Page 9 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

Seven

“There’s someone in the shed,” I say as I burst through the cottage door.

Gail looks up from the table, where I’d left her on her work call. “What?”

I struggle to catch my breath. “I went to get the hatchet. Ben said it was in the shed. There’s someone in there.”

She pushes the chair back as she rises. “In the shed?”

“Yes.” I take a deep breath and slow down.

“There’s a person in the shed. A man, I think.

Someone tall. That’s all I could see. The light isn’t working, and I forgot to grab a flashlight.

” I take another breath as I fight to calm down.

“It must be a squatter. With no one living here, someone found a dry place to sleep.”

“Was the door unlocked?”

“I used the key in the padlock, but I didn’t check to see whether the hasp was fastened.

” I pause. “No, if someone shut the door from inside, the latch couldn’t have been shut, and it was.

There must be another way in.” I fidget with the keys.

“I definitely saw someone, Gail. I wasn’t imagining it. ”

“I never said you were.”

“I thought it was a squirrel moving around. Then I heard a grunt that sounded human and saw a human figure and eyes. That’s when I ran.”

“Thank God,” she says, coming over to squeeze my forearms. “You’re right. It’s probably a squatter. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous. Living in the shed? What the hell is that caretaker doing?” She shakes her head.

“The question is what are we going to do,” I say.

“Call the police, of course.” She takes out her phone.

“Do we really want to do that?”

Her brows rise. “Uh, yes. There’s a stranger living on our property.”

I lower myself into a kitchen chair. “If you think that’s the best way to handle it, go ahead. But my guess is that the guy’s long gone, and the local law enforcement is Sheriff Smits, who is not going to appreciate being called out at this hour for a squatter.”

“We met Sheriff Smits at the funeral, right? If he was there, he can’t hold a grudge for what happened here.”

“He was there because his wife used to be friends with my mom. I could never get a read on the sheriff. I just know that I don’t want him writing me off as a hysterical city girl …

and ignoring my call if I really need help.

” I pause and give myself a hard shake. “That’s silly. You’re right. We should call him.”

Gail envelops me in a hug. “No, I get what you’re saying. It’s awful being back, but at least we can hole up here, shop in the next town and not need to interact with the locals. I’m sure most of them are sympathetic, but you don’t want to take any chances. Not after that asshole caretaker.”

I tense. “Ben—”

“—is the brother of Austin Vandergriff, and I’m being unkind.

Uncharitable, too. I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, Sam, but whatever Ben has gone through, his behavior toward you was unacceptable.

I can understand him blaming you when he was a teenager, but he’s a grown man now.

My point is that if you don’t want to call in the police for this, we won’t call them. ”

She walks to the door. “We’ll lock up tight, and keep our phones handy.

I also…” She glances over her shoulder. “I brought a gun.” Before I can react, she says, “I’ve had one for a few months.

I didn’t want to tell you, but remember when I was having problems with that client? I … may have downplayed it.”

“What?”

She waves a hand. “It wasn’t a big deal, but my coworkers said it was finally time for me to get a gun. So I did, and I brought it here.” She glances toward the door. “It’s in the trunk.”

“I don’t have any problem with you owning a gun, Gail. I do have a problem with you needing one, though.”

“It’s over. He moved out west.”

“Okay, well, if you brought a gun, I’m going to suggest that maybe keeping it in your trunk kinda defeats the purpose.”

Her lips quirk. “You think?”

“Nah, it’s fine. If we’re beset by angry townsfolk, we’ll just ask them to wait while you find your car key.”

She rolls her eyes. “My keys are right…” She turns and scans the counter. “Uh…”

I point to the ring, hung on the coatrack. “Bring your gun case inside. I just hope you don’t have a key for that, too, or we’re really in trouble.”

She swats my shoulder, retrieves the keys, and heads out to her car.

I’ll be sleeping in my old bed. I hadn’t wanted to do that, but the only other option was my parents’ bed.

It’s a two-bedroom cottage, built back at a time when you could expect all the kids to bunk down in one room, at least for the summer.

I’d considered the sofa bed, but it wasn’t comfortable even back then, and if I’m going to be here for a month, I’ll need to get used to my old room.

The problem isn’t how difficult that will be—it’s how easy it is.

I settle in, and the sheets smell of the laundry detergent we always used.

