Page 51 of The Souls of Lost Lake

“They found—this morning, they found more blood.”

There. Troy had finally stopped dancing around the truth. The weight in Wren’s stomach thudded harder with the words. “More?”

Troy nodded. “Toward Lost Lake, actually. There was a small clearing, and they found blood there. Not—just a little.”

“Did they findher?”

“No. But they’ve taken samples to be analyzed. If it’s confirmed to be human—maybe matched to Jasmine—then this will change from a search and rescue to a search and recovery.” Troy tilted his head forward until his forehead touched hers. “I know that will eat you alive if it does, Wren. And I’m not going to be around to help you.”

“I’ll be fine.” Wren heard the water in her voice. She wasn’t very convincing, considering she was already trying not to cry. “I have Eddie,” she added to reassure Troy there was someone in his absence.

His eyes darkened. He pulled back a little. “Sure. Yeah. That’s good.” He offered an encouraging but tight-lipped smile. Nodding, he reached for her again, and this time Wren allowed the embrace. It was short, but it held meaning. Troy cared. So deeply.

“She’s not dead, Troy,” Wren whispered.

“I hope you’re right,” he responded, yet his tone told her he was doubtful.

“She’s not.” Saying it made it true. It had to.

The lone swing swept the air back and forth, its chains squeaking with the motion. A metallic resistance against the movement. Itwanted to be still. The swing wanted to rest. Yet something kept it in motion, though its yellow seat was empty, the park devoid of humanity.

Wren walked toward the swing, noting how the fog curled around her ankles. Embracing her like an obsession that willed her forward. The tree line was thick, dark blue with hints of evergreen marrying with the fog.

“Jasmine!” she called. It was nighttime. The search parties had all retired, but she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Wren had to keep searching. Giving up was admitting Jasmine was lost, and that was unacceptable. You never gave up searching for a child. You never gave up. Never. Gave. Up.

“Jasmine!” Wren’s voice wobbled, weak from overuse and hoarse from being dry. She patted her side for a water bottle, then realized she’d not put her backpack on. She’d come to the park in the deep of night with no preparations. What if she found Jasmine? What if Jasmine was truly hurt? How would she help?

The fog cleared a bit from the deer trail, and Wren stilled. A shadow moved across the path. It didn’t take any form. It just moved. In unison with the squeaking of the swing. She took a step closer until she saw it, in the depths, reaching from the woods. A white hand, long fingers, extended through the branches. Its fingertips curled as if to beckon Wren toward it.

She shivered. The hand looked dead. The skin was white, the flesh wrinkled—disintegrating—as if it had been submerged in water for days. As Wren drew closer, she noted the fingernails were blackened, and one of the fingers was missing its nail altogether.

“No.” Wren’s whisper was louder than she’d expected. She declined the hand’s beckoning motion. “No, I-I can’t.”

“Baby?” The voice was a woman’s. It was coming from behind her. Wren tried to turn, to twist around to see. “Come back to me.” The woman was crying. Wren could tell by her voice as it drifted across the park.

The swing stopped swinging.

The hand curled into a fist and yanked backward into the darkness, disappearing.

Wren screamed.

“Hey, hey, hey.”

Wren jerked forward into a sitting position in her bed. Her shirt stuck to her body. It was drenched in sweat. The sheets were also damp, and they tangled around her feet like the fog in her dream.

Eddie pulled his hand back. He must have been patting her cheek lightly. Trying to awaken her.

“Is she okay?” Gary’s sleepy voice, a rough growl, came from the hallway.

“Yeah, Dad. I got her,” Eddie replied over his shoulder.

“Good. I’m going to go check on Mom.” Gary moved on toward Patty’s room.

Wren ran her hands over her head, pushing her hair back, the coppery strands almost maroon in the dim light. A dream. Right? It’d been a dream. The hand. The woman’s voice.

“You were screaming again.” Eddie wasn’t blaming, just informing her.

“I’m sorry to wake you up.”