Page 6 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

Five

We continue up the lane, and I wince with every branch that scratches the car.

“I’ll trim those,” I say.

Just like Dad used to do.

I bite my lip and look out the window. Through a break in the thick bushes, I see an old tire on the ground, a rope still attached to it.

“Higher, Daddy! Higher!”

I look away sharply and clasp my hands in my lap.

Today will be the hardest, but I’m going to face these ghosts head-on. No hiding in the cottage. I’ll walk the property and let the memories flow, and as difficult as that will be, it’s better than cowering in a run-down shack.

I’m actually glad that the cottage will be in disrepair.

Fitting. A reflection of our ruined family.

I need to see the damage as a project. The beach is probably full of trash, and I imagine no one obeyed those No Trespassing signs.

It’ll give me something to clean up. Maybe I shouldn’t bother—the developers won’t care—but keeping busy will be good.

Between that and work, the month will zoom by.

Gail and I can give this place an extreme makeover.

Exorcise the past that way. Get rid of that tire swing.

Refurnish the cottage. Put bright-colored beach chairs on the shore.

Just the two of us, enjoying a beach vacation while renovating a run-down cottage.

Working remotely during the day and drinking beer by the campfire at night.

By the time we turn the last corner, I’m lost in my plans, determined—

The cottage appears. It doesn’t leap from the bushes or anything so dramatic. Gail is driving dead slow around that last curve, the road pitted and rough, and the cottage appears as if someone slowly draws back a curtain, revealing one sliver at a time.

The porch railing. Then the front corner and then the entire thing emerging into the bright late-August sunshine.

The cottage is exactly that. Cottage, cabin, camp, whatever you want to call it.

Not a beach house. Not a summer house. My grandfather’s money was old money.

He was descended from European settlers who moved to America in the early waves, making a homestead here along the banks of Lake Ontario.

They did some farming, but their business was in trade, establishing a port a little farther down.

That kind of generational wealth doesn’t mean grand beach houses and sprawling estates. It means owning the most desirable land and keeping it as a vacation getaway with small and rustic cottages for your own personal family camp.

“It’s about the land,” my grandfather said when my uncle Mark wanted to tear down his cottage and build one of those fancy beach houses. “Harris understands that. His wife understands that. Even their little girl understands that. It’s about the land.”

I’d been so proud when I overheard that conversation.

Yes, I understood. It was about the land—the glorious endless forest and beach that was all ours.

Our family compound, where I could run to my grandmother’s cottage for breakfast and back to my own for lunch, with a shared barbecue on the beach for dinner.

Where I could ride my bike to town and everyone knew me and the shop owner snuck me sweets and ice cream.

Where I could explore the forest trails all day and walk along the lakeshore at sunset.

The only thing I couldn’t do was swim alone, but that made sense, and I was still allowed to fish and wade to my knees, and Mom would take me swimming off the platform and Dad would take me canoeing along the shoreline.

It’s about the land.

Except that wasn’t what my grandfather meant. He meant the value being in the land itself, and as a child, I took that metaphorically. To me, the land meant a king’s ransom of adventure. But he meant the actual value.

Ten million dollars.

For land that held three rustic cottages and a storage shed.

I don’t see the shed or the other cottages. That’s part of the design. Trees separate the buildings enough that we could pretend we were here alone.

All I see now is our cottage.

And it looks exactly as I remember it.

A plain rectangular building with a full-length front porch. As boring a piece of architecture as one could imagine. All-natural construction, the wood weathered, as it’s been for as long as I can remember.

It looked exactly like this each summer when we rolled up, and then Mom and I spent the day unpacking our clothes and food while Dad brought out all the touches that made the cottage our own: my bike, the porch chairs, the box of lawn games.

One year Dad had added something new to the front door. A custom wooden sign with painted caricatures of him and Mom and me, our names below each. Mom had gently asked if we could hang it inside. She didn’t like the idea of announcing that they had a little girl, complete with her name.

Best not to tempt predators.

Except the predator was inside, sleeping beside her.

I swallow hard.

“Sam?” Gail says softly, and I realize the car has stopped and I’m sitting here staring at the front door after she’s already climbed out.

I push open the door with more force than necessary. Then I stride up onto the porch.

