Page 39 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

Thirty-One

Josie is gone, and Sheriff Smits is getting a glass of water before we go. I’ve called Ben again and left another message. I’m sending him a new text when Smits says, “What’s this?”

I glance up to see him lifting the old journal. Josie had shoved it aside, but we hadn’t exactly hidden it.

I hold my breath as Smits flips through a few pages, but his expression stays somewhere between distracted disinterest and mild curiosity.

“We found it in one of the crawl spaces,” I say. “It seems to be a journal from one of my ancestors. I was showing it to Josie. Neither of us can make heads or tails of it. I think it was translated from Dutch, and it’s not a good translation.”

Smits nods in what is obviously a show of polite interest. He’s already put the book down and is finishing his water. He sets the glass in the sink. Then he looks at my bare legs and feet.

“Might want to put on long pants and sneakers,” he says. “If we’re going to do a proper search, we’ll be going off path.”

“Good idea.”

I head into my room and change. When I come out, he’s by the door, leaning against it. As I’m passing the table, I notice the pad of paper where I’d been deciphering the journal with notes. It’s sitting right there, opened, where anyone could read it.

I glance at Smits, but he’s only checking his phone.

He looks up. “All set?”

I nod and follow him out the door.

I don’t think I ever really understood how big our property is until I’m searching it for someone who might be incapacitated and unable to answer my shouts.

It’s possible to get lost in three hundred acres, but I never have.

I know every trail and every landmark and how long it will take to get from point A to point B.

To do a complete circuit of the perimeter is a three-hour hike, which I only ever did with my dad, when we’d packed lunch and made a day of it.

Dad always called this our own private park, and that’s what it was.

Not a huge state park, but more of a recreation area, the kind of place you visit for a night or two and traverse the whole thing easily.

But imagine combing that same park—most of it wooded—for one person.

We’d looked for Gail, but that had been different.

No one really thought she was lost in the forest.

We’ve been out here for nearly two hours, and I feel as if we’ve barely made a dent. If Ben stalked off, maybe it had nothing to do with the sheriff ’s needling. Maybe he just realized the futility of searching all this forest for a camper’s gear and …

And what?

What would Ben do if he said “screw this”? Go home without a word to anyone? No. If he wanted to leave, he’d tell me. He also wouldn’t walk away without his truck. Still, if he realized the futility of the search and was annoyed with Smits for this performative effort, he would indeed walk away.

If he didn’t come back to the cottage, he’s in trouble.

If he’s not answering his phone, something has happened.

So why don’t I speak up? Because I haven’t worked up the courage to tell Smits that I believe I know Ben better than he does.

Craig Smits was the officer who interviewed me all those years ago. He was the one who found my father’s body. As patient as he has been, I can’t help feeling like that little girl trembling as she told her story, half afraid he’d lock her up for fibbing.

I’m intimidated by Sheriff Smits, and I also respect him the way you respect authority figures you knew as a child. You don’t shake those old dynamics. I don’t want to look foolish in front of him, so I’m not saying what I think.

That Ben is in trouble.

That Ben wouldn’t ignore my calls.

What am I afraid Smits would do?

Give me a patronizing pat on the head and tell me everything’s fine, don’t worry? I can deal with that.

Am I afraid of a pitying look—or mockery—if I suggest Ben gives a damn about me? Again, what does it matter? If I’m wrong, it wouldn’t be the first time, but I really don’t believe Ben would turn off his phone and—

I look down at my ankle bracelet. I’ve gotten so used to it that I forget it’s there. I remember Ben yesterday, when his phone was running low and he needed to charge it.

If my phone dies, the app alerts your grandfather’s lawyer that I’m not doing my job.

I take out my phone. Smits is up ahead, beating the bushes and peering behind them. I look for the lawyer’s number and text her.

Me: Sorry to bother you. Bit worried about Ben. Can’t get in touch. Silly question, maybe, but he said you’d know if his phone was off, for the monitoring device

I’m about to pocket the phone when she replies.

Ms. Jimenez: I was just debating whether to reach out. I received an alert two hours ago. I’m not going to penalize him for letting his phone run dead, but it’s been long enough to recharge it. Is everything okay?

Me: He was looking for something on the property and didn’t come back. Can you tell what time his phone went off?

A moment passes. Then she replies:

Ms. Jimenez: 4:45

I glance over at Smits, but he’s disappeared into the bushes, not noticing I’d stopped.

Me: You said you wouldn’t penalize him. What’s that mean?

Ms. Jimenez: According to the will, he needs to have his phone on, ready for alerts, at all times. If it’s down more than ten minutes, he loses the money for his father. Obviously, I’m not going to be that much of a stickler. But over two hours is very concerning

Me: Yes

Ms. Jimenez: You do realize I also have access, yes? I can see that you are out on the property. The west side. Just over half a mile from the cottage

I frown. I figured she had access, but this sounds like a warning.

Me: I’m well within the boundary

Ms. Jimenez: I know. I wanted to be clear that just because Ben’s phone is off doesn’t mean you aren’t being monitored. He receives the alerts, but now that I am aware of the situation, I have turned on my own alerts

Me: Okay

Silence. I read back through her texts.

Me: Hold on. Do you think I have something to do with his phone being off?

Ms. Jimenez: I said no such thing. But if you did think that was a way to get a few hours off of the property, it is not. I will see you if you leave, and you would be jeopardizing Ben’s reward

Me: I wouldn’t do that

Ms. Jimenez: Good. I know he can be difficult, but I think we can agree he has been doing his job

I pocket my phone and rub my face, sloughing off my anger. I’ve been here despite dead animals being left on my steps, despite my aunt disappearing. Now she thinks, what? That I’d steal Ben’s phone so I can traipse off to the nearest city for a latte?

