Page 17 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

Thirteen

Josie comes for coffee, and we finish the pie. Gail doesn’t join us. She’d been out for a walk earlier, and then something urgent came up, and she’s been in her room ever since, working.

While Josie and I eat, I tell her about the break-in at my grandparents’ cottage.

I make it clear that I’m not reporting it to her—it happened years ago.

But I suspect she’ll find the removed floorboards more interesting than Ben had.

I’m right. She’s all over that, and we eat the pie while joking about all the things that someone might have been looking for.

“So, are you going to check out the crawl space?” she says.

“I plan to. I shouldn’t do it alone, for safety. Ben obviously wasn’t interested.” I hook my thumb at Gail’s closed door and raise my voice. “And my darling aunt recoiled in horror at the thought of crawling through a window.”

I wait for Gail’s rejoinder, but she must have her headphones on, because nothing comes.

“Are you hinting for law-enforcement backup?” Josie says, waggling her brows.

“Nah. Well, maybe. Kind of. Mostly just someone to make sure I don’t fall through the hatch and get trapped there. But only if you’d be interested. Honestly, I’m sure I’m exaggerating the danger. I could do it myself. Gail would happily stay outside, within shouting distance.”

“No, I want to do it. Check out an old crawl space? One that could hold whatever those intruders were searching for? Hell, yeah. Even if it’s just old camp stuff, it’d be a treasure hunt.”

“Okay. Good. Maybe on the weekend then?”

“Why not now?” She pauses. “Right. You have work. This is just a break.”

“I could do it now if you can. Like I said, my work schedule is flexible.”

She rises from the kitchen table. “Great. First thing we need is flashlights. I have a good one in the car. Strong light plus a stealth baton for fighting off the invading mice and squirrels.”

I get up. “I’ll clear these while you grab—”

Her phone buzzes. She takes it out and curses under her breath. “My dad.” She pulls a face. “I mean, the sheriff. Technically, I’m on shift, and he needs me to follow up on a call.”

“Tomorrow then?”

She lights up. “Yes. Tomorrow. I’m off, and free all day. I’ll give you time to work, come by for our coffee break, and then we’ll check out the crawl space.”

“Perfect.”

I walk Josie out. Then I prepare the bonfire for tonight. We’re out of kindling, so I drag in a fallen branch to chop up, only to realize the hatchet isn’t where I left it.

I look around, in case I’d put it somewhere else. I haven’t.

Frowning, I go inside. Gail is still in her room with the door shut.

I hate to bother her if she’s working, so I wash the plates and mugs Josie and I used, while listening for Gail to move around, indicating she’s taking a break.

A half hour passes with silence from her room.

I fix her a coffee and the last slice of pie, and rap on her door.

“Snack delivery service!”

When she doesn’t answer—and I can’t hear her typing—I start getting nervous. I knock again.

“Coming in to check on you,” I say. “Stop me if you don’t want that.”

I open the door to find her lying on her bed, eyes closed, headphones on. I start to back out, presuming she’s napping, but she opens her eyes.

“Snack?” I say, thrusting out the mug and plate.

She shakes her head as she silently removes the headphones.

“Have you seen the hatchet?” I ask.

A weird look crosses her face.

“Gail?” I move into the room. “You didn’t get bad news, did you? About the IVF? Shit, not about the inheritance, is it?”

She pats the edge of her bed for me to sit.

“Uh, this sounds bad,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “If it’s about me using up all the hot water, I’m sorry. Like I said this morning, I need to remember how small that tank is. Five-minute showers.”

“I think I underestimated how hard this would be for you, Sam.”

“Uh…” I mentally struggle to switch gears.

“Being here. With all these memories.” She sits up straighter, crossing her legs. “It was wrong of me to expect you to do this.”

I frown. “You didn’t expect me to do this. You tried to stop me.”

“Maybe that was the problem. I made you feel as if you couldn’t handle it, and you needed to prove you could.”

Irritation flares. “That’s not it at all.”

