Chapter 8
8
Even though I knew it would be cold, the air still knocks the breath out of me. My eyeballs sting and my hands ache as I fumble to lace up my sneakers. Getting my gloves back on feels like an emergency. It’s past six a.m., but the sky is still navy blue. It would be easy to burrow back underneath my fluffy quilt, but my veins throb with nervous energy.
I’d dreamt of Coram House. Not ghosts or anything like that, just the building. The high, arched windows. Dust motes dancing in the light. Wide pine floorboards with knots so dark they looked burned there. In the dream, the building had been silent and empty. But still, I’d felt a sinking sense of horror. Like all those children—in the hallways, cleaning the floors, doing laundry, whispering, eating their meals, locked in the attic—had disappeared without a trace, leaving nothing behind.
Or almost nothing.
On waking, I’d thought of that cupboard, each shelf bearing a neat label. They called us by our numbers. The first thing you learn as a child is how to name things. If someone can take away something as fundamental as your name, it must feel like they have the ultimate authority to do anything they want. God’s authority.
I start my run with lazy loops on quiet streets until my muscles feel elastic. Then I lengthen my strides and head north, past the police station, its lights still glowing red. Past quiet, dark houses and trees that scratch at the sky with bare limbs. It’s early and most people are still in bed. I have the world to myself.
The sign for Rock Point comes sooner than I expect. And it’s a good thing I see it, tucked into the shadows of the trees, otherwise I would have missed the trail entirely. A few steps into the woods, a large sign shows a map of the area. Rock Point sticks into the water like a thumb, with a three-mile trail looping the peninsula. South of the point is the bay with the harbor and downtown. North is the open waters of Lake Champlain. I lean closer. Coram House isn’t marked, but the graveyard is shaded in gray and, right in the center, someone’s drawn a skull and crossbones. Not far from here—maybe a mile.
My legs are starting to tighten up. I need to move. But the emptiness of the woods makes me uneasy. There are no cars on the street. No one walking their dog. The snow on the trail is fresh and untouched. I could be the last human alive. But I’m not going back to the apartment. The only other choice is to run. So that’s what I do.
The snow squeaks beneath my feet, loose and dry as sand. The sky is blue ombre now, but it still feels like night beneath the trees. The path passes between two lichen-covered boulders and widens into a clearing. Another trail joins along with another set of footprints. They’re small—a woman’s footprints. At least I’m not alone in here.
The trees thicken and the snow gets crisp and hard as if I’m running on a crust of sugar. A sign nailed to a tree promises a viewpoint in half a mile. The trail tilts steeply up and I slow to avoid breaking an ankle on the knobby, buried tree roots. By the time I crest the rise, each breath feels jagged as a shard of glass and I’m hoping this viewpoint will be worth it.
Abruptly, the trees fall away and I’m on top of a rocky cliff, a guardrail all that stands between me and the sweeping expanse of ice and water below. This must be the tip of Rock Point, right at the place where the ice meets the open water. A line between dark and light. A wave moves across the water, then meets the edge of the ice and tunnels beneath like a giant worm. I grab for the railing as vertigo washes over me.
Across the bay, another peninsula mirrors this one. A dock extends into the water where a pair of red Adirondack chairs and a dark lump—probably a BBQ—wait for the return of summer. Perched on the cliff above the dock, I can just make out a house. The shape is boxy and ultramodern, but clad in raw wood that blends into the forest. A house wearing camouflage.
My toes ache. Time to start moving. I turn away from the view, already thinking about a cup of coffee. But there’s a monster on the trail. Huge with spindly legs and dark fur beneath a crown of bone. Puffs of white from nostrils big enough to swallow my fist. My heart squishes into my throat.
Moose.
The word takes too long to surface. Then it’s gone, crashing off into the underbrush.
In the silence that follows, a laugh bubbles out. A moose. It’s so absurd. Are moose dangerous? I have no idea. I listen for the snapping of branches, but all is quiet.
Then it’s not.
A raw howl of terror rends the air. Everything in me freezes—legs, heart, breath. Then it’s over.
Breathe, breathe, but I can’t find any air. My vision swims. I replay the sound in my head, but it’s like trying to relive the pain of a broken bone—a dull, faded version of the real thing. And now it’s so quiet I wonder whether I imagined it. But my beating heart says differently.
Was it the moose? But, no. I’m sure the sound was human. I don’t know how I know, but I just do. Someone out there is hurt. I think of the single set of footprints in the snow.