It’s my actual old bedding, too—plaid flannel sheets with a quilt made by my grandmother.

I keep thinking of how much work my grandfather went through to reconstruct my childhood summer home, how long he’d been planning this. He must have had the linens professionally stored, and he even made sure they were washed in the right detergent after they were taken out of storage.

I’m going to stop mind-boggling at that, and instead, I’m going to find satisfaction in it.

All that painstaking work, and it’s not going to make a difference.

He said he wanted me to remember “the truth,” and maybe that’s what all this is for.

He’s convinced that if he immerses me in sensory memory, I’ll recall some critical fact.

Oh my God, I was wrong all along. I saw my dad burying a dead deer, and mistook it for Austin Vandergriff ’ s body, which happened to also be on our property, murdered by a crazed camper! It was all a horrible coincidence!

At best, this re-creation is a desperate old man’s delusion. At worst, it’s a vindictive bastard trying to punish me from beyond the grave. Re-create the scenario so it’ll all be too much, and I’ll flee, to spend the rest of my life knowing I could have been rich … if only I’d been stronger.

If that’s his plan and he’s watching, he’s going to be disappointed. I’ll leave still knowing my dad is a killer but with the money to help my mother.

You lose, Grandpa.

I will pay a price in mental torment and emotional trauma, but I’ve chosen to pay it, and that makes a difference.

I slide into that bed, with my old stuffed cat Blinky, feeling those warm sheets, smelling the freshness of them, and I am a child again. Safe and loved and enjoying my perfect summer break.

Tears spring to my eyes, but I don’t even stay awake long enough to cry.

I’m in my old bed, and it is so damned easy just to close my eyes and drift off.

Before I do, the last thing I hear is the memory of my parents talking in the kitchen, as they always did after I went to bed.

Dad is saying something and Mom is laughing and the little girl in me smiles and cuddles down with her stuffed cat and falls asleep.

I startle awake to the sound of hooves pounding hard dirt. I wake, gasping, ears straining until I realize what I thought I heard and I have to laugh under my breath.

The headless horseman rides again.

I shake my head. Of course, there’s no sound of hoofbeats once I’m awake. It’s just me and Blinky and the ticking of my old alarm clock.

How many times had I woken in the night and sworn I’d heard hooves? My cheeks heat as I remember how I’d rush out to tell my parents.

I heard him. The horseman. I heard him outside.

Mom had always fretted at that. My grandfather’s stories were clearly giving me nightmares. Dad said no, listen to my voice, look at my face. I wanted to see the horseman.

He was right, of course. Maybe it’s because “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” was such an old story, like a fairy tale, set too far in the past to be frightening.

Maybe it’s because the story is—let’s face it—a little ridiculous.

New schoolteacher comes to town and sets his hat on the girl from a wealthy family.

His rival tells him the horseman story and then chases him and throws a pumpkin at him.

Oh, I know, the ending is supposed to leave that open to interpretation, but even as a child, I never envisioned an actual horseman throwing his actual severed head.

The implied explanation had been clear to me.

The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow was as fake as a Scooby-Doo mystery. I wanted our horseman to be different.

I wanted the magic.

I smile to myself and walk into the living room. It’s warm. Normally, we’d open the windows facing the lake, but I can’t do that if there’s someone squatting on the property.

Gail and I will check out the shed in the morning.

If someone’s been living in there, I can hope that once he realizes the property is occupied, he’ll leave.

If that seems unlikely, I’ll need to tell Ben.

That’ll be awkward, but he is the caretaker.

I’ll only contact Sheriff Smits if the squatter seems dangerous.

I hate to drive someone off. That’s such a rich-landowner thing to do. There’s plenty of space. But Gail and I are two women surrounded by acres of forest, with no neighbors for a mile. We can’t have a strange man camped a few hundred feet away.

We’ll figure it out. For now, the windows stay shut, which is making for a very stuffy night. At the very least, we need to invest in fans.

I head for the front window. I’ll crack it open enough to get a breeze and cool off. I’m reaching down to do that when I spot lights on the water.

I squint. I’m wearing glasses—I have contacts during the day. My glasses, though, are several prescriptions out of date. I can see lights on the water, but that’s it. Boats? I squint more. No, I don’t see anything floating on the surface. Even the lights seem to be under it.

Okay, that’s weird. Lights under the water?