She scoots over and takes my hands in hers. “Then why are we here, Sam? Why are we spending a month in a place where your world fell apart?”

I pull from her grip, and my voice hardens, even as I struggle against it. “We don’t need to be here, Gail. You chose to come, no matter how hard I argued. You don’t need to stay. Come visit me on weekends. I can do this.”

“But why are you doing it? It’s for me and your mother. So I can keep all my inheritance for the IVF and you can afford to buy your mother whatever treatment might help. You’re doing this for us. But what about you?”

“I’m fine.”

She meets my gaze. “No, you’re not, Sam. You’re pretending that you are, but you really aren’t.”

I try not to shift in discomfort. I think of my sleepwalking hallucination last night. I think of being spooked in the shed. I think of my flashback at the tree carving.

Still, none of that means I’m not coping. It’s part of coping. I’m remembering what happened here, and I’m dealing with it. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be doing?

“I’m okay,” I say. “It’s tough, but I think I really do need to face this, and that’s what—”

“The shed was locked, Sam.” She blurts the words and then rubs her face. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

I pull back, hoping my voice doesn’t cool too much. “If you’ve just realized that it was latched—and possibly locked—when I saw someone in there, I know that. I realized it right away.”

“And you told Sheriff Smits that?”

“I wasn’t giving him any more reason to think I was imagining things, so no, I didn’t tell him. But I did tell Josie. I also told Ben, who pointed out a hole where the concrete is crumbling.”

“I saw that hole, Sam. No one could get in there. I also saw how the door latches. There’s no way someone got inside and re-closed it.”

“Then I was imagining seeing a person,” I say coldly as I rise from the bed. “I don’t think I was, but does it even matter? I didn’t call the sheriff for that.”

“Where were you last night?”

I blink. “Last night?”

“When I woke up. You seemed as if you’d just come in.”

“Because I did. I saw the lights again.”

“The lights…”

Her low murmur raises my hackles, and I snap, “Yes, the lights in the lake that you didn’t see earlier that evening.

More proof that I’m stressed? Who knows.

But I didn’t freak out over someone in the shed.

I presumed it was a squatter. I didn’t freak out over the lights.

I’m guessing they’re something bioluminescent.

If I am imagining them?” I shake my head.

“What does it matter? I apologize if I spooked you by saying I saw someone in the shed. That was not my intention.”

“You were looking for the hatchet.”

“When I went to the shed the other day? Yes.”

“I mean just now. You were looking for the hatchet. That’s what you said when you came in.”

Once again, I need to pause as I mentally shift again, following her back to the top of the circle. “Uh, yeah. Have you seen it?”

“It’s in the shed.”

“Oh? Ah. You used it and put it away properly. Thank you.”

“I didn’t put it there, Sam.”

I frown. Then my stomach clenches as the answer hits. “You think whoever cut up that fox used our hatchet? Then they put it in the shed.” I pause. “But the shed’s locked. No, Ben must have left it open.”

Gail gets up and walks to the door. When she leaves, I hurry after her. She continues to the front door and walks through. I hesitate, confused, and then follow.

“Gail?” I say.

“The hatchet,” she says. “I think you need to see it.”

“Okay.”

She’s moving fast, even in bare feet, and as I jog after her, sticks bite into my soles and a voice whispers that something is wrong.

Something’s wrong with Gail, and I should not be following her to the shed.

I keep going back to that conversation on the bed, the strangeness of it. Now I’m jogging after her in my bare feet, which is normal for me, but Gail is the sort who wears her flip-flops to the beach.

When she reaches the shed, she lifts the lock. “This is how I found it.”

“Locked. Okay.”

She takes out her keys and opens it. Then we go inside. She instinctively flicks the light switch, only to mutter in frustration when she remembers it doesn’t work.

“Do you want me to run and grab—” I begin.

She walks inside before I can finish. I wedge the door open and follow. She marches to a corner, takes out her phone, and shines the light on the hatchet, propped against the wall.

