Ben says. “Austin.”

“I know.”

Ben crosses his arms. “It’s you, isn’t it.”

“I … I don’t know.”

“It is. It’s you holding flowers.”

I blink and look at the carving again. I see what he does—a girl seeming to hold something to her chest, vestiges of red paint around the knife seeming like flowers.

“He liked you,” Ben says. “Liked you a lot.”

I stiffen so fast it’s almost a convulsion. Then I turn, and I do what I tried to do with Austin all those years ago. I walk away.

Unlike Austin, Ben doesn’t come after me. He doesn’t say a word. He just lets me leave, and once I’m out of his sight, I run all the way back to the cottage.