“It looks in decent shape from the outside,” Gail says as she fumbles with the key ring. “That’s a good sign. Structurally sound. They always were. As basic as possible, but sturdy enough to withstand all Lake Ontario can throw at them.” She pauses and glances over. “I’m babbling.”

“Babble away.” I lean my head against her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here. I know I argued, and you probably didn’t feel welcome, but I do appreciate it.”

“You didn’t want me to feel obligated. I get it. But this was my choice.” She takes a deep breath. “Ready?”

I push open the door without answering. Then I stride in and—

The whole world stops as cold rushes through me.

I’m standing in my childhood summer home.

Not the building it used to be in. My actual home.

Nothing has changed.

Nothing has changed.

I’m in the kitchen, on the mat where we were supposed to wipe our feet—or our shoes, but mostly our feet, because mine stayed bare until Labor Day.

There’s a towel hanging on the wall for wiping them if they’re muddy or wet, and it’s the same towel it’s always been—my threadbare Lilo & Stitch beach one.

In front of me is the vintage yellow Formica kitchen table that Aunt Ellen turned up her nose at. It’s set for dinner, with equally bright primary-color stoneware, the plates draped in cloth napkins because Mom hated the waste of paper ones.

Ready for dinner. Just as it had been that last day.

Mom liked to set the table for the next meal after the last one was cleared, and that day, I’d helped her.

Then I’d gone to wander. Dad was out chopping wood.

I’d been heading to see him when Mom called me in—she’d realized we were out of burger buns for dinner and did I want to come to town with her?

I did. We climbed into the car, and as we were leaving, we spotted Dad, and I waved.

He’d been distracted, didn’t seem to see me.

We’d gone to town, only Mom started talking to Mrs. Smits, and I got bored and asked to head home. She’d said okay, and I’d run the whole mile, raced up our lane and spotted Dad in the forest, digging a hole—

I yank myself back. My gaze snags on a black shape hanging on the back of a kitchen chair.

Dad’s cardigan. Still on his chair. Where he’d left it that morning.

“What the hell?” Gail breathes behind me. She walks past, gaping around. “What the fucking hell?”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard my aunt use that word.

She turns to me, and for a second, she doesn’t seem to see me. Her eyes are wide, her mind someplace else, her breath coming quick.

Remembering her brother. Remembering all the times she’d stayed with us, in this cottage, when it looked exactly like this.

Her arms go out to me, but I pretend not to see them, turning away and tossing my bag into the corner.

“Sam?” she says.

“We should bring in the groceries.”

“Sam? Please.”

“Well, look on the bright side. At least we don’t need to worry about fixing the place up.” I run a hand over the little table by the door. “Not even a speck of dust. It’s like he sealed the building in plastic wrap.”

I look around. “I’m impressed. I mean, seriously impressed.

It’s perfectly preserved, right down to my artwork on the fridge.

” I walk over to the pencil sketches of deer and squirrels.

“They aren’t even yellowed. Grandpa must have had them archived and put back up, exactly as we left them.

” I whistle. “Next level, Grandpa. This is some truly next-level bullshit.”

Gail doesn’t answer, and I squirm. I try not to be so scathing around her. Whatever my grandfather had done, he was still her father. I understand the pull of that loyalty better than anyone.

I’m about to say I’m sorry when I see her eyes brimming with tears. Now I’m the one reaching out, and she falls into my arms, hugging me tight.

“I am so sorry, baby,” she says. “I have always known what my father is, and I have spent my life fighting against the urge to hate him. Making excuses for him. But this is inexcusable. This is…”

She trails off. Sadistic. That’s what it is.

My grandfather had always been cruel, but this is pure gleeful sadism.

I truly cannot imagine how much work went into preserving this time capsule for me.

Because it was always for me. For the day when my grandfather died and I came back here, sentenced to spend a month in this twisted memory of my perfect childhood with my perfect dad.

How much joy had he gotten out of imagining this moment? Me walking in, expecting a ruin, instead rocketed back to my last day here? He wouldn’t be around to witness it, but he must have spent joyful hours imagining it.

You twisted old fuck.

All those times my grandfather swore my dad was innocent because his very nature meant he couldn’t be guilty.

