Page 27 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

Twenty-One

The morning I discovered my aunt missing, hearing the slap of the cottage front door, I’d gone running out in my nightshirt. I don’t remember putting it on. I don’t remember taking off my shorts and tank top.

Was Gail right?

Did I cut up that rabbit? That fox? Did I stage those horrible tableaus?

Did I kill my aunt?

I race from the shed, my chest ready to explode. I can’t draw breath, but I keep running, branches scraping my face, feet moving of their own accord. When I finally see where I am, I stop short.

My old tree fort. A simple platform of wood nestled in three forks of an old oak, with steps nailed into the trunk.

Time shivers, and I’m twelve, staring up at that platform, at the dismembered squirrel pieces hanging from it. My gorge rises, and I turn away, whimpering as I clutch my stomach.

Then I see him.

Austin Vandergriff. Standing there, smirking at me.

“Nice artwork,” he says. “A little creepy, but that’s you, isn’t it, Sam? A little creepy.”

“You—you did this.”

His eyes widen. “Me? No.” He steps closer, and I shrink back, hitting the tree. “You did this, Sam, and if you tell anyone, that’s what I’ll say. I saw you chopping up the squirrel with your hatchet.”

I boomerang back to the present, scrubbing my hands over my face. I didn’t kill that squirrel. I did not, for one second, believe I had. The smirk on Austin’s face told me who’d done it.

It’d been a threat. Not just the promise to claim I’d done it, but the squirrel itself. Do as he said … or else.

I’d taken that threat seriously. I’d been a child, with no coping mechanisms for anything like what I endured with Austin. The only thing I could think to do was to get through the summer.

Until I couldn’t.

Until I broke and told someone what was happening to me and—

I rub my face harder. Don’t think of that. Focus on the present.

Did I chop up a dead rabbit and fox? No.

Did I drag my aunt into the lake? Absolutely not.

I’d been a mess that night, and it’s no wonder I don’t remember taking off my shirt and shorts. Hell, I don’t consciously remember getting changed last night either. It’s an automatic part of going to bed.

Gail was wrong. I’m not responsible for any of this. I can’t be.

Someone is framing me.

How easy would it be to bloody that hatchet and gloves? I’d left them outside. Equally easy to take my clothing from the hamper and do the same. Gail had been the one to lock the cottage door—I keep forgetting, as if this place makes me a child again, expecting someone else to do that.

But why put the wet clothes in the shed? Who was likely to see them? Not Sheriff Smits. Ben?

Or me.

The most likely person to find that hatchet and gloves and wet clothing was me. I’ve been the one going to and fro, checking out the shed, getting the hatchet, in there once or twice a day.

Someone wants me to think I’m losing my mind, that I dismembered those animals, that maybe I even drowned my aunt. Someone with access to the—

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

I wheel, see Ben striding through the forest and back up, slamming into the tree trunk, just as I had all those years ago with his brother.

Ben stops short. “Sam?”

“Where have you been?”

His face screws up, as if he doesn’t understand the question.

“Where have you been?” I repeat, fighting to keep my voice steady. “You got here hours ago and then vanished.”

“I’m dealing with a problem.”

“What problem?”

“Caretaking. Which is my job. What’s up with you?”

He peers at me and takes another step. Then he must see my expression. He stops, hands up, palms out.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’m not coming any closer. What’s wrong, Sam?”

“Someone’s trying to scare me off the property.”

“Uh, yeah.” He eases back. “That’s what I’ve been saying to anyone who will listen. Someone very clearly wants you—” He stops. “You think it’s me? Didn’t we resolve this last night? If you stay, I get a big payout. Therefore I can’t be the one trying to make you leave.”

I shake my head. “Money isn’t everything. You blame me. For what happened to Austin. You think I had something to do with it.”

He watches me long enough to make me squirm. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t blame you, Sam. If I’ve given that impression, I apologize. I could have happily gone my entire life without seeing you again.” His hands rise. “Not because you had anything to do with Austin’s death, but because you’re a reminder, okay? If Austin hadn’t liked you and kept coming here…”

He trails off and exhales. “That wasn’t your fault.”

The back of my neck prickles.

But what if it was my fault?

What if my father—

No. He wouldn’t.

But he did, didn’t he? He killed Austin after I told him—

“Sam?”

I wrap my arms around myself. “I didn’t do anything to Austin.”