My breathing slows. I think back, trying to figure out what direction the scream came from. There was an echo to it, as if it were bouncing off something. It was close. And I’m almost sure it was coming from the north, back the way I came.
I retrace my footsteps, scanning the ground. But it’s only my footprints. Where had the others left the trail? I speed up. A minute later, I find an offshoot trail I hadn’t noticed before. Even with the yellow marker nailed to the tree, I might have missed it if it weren’t for the footprints in the snow. The trail leads steeply down toward the water.
“Hello?” I call. No answer. Not even wind in the trees.
Maybe someone fell and broke a leg. Then why aren’t they calling for help? The voice in my head is all sarcasm and raised eyebrows. It sounds like Lola.
Okay, maybe they just had a scare and screamed. Maybe they saw a fucking moose.
All right, girl, then why aren’t they answering you now?
“Hello?” I call again, wondering if I might be losing my mind.
A branch snaps behind me. I whirl around, but there’s nothing there. My ears strain with the effort of trying to pull noise from the silence. But then I do hear something, coming from ahead and below—the direction of the water. It’s a scraping sound, like something heavy being dragged along a rock. It’s different than the other sounds in the woods. Louder. More deliberate. More human.
“Is someone there?” I shout, louder this time.
The scraping gets faster, like someone in a hurry. Like someone heard me.
It’s followed by a hollow thunk. Then another.
A faint splash.
Something falling in the water? I look down at the trail. The footprints are even smaller than I’d thought. Narrow and at least three inches shorter than my size-ten running shoes. Definitely a woman or, my heart clutches, a child even.
“Hello?” I call again, hearing the desperation in my voice. “Is anyone there? Are you all right?”
Silence. Only then, like an idiot, do I think of my phone. I pull it out with shaking hands, but there are no bars. How is there anywhere left with no cell phone service?
I’m two miles away from the road. And who knows how long it will take for help to get here. I think of the rocky cliffs below the viewpoint, the freezing water lapping beneath. Then I follow the footprints into the woods.
I half run, half fall down the steep trail. The snow is deeper here, piled up against the trees as if it’s all flowing downhill. Every few feet I stop to scan the forest for any sign of movement. The footprints in the snow are steady—someone walking, not running. But they go in only one direction. No one came back this way.
The wind picks up as I get closer to the water. Around me, ice-covered branches sway against one another, making the sound of tiny bells. The woods are still—there’s no one here. And yet, I feel eyes. The predatory gaze of something waiting for my back to be turned. My teeth are chattering, which is strange since my insides feel hot and liquid. Like my organs have turned to soup.
I keep walking, back and forth, down endless switchbacks. It’s going to be a teenager with a twisted ankle and I’m going to feel like an idiot. I will this to be true.
At the bottom of the hill, the trail emerges onto a narrow rock ledge, blown clear of snow. The footprints are gone, but the only place to go is straight ahead where the path ends at a long set of wooden stairs, leading down to a rocky beach. A cove, really, sheltered by rock ledges topped in tall pines. The beach is empty. Shit.
I turn around, but there’s nowhere else to go. The hill is too steep to climb. I scan the ground for any sign a person came this way. The red rocks are pitted with pools of ice, leaves and pine needles frozen inside like museum exhibits, encased in glass. No footprints anywhere, but no snow either.
“Hello?” I call. The only answer is the rhythmic slap of water against rocks. I’m starting to feel ridiculous. I’ll check the beach, and then I’ll get out of here.
The stairs have seen better days. The railing wobbles and I step over the treads stained black with rot. Tiny pebbles squeak and shift underfoot as I walk right up to the water’s edge. There’s a crust of ice near shore, but twenty feet out, waves slap gently against the ledges of rock. From down here, they’re not as steep as they looked from above—more like a natural staircase that leads into the water. In the summer, I imagine this place is full of people sunning themselves on rocks before slipping into the cool water. But today, it feels desolate. The water is empty.
Whoever I heard is gone or was never here to begin with. It was probably some raccoon mating call. After all, what do I know about the woods? A knot deep in my gut loosens. But my toes have stopped hurting, which scares me for a different reason. I jump a few times and swing my arms, trying to get blood back into my fingertips. Time to go.
I turn to head back up the stairs. The relief drains out of me so quickly I’m lightheaded. On the ground, right under the staircase, purple flashes against the russet rocks. It comes into focus. A purple jacket. Not just a jacket. A person. Two wide-open eyes stare at me. And blood. So much blood.