Page 5 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

Nothing at Paynes Hollow can hurt me worse than I’ve already been hurt. The only ghosts there exist in my mind, and I’ve dealt with them so far. Maybe, as much as I hate to give my grandfather any credit, this summer really will help.

See the property for what it is: a piece of land and nothing more.

See my father for what he really was: a good dad but a monstrous person.

One can be both, as hard as that is to accept.

Maybe, after this summer, I will finally accept it.

Gail bypasses the village of Paynes Hollow.

I don’t even realize she’s done it until I see a familiar Private Drive sign and frown, wondering how I missed all the landmarks.

Because she took a route that didn’t exist fourteen years ago.

The last community we drove through was unrecognizable—a vacation-home development from the past decade or so.

Even this road leading to the property isn’t what I remember. For one thing, it’s paved. For another, there are a whole lot more No Trespassing–style signs on the trees lining the road.

Back when we stayed here, there was just that one discreet Private Drive sign, meant for outsiders who might mistake the lane into our property for a regular road.

Locals had been welcome to camp on the property and use the west side for fishing, swimming, and boat launching.

But now there are endless signs—NO TRESPASSING, PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO LAKE ACCESS, NO THROUGH ROAD, PROTECTED BY SECURITY. There’s even a gate.

“Huh,” I say. “Looks like it’s locked. Well, we tried. Time to go home.”

Gail passes me a key.

“Damn it,” I mutter. “What about the caretaker? I don’t want to get shot opening the gate. We probably should turn around.”

“I wish,” she says. “I’m guessing the caretaker is some local old-timer. Hopefully collecting the big bucks from my father’s estate while never setting foot on the land. It’s not as if Dad would have known.”

I shake my head. “Your father probably paid him a hundred bucks a month and expected GPS proof that he was driving around the property every day.”

“Sadly true. We’ll meet him tonight, according to Ms. Jimenez. My plan is to relieve him of his duties, with full pay, of course. I don’t think we want some old guy wandering around with his hunting rifle.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I swing open the door. “If I’m shot by the caretaker, is that a loophole?”

“Probably not.”

I head to the gate. The lock is new, and that gives me pause.

Gail was joking about the elderly caretaker who never bothered to come out here, but this lock suggests she might be right.

I imagine the lawyer calling to warn him that we’re coming today, and he rushes out to put a lock on the gate, look as if he’s been doing his job.

Doesn’t matter. I don’t want an attentive caretaker—like Gail said, we’ll be giving him the month off, with pay of course. But I do like the idea of some old codger conning my grandfather out of a caretaker’s pay.

Beyond the gate, the road is overgrown on both sides, bushes and trees crowding in with barely enough room for Gail’s tiny car to pass. I remember Mom grumbling about how fast the brush grew, and Dad would be out here early the first morning, making sure it was clear for her grocery run.

I swallow hard. Then I heave open the gate and—

Pain stabs through my hand, and I drop the gate with a hiss. I hold out my hand as a line of blood opens up across my palm, the skin splitting.

I curse and squeeze my fist, only to have blood drip from it, huge drops hitting the ground. I stand there, transfixed as the blood disappears in the dry earth, and the wind sighs in something like relief.

Home.

She’s home.

I shiver and open my hand to see a wash of blood with a bright red line across my palm. Time wavers, and I’m four or five, running to the cottage, my hand clenched, blood dripping from it. Dad sees me and drops his book as he jogs off the porch to meet me.

“Oh, honey, what happened?” he says, peeling open my hand to see the line across it.

I shake my head and mumble something.

He folds my fingers over the injury. “Come on inside, and let me get that fixed up. Then you need to show me where it happened. There must be something sharp.”

Except I didn’t remember where it happened. I didn’t remember anything but seeing the cut on my hand, the blood dripping into the parched earth, hearing the wind whisper and then running, running as fast as I could for my father.

No, there was something else. I thought I saw—

“Oh my God.” Gail runs over and grabs my wrist. “What happened?”

I start to say I don’t know, still caught in the memory, but then I come back to myself and wave at the gate.

“Damn gate bit me,” I say, trying for lightness.

“I think I have bandages in the car.”

“Nah, a tissue will be fine. I just want to get to the cottage. See what we’re dealing with.”

She nods and hands me a tissue from her pocket. As she heads back to the car, I squint into the shadows cast by the overgrown bushes. Then I shake my head, clasp the tissue, and follow Gail.