“Okay, that’s the hatchet,” I say. “Is the point that I forgot I put it in here? Because I didn’t. Ben has a key, too. If he found it lying around, he could have realized that’s not very safe when we’re concerned about a trespasser.”

“Take a closer look, Sam.” Her voice is tight and strange.

I walk over and shine my own cell-phone light on it. There’s blood on the blade, and when I bend, I see bits of reddish-brown fur.

My breath catches and my voice wobbles as I rise. “Someone did use this to cut up the fox.”

“Yes.”

“You think it was Ben? But why would he leave the blood and fur on it?”

“What’s down beside the hatchet, Sam?”

Frowning, I follow her light to some kind of fabric on the shed floor. I prod at it with my foot and startle when I see what it is.

“My gardening gloves,” I say. “I used them yesterday, when I was pulling some weeds.”

“Ben didn’t take those gloves. They wouldn’t fit him.”

“Okay, so…? Whoever cut up the fox used the gloves and hatchet I left outside. They also presumably have a key to the shed—or know how to pick the lock.”

Gail’s gaze pierces into mine, searching, her shoulders stiff. Then she slumps. “This is my fault.”

“What’s your fault? That?” I wave at the hatchet and gloves. “I’m the one who left them out.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says. “What my father did to you is horrific, Sam. Cruel in a way I can’t fathom. But he knew you’d come here and try to spend the month. That you had to, with your mother’s situation. And I didn’t stop you.”

“I’m an adult, Gail. You couldn’t have stopped me from coming here. And I don’t understand what that has to do with…” I wave at the hatchet.

“Oh, baby.” Her eyes fill, tears spilling as she reaches for me.

I slowly back up. “I’m very confused and a little scared. What is going on?”

“You should never have had to come back here, Sam, and I understand how badly you need to leave. To get away without it being your fault.”

“I really do not understand—”

“No one would blame you if you left now. After seeing someone in the shed. After finding a rabbit and a fox mutilated on our front step. No one would blame you, but honey…” Her eyes meet mine. “I never would have blamed you.”

“I don’t…” I trail off, my chest constricting as I realize what she’s saying. “You … you think I did those things? I mutilated—”

“The animals were already dead. That’s what Sheriff Smits said.”

“So?” I say, my voice rising. “You seriously believe I staged all this as an excuse to flee?”

“We don’t need to talk about this. We can just go.”

“I don’t want to go. I’ve made that clear. I’m spooked by what’s happening—”

“Not nearly enough,” she murmurs.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

When she doesn’t answer, I say, “You’re implying that I’ve been too calm? That the fact I’m trying very hard not to show you how freaked out I am is proof that I did this? That the fact that I don’t want to leave is proof? I stayed calm so you wouldn’t insist I leave. I faked it.”

“Because you don’t want to be responsible for us leaving. You knew after those dead animals I’d make the decision for you.”

I want to scream. She’s not hearing me. She’s made up her mind, and she’s not listening. I take a deep breath and focus on logic.

“So, according to you, I mutilated a dead rabbit,” I say.

“Then I must have cleaned the hatchet, because you saw me using it yesterday. But when I chop up a dead fox, I leave blood and fur on the blade and the gloves, and I put them in the shed. Where Ben is almost certain to see them when he fixes the light or the hole.”

“You made a mistake because you’re upset and not thinking straight.”

“Nope, pretty sure I’m the only one here who is thinking straight.

I admitted that the shed had been latched—and maybe locked—when I saw someone inside, even though that suggests I imagined it.

I asked whether you’d seen the hatchet. I was confused when you said it was in the shed.

How does any of this suggest I’m responsible? ”

“Because you’re under a lot of stress. You might not remember doing it. Your mother said that after your dad died, you sleepwalked—”

“And went looking for my father!” I shout, my eyes stinging with tears. “Not cutting up small animals!”

I want to say more, scream more, shout that I cannot believe she would think I’d do this. Instead, I turn and I stride out of the shed and then break into a run.