Page 8 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

It turns out to be later than I thought. Darker, at least. I really should have found wood after dinner. Better yet, I should have had Gail stop to grab some from the dozen “firewood 4 sale” spots we’d passed along the back roads.

I scrounge up some dry sticks, which will make perfect kindling. But I want a fire that lasts more than five minutes. That requires logs.

I peer into the pitch-black woods. Yeah, I don’t want a campfire that badly. Even as a kid, I only went in the forest during the day. When I think of entering after dark, my heart picks up speed, and a memory flashes, someone grabbing my arm.

“Uh-uh, Samantha. Stay out of there at night. You know the rule.”

Samantha. My grandfather.

He was right, though. That was the rule. Always had been.

Past dark, we all had to stick to the bonfire area between the cottages. No going in the forest. No going for night swims.

I remember that moment, standing on the edge, peering into the shadows, Grandpa holding my arm.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

“The headless horseman.”

I turned, and … was he smiling? It wasn’t the smile I remember from later, the predatory one when he’d tell my mother he’d be happy to help with our bills—she just had to say she knew my father hadn’t murdered Austin.

That day, his smile glittered, along with his blue eyes, but it was a mischievous glitter.

“The Headless Horseman from Sleepy Hollow,” I say.

“Paynes Hollow. The original. Our horseman.”

I tilt my head. “But if he’s ours, why can’t I go in the forest and see him? He won’t hurt us.”

“Mmm. Best not to take the chance. If you stay in the light, he’ll know you’re a Payne. In the forest?” He shrugs his wide shoulders. “We wouldn’t want him to make a mistake.”

“What would he do if he caught me?”

Grandpa leans down. “Have you forgotten the story?”

“He’s supposed to be looking for a head, to replace his own. But how does he take them? His was supposed to have been blown off by a cannonball, but he’s not going to use a cannon.”

Grandpa laughs. “You’ve thought about this far too much, little girl.”

“But also, in the story, we’re never sure there’s a horseman, right? That’s what my dad says. It’s probably Bram Bones, trying to scare Ichabod away.”

“Your father is too much of a teacher. Always pulling stories apart and ripping out the magic. There’s a horseman, and he’s out there, looking for his head, ready to take yours instead.”

“But mine wouldn’t fit. He’s a grown man—”

“What’s going on here?” It was Mom, bearing down on us. “Did I hear you trying to scare her, Douglas?”

My grandfather straightened. “We were having a bit of fun. Samantha wanted to know why she can’t go in the forest at night, and I was teasing about the horseman.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” I pressed. “A horseman would explain why I can’t go in the forest, but not the lake. He isn’t in the water.”

“She’s got you there, Dad,” a voice said. It was my father, walking over, his arms loaded with wood.

Mom said, “We don’t go in the lake at night, Sam, because we can’t see.

An undertow could grab you, and we’d never notice you going under.

As for the forest, while most of the people who camp here are just ordinary people, some have problems. They can be dangerous, especially around children. We don’t want you getting hurt.”

They can be dangerous, especially around children.

I rub the back of my neck and shake off the memory. That’s going to keep happening, isn’t it? Memories of my life here. Memories of Dad. But it’ll be worst at the beginning, as it all rushes back. Eventually, I’ll settle in, those old memories played out.

For now, I need wood, and that means getting the old hatchet.

I have the keys in my pocket—there’d been an extra set in the cottage. I fish them out as I head for the shed.

To get there, I need to pass my uncle’s cottage.

My grandfather’s and ours have a view of the shore, but my uncle’s is farther back among the trees.

My dad was the oldest, the heir. A ridiculously outdated concept to me, but not to my grandfather.

He got the best cottage, and Dad got one almost as good.

My uncle had to make do with one that only caught a sliver of lake view.

As for Gail? She didn’t get one at all. She was just a girl.

As I head toward Uncle Mark’s cottage, I’m aware that I really should have brought a flashlight …

or at least my cell phone. I can see—it’s not fully dark—but once I pass into even the sparse trees, I need to keep my hand outstretched so I don’t bash into anything.

The thing I almost bash into is the cottage itself.

When my hand hits the porch railing, I stop short and frown. The trees never used to come up to the porch. But now saplings crowd in.