Another exhale. “I know. Look, I’m a mess, okay? Everyone knows it, and I don’t even bother pretending otherwise. What happened back then…” He sucks in breath. “He wasn’t supposed to come here.”

I don’t answer.

Ben rubs the back of his neck and shifts his weight.

“I don’t know what happened between you two.

You had a fight or something? Doesn’t matter.

But Austin wasn’t supposed to go to your place.

He was grounded, and I was in charge of him while our parents went out for the evening, and I was a stupid sixteen-year-old who didn’t want to look after his little brother, so I wasn’t paying attention. ”

I try to follow what he’s saying. My memories of that week are jumbled, the timelines wobbly.

Everything had started the day before the annual town-founders bonfire. I’d refused to go, which exploded into a family drama, my grandfather shouting that everyone expected us there and Dad shouting for him to back the hell off me.

I’d run into the forest, and Dad came after me, and I broke down and confessed that Austin had given me until the bonfire to agree to be his girlfriend, and if I didn’t, he said he was going to “accidentally” swing a burning marshmallow into my face.

I told him everything. The threats, the dead animals, the pictures, all of it.

Dad said he’d handle it, and then Austin was dead and—

But that’s not how it happened. Ben’s confession fills in a piece I’d forgotten. Dad had gone to speak to the Vandergriffs. Then he said I didn’t need to worry about Austin coming by anymore.

He’d spoken to the Vandergriffs and told them enough for them to ground Austin, and to forbid him from ever coming here again.

Ben was supposed to watch him, but he didn’t, and Austin came that night and …

Dad killed him?

That makes no sense.

It’s never made sense. That was the problem.

Could I see my father as a child killer?

Of course not, but people don’t exactly walk around with “murderer” tattooed on their forehead.

When they’re caught, everyone says they can’t believe it.

So while I can’t picture my father as a man driven by inner demons, it is the explanation that makes the most sense.

Tell myself that I didn’t really know him. He was evil. End of story.

But what about the other explanation? The one I’ve been suppressing for fourteen years? That this was my fault. I told my father about Austin, and he confronted him, and something went wrong and Austin ended up dead, my father frantically burying the body.

That explanation makes everything in me shrink, trying to hide under a blanket of guilt and recriminations.

If that’s what happened, it was my fault. My fault for not handling things better. Forget the logic that says I didn’t kill Austin and I actually did handle it properly, by telling my father.

But if Dad went to the Vandergriffs and told them to keep Austin away from me, and Austin came back and my father killed him, that’s not an accident. That’s not blind rage. Killing Austin under those circumstances makes no sense.

I’m missing something.

No, I’ve forgotten something.

Suppressed it.

I realize Ben is watching me. And then I realize that he’s just made a huge confession, and I didn’t respond, lost in my own memories.

“I … I don’t remember what happened,” I say because it’s all I can think to say. “Between Austin and me.”

He shakes his head. “I wasn’t asking. Like I said, it doesn’t matter.

The point is that I fucked up and my brother died.

Your father killed him and then your grandfather—” He bites off the words with a sharp shake of his head.

“Your grandfather was his usual asshole self, and I should have refused the job, whatever the cost.”

“You couldn’t,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Because of your father. I get that. It’s—it’s why I’m here, too.”

“For your mother.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“So that’s our story, then. Letting your grandfather manipulate us because others will suffer if we refuse.

But I have no stake in chasing you off, Sam.

I’m angry for a whole lotta reasons that are tangentially linked to you, but I’m not your grandfather.

I know who I’m angry with, and I’m not going to punish someone connected to that anger because I can’t punish the actual source.

Your grandfather’s problem was with your dad, but he couldn’t confront him, so he took it out on you and he took it out on me.

I wouldn’t do that to you. Whatever is happening, I swear it isn’t me. ”

“Then what have you been doing out here?”

He throws up his hands. “Back to that? Fine. I was trying to handle a potential issue without alarming you. Someone has set up camp in the west field.”

“What?”

“There’s a tent and what looks like bicycle tracks.

The campers aren’t there, but I’ve been keeping an eye on it so I can tell them to move on.

And before you wonder whether it could be your cousin or whoever is doing all this, I very highly doubt it.

They aren’t exactly hiding their campsite. It’s in the middle of a damn field.”

“Can I see?”

Another hand toss, clearly exasperated. “Fine. Whatever. Come on.”