There wasn’t a cruel bone in Harris’s body. You know that, Veronica. Samantha knows that.

No, Grandpa. There must have been cruelty there, a darkness, and there is no doubt where it came from. Just look in the mirror.

How many people at my grandfather’s funeral said what a good man he was? My dad had been better at hiding his darkness from those who loved him. My grandfather hadn’t bothered. It was those who cared about him who’d suffered.

“You aren’t staying,” Gail says, herding me out the door before I can protest. She yanks it shut behind me and locks it with a decisive click.

“Gail…” I say.

“No,” she says firmly. “He is not getting away with this.”

“So the property goes to strangers who don’t need the money?”

“No, the property goes to the person who deserves it most. You. We are going to screw that old bastard over, and I hope to God he’ll be watching us do it.”

“There are no loopholes—”

“Yes, there are.” She turns to me. “I’ve had ideas. I didn’t want to tell you, in case you got here and things weren’t so bad, because my ideas require some work.”

She walks onto the driveway, and I follow.

“The first thing is that we switch phones,” she says. “There are no cameras. No eye in the sky. The only thing that tells the lawyer you were here is your phone. I’d love to leave it on the table and go, but it’ll need to show you moving around. So I’ll take it and stay here.”

“You can’t—”

“I can. I will stay, and you will go. I have a list of hotels where you can get a room, all within a half hour’s drive. We’ll book under my name.”

“What about the caretaker?”

“We’re giving him the month off, remember? At worst, someone will spot me from a distance and think it’s you. I’ll wear one of your ball caps to hide my shorter hair.”

“Gail…”

“We’ll put a security alarm on the gate. Oh, and I’ll replace the lock. If someone comes to check on you, the security system will alert us and the locked gate will slow them down.”

“Then you’ll call me, and I’ll sneak back?”

“Why not?” Her jaw sets. “You’re allowed to leave for an hour. If you can get here in thirty minutes, that’s perfect. We’ll say you took my car for an errand.”

I sigh. “No, Gail. I appreciate the offer, but it’s not worth the risk.”

“We can do this, Sam. Screw my father. You will spend the month—”

“Right here,” says a voice, making us both jump. “Ms. Payne will spend the month here.”

A figure walks from the trees. I can’t make him out at first. Just a tall figure with a masculine voice, slinging what looks like a backpack off his shoulder. Then he steps out of the shade, coming into the sunshine.

He’s a few years older than me. Tall and lean.

Dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt that’s too warm for late August, though he’s rolled up the sleeves.

Sandy beard and shaggy light brown hair.

I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, and the beard doesn’t help me see his face, but something about him looks familiar.

“May I help you?” Gail snaps. “This is private property.”

“Yep. It is. I believe Ms. Jimenez mentioned a caretaker?”

“That’s you?” Gail sounds surprised.

“That’s me.” His voice is flat. “I am the caretaker of this property, and for the next month, the caretaker of Ms. Payne herself. Making sure she doesn’t … What was it I heard you say? Have her live off the property while you stay and pretend to be her?”

Gail’s jaw set. “If you heard that, you were mistaken.”

“Yeah, don’t think I was. But it won’t work anyway. You forgot about this.” He unzips the bag and pulls out something with a black box and strap.

“An ankle monitor?” Gail’s voice rises.

“Worn one, have you?”

“I’m a social worker,” she says coldly. “I have seen them. You are not putting that on my niece.”

“Well, then she’s not getting the … what is it? Ten million dollars from the sale of this place?” He hefts the monitor. “This is one of her grandfather’s stipulations.”

“No one mentioned an ankle monitor,” I say.

“Seems your lawyer left the dirty work to me.” He holds out his phone. “Go ahead and call her. You’ll be wearing this, and I’ll be monitoring it. Small price to pay for ten million, I’d say.”

“Look,” Gail says. “I don’t know who you are but—”

“The caretaker. You mean my name? Right. I forgot that.” He turns to me and removes his sunglasses. “You don’t remember me, do you, Samantha?”

“It’s Sam,” I say reflexively. “And I’m sorry. You look familiar, but it’s been a very long time.”

“We only met a few times. You knew my brother, though. He was about your age. I’m Ben.” He meets my gaze. “Ben Vandergriff. Austin’s older brother.”