“Sam?”

I look up to see Smits on the edge of the bushes, frowning at me, and I realize I haven’t moved from where he left me ten minutes ago.

“The lawyer texted me,” I say. “I didn’t dare ignore her.”

“Texting about what?”

I shrug. “Lawyer stuff? She needed some financial details. I didn’t mention any of this. Not her concern.”

He visibly relaxes, and I don’t miss that. I’m already on alert for it, ever since Ms. Jimenez told me what time Ben’s phone went off. Ben wasn’t just “not answering” his phone earlier. It’s been off since before Smits returned to the cottage, saying Ben was missing.

Imagine Ben does stalk off. Smits calls him. Ben’s pissy and shuts off his phone. That fits. However, he is never doing that if ten minutes of phone downtime means his family suffers.

Ben did not shut off his phone. Yet it went off shortly after he allegedly walked away to check something. He leaves Smits’s sight and is grabbed by a rare daylight nekker … who shuts off his phone?

We’d started at the spot where Ben supposedly disappeared. It was at least a ten-minute walk from the water. Even if a nekker grabbed him and dragged him to the lake, it would take time for his phone to become waterlogged and shut down.

That is not what happened. A human being turned off Ben’s phone.

I can blame my cousin or whatever mystery person we suspected had been behind this, but after reading that journal, I no longer really harbor “human staging” as a possibility. And if it was, how did someone silently grab Ben with the sheriff close by?

“Sam?”

I jerk from my thoughts.

Don’t do that, Sam. Don’t let him see you thinking, wondering, questioning.

Because I suspect Smits of hurting Ben? I don’t know. Part of me screams that I’m losing my mind, seeing the drowned dead and the headless horseman and believing they’re real and my ancestors created them and I’m bound to them. And now I think Sheriff Smits is … Doing what? And why?

That inner voice of denial is screaming as loud as it can, but it’s such a small voice now, drowned out by the weight of evidence.

That objecting voice is pride, the part of me that fears being made a fool of, and it’s shrinking with every passing moment, suffocated by the certainty that I do not give a shit whether I make a fool of myself, if the alternative is letting Ben suffer because I didn’t have the guts to suspect Craig Smits.

Smits saw the journal. He didn’t react, and I took that as a sign he didn’t know what it was. Why would I think he might? Did some part of me already suspect he might?

Yes.

He hadn’t reacted, and I’d been relieved. He didn’t question it either, though. I chalked that up to a lack of interest, but it could just have easily been studied disinterest.

And the notepad. Something about it caught my eye. I’d thought it was just the fact that I’d accidentally left it out.

No, it’d been moved. In my memory, I see myself setting my pen on it and pushing it aside after reading passages to Josie.

My pen hadn’t been on the book when I last saw it. That’s what caught my attention. The pen was set aside, and the book was angled differently than it sat imprinted in my subconscious.

Smits had advised me to change my clothing, which would require going into my room and shutting the door. Giving him time to see what was on the notepad. To see how much we knew.

Could I be wrong?

Absolutely.

But I can test the theory easily enough.

“It’ll be dark soon,” I say, peering up.

If my stomach didn’t plummet, it might be comical how quickly he checks his watch.

“You’re right,” he says. “Josie will be back at the cottage shortly. We might want to think about heading in.”

“And getting flashlights. Bringing Josie out after we eat.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t think so, Sam. It gets awfully dark in here at night.”

“Dangerous, too.”

His head jerks up.

“We could trip,” I say. “Especially if we leave the path.” I peer around. “But, while it seems to be getting dark, that’s mostly just the forest. We still have time, and Josie isn’t due back quite yet.”

“I still say we ought to head in. We can keep calling for Ben on the way.”

“Okay. You’re right. It does get dark faster in the forest—” I jerk my head. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It sounded like a moan.” I turn to him, my eyes wide and innocent. “What if Ben’s hurt?”

Smits eases back, getting comfortable in that way of his. The good ol’ boy. The voice of authority. Well, see here, little miss, you’ve got nothing to worry about.

“He’s not,” Smits says. “I’m going to kick his ass for worrying you like this, but it’s just Ben being Ben. Thoughtless and inconsiderate. I’m sorry, hon. I can’t tell whether you’ve developing feelings for the boy, but I really hope not.”

Oh, nicely played. There’s been nothing romantic between me and Ben, but it’s a sure way to make me uncomfortable. Suggest I might be “developing feelings,” and I’ll back off, not wanting anyone to mistake my concern for that.

I smile and shake my head. “I like my guys a lot less moody. But I can still be concerned about him. He—” I look behind me again. “I am definitely hearing something. I’m going to check it out.”

I take off at a lope. It’s a moment before Smits even calls after me, meaning Ben is not in this direction. But he does call soon enough, and when I ignore him, he comes after me.

“None of this, Sam,” he calls as he stalks my way. “It’s getting dark. If you’re worried, I’ll bring search help out tomorrow, but I’m sure by then, Ben will have turned up.”

I keep going. When I feign stumbling, his strides turn into a lope. “Sam. It is too dark. You’re going to get—”

I stumble, arms flying up, timing it for when he’s right behind me. I let out a shriek as I fall, and he grabs my arm. I twist, pushing at him, and he backs up fast, eyes widening as he lifts his hands.

“I was just trying to help,” he says.

I clutch my shoulder. “You wrenched my arm. That hurt.”

Again, it’s almost comical how fast he retreats. Or it would be if it didn’t confirm what I suspect.

Craig Smits knows all about the nekkers … including who is bonded to them.