Under my fingers the wood is damp, and when I pull back, bits of wood come with them. I reach out and touch the railing. Rotting? I run my fingers over it. Yes, it’s definitely rotting.

I remember Ben saying he was charged with maintaining my family cottage.

I thought he specifically mentioned that one to clarify the devil’s bargain my grandfather made—that Ben had to maintain the house where his brother’s killer had lived.

But from the looks of this porch, he’d meant exactly what he said.

Ben had been hired to maintain our cottage.

This one—once used by the son who is still alive—could rot.

I shiver and make my way along the porch. The shed is about fifty feet in that direction. When I reach the end of my uncle’s cottage, I catch a break with the cloud cover, and I can see the shed ahead.

I take one more step, and something skitters inside the shed. I stop. The sound comes again, not from the dirt floor but the wooden walls. A squirrel racing into the eaves as it hears me coming.

I square my shoulders and continue on. I’ve spent six months in an apartment with so many mice that my cat had lost interest in catching them. I’m fine with a squirrel in the eaves.

I’m almost at the door when another sound comes, this one stopping me in my tracks.

A grunt and a shuffle. Someone moving.

I flip my back to the wall and press up against it. Then I scan the forest, as if I’m actually going to be able to see a person in the darkness.

I strain to listen, but everything’s silent.

I didn’t hear a person out here. As overgrown as my uncle’s cottage was, the shed is one of Ben’s responsibilities, and there’s a ten-foot cleared gap all around it. I might not be able to see into the forest, but I can see what’s right here, and it’s just me and the shed.

I wait another minute, letting my heart rate slow. I must have imagined the grunt and the shuffling sound. Or I heard my own breathing and movement, which is embarrassing, but proof that I’m freaked out. Either way, I am very clearly alone.

Still, as I edge toward the door, I’m grateful there aren’t any security cameras to watch me creeping along. Even when I reach it, I do a weird twist so I can undo the padlock without turning my back on the forest. I throw open the door and reach inside for the light switch.

Like the rest of the buildings, the shed is hooked up to electricity. I never thought much about that as a kid. I lived in a world where electricity was a given. But now I realize it would have cost a small fortune to hook up these buildings.

My ancestors might have liked to act like they were just regular folks with regular cottages, but my great-grandparents made sure to hook their new cottages up to electricity and install septic beds. I mean, we were Paynes. We weren’t actually going to rough it.

I hit the switch and wait for the usual flicker before the light comes on. When nothing happens, I toggle the switch a few more times.

Darkness.

Well, shit.

Guess I really did need that flashlight.

I peer past the door, listening. Nothing. There’s no one there and never was.

I open it wide, in hopes of letting in enough light to see the hatchet. The moon is in the right direction, and it’s currently cloud-free, so I just need—

Something moves inside the shed.

My heart stops for two seconds, until I curse under my breath. Yes, something’s moving … because I already heard a squirrel.

But this didn’t sound like a squirrel.

My fingers tighten on the open door. Nothing of any size can be in here. The door was locked.

Still, how badly do I need that campfire? I’m just being stubborn, aren’t I? I decided I wanted a fire, and if I forgot to prepare wood during daylight, that’s my own fault, and I will rectify the mistake.

I shake my head. I’ll have a bonfire tomorrow when Gail can join me. I’ll spend part of the day building piles of tinder and logs. And I’ll figure out why the light isn’t working—

A grunt. A shuffle. Feet shuffling on the dirt floor.

From inside the shed.

That is not a squirrel.

I’m frozen, trying to peer through near darkness. My eyes adjust and—

There’s something less than ten feet away. It moves toward me, and a figure takes shape, and my gaze rises to see a human head and dark liquid eyes glinting in the barest hint of light through the open door.

I wheel and run. My brain screams for me to look back and see what I’m running from, that I can’t race blindly into the forest or I’ll bash into—

My hands hit a tree, wrists snapping with the force. I spin around to face whatever’s behind me.

Nothing’s behind me. In the moonlight, the shed door stands open.

I blink at it. Then I cautiously move around the big tree until I can see my uncle’s cottage and the road beyond.

I take one last look at the shed.

Then I run.