Chapter 2
Jennie Phillips
Newton Creek, Wisconsin
September—Present Day
She had buried her dead—and that was okay.
It was this mud, the flooding, and the earth beneath her feet making sucking sounds with each step that was overwhelming her.
But wasn’t that a lot like life? Just when you thought you were getting back on a path that was solid, more predictable, finally pursuing your passion, another catastrophic event derailed it all.
Jennie Phillips had spent her early twenties in France, the Louvre her playground, sending pics to her mom of the works of Delacroix and Jean Auguste Ingres and Rembrandt and, well, pick an artist who embodied their very soul on the canvas they painted and that was the unbreakable tie Jennie had experienced with her mother.
But today? Today she was thirty, her mom’s passing from cancer only months in her rearview mirror, she’d lost her ties to the art world in the last two years of caring for Mom, and now she was still cleaning up after her dead father—a task she’d unwillingly inherited after Mom’s death.
Dad had left an unending dossier of historical property investments throughout the United States.
He’d left a lot of money too, so Jennie didn’t have to work ever again if she didn’t want to.
Still, even five years after the heart attack ended his narcissistic reign of oppression, his lawyers were still trying to sift through all he’d left behind.
Jennie lifted her foot as her rain boot sank into the soggy earth.
Water flooded the boot’s imprint in the mud.
The farmland of central Wisconsin was about as far away from Paris as she could get.
The phone call she’d received from Dad’s attorney had changed her plans—and her flight.
Paris and reentry into her cocoon of classical studies had been shelved once again.
All because of this place.
Newton Creek.
Or more specifically, Traeger Hall.
Movement snagged Jennie from her internal musings.
She scanned her surroundings as if just awakening to them.
The land to the north rose in a steady slope leading to the hilltop, the highest point of the township of Newton Creek, all the way up to the imposing, boxlike edifice called Traeger Hall with its unusual bell tower.
She had yet to visit the mansion because the unexpected and rare fall flooding hadn’t affected the house and grounds like it had everything else.
A shadow slipped behind an oak tree in the path ahead of Jennie. The tree’s bark had turned black from the rain, and its branches were already losing their leaves. Jennie tilted her head, narrowing her eyes as she peered at the small form behind the oak.
“Hello there!” Jennie called out, infusing a lighthearted warmth into her tone that she didn’t feel inside. Beyond the tree, she saw more trees dotting the flatland and, in the distance, the dilapidated remains of Traeger Sawmill.
Jennie could make out the form of a boy, maybe eight years old, hiding behind the tree, craning his neck to eye her with curiosity.
She sloshed her way forward on the trail that ran around the base of the Traeger hill, toward what had once been the primary economic support for the community back in the 1800s: the sawmill.
All that was left of the sawmill were the skeletal remains of one of the buildings along with the mill wheel, still poised over Newton Creek. It was as if the wheel wanted to return to work, but its elderly and fragile condition prevented it from doing so.
“Hello?” she called again, and the boy stepped into full view but didn’t return her greeting.
He stared at her with large brown eyes, framed by circular glasses that might have given him a Harry Potter vibe if he wasn’t so lanky and his hair so unruly with black curls.
He wore a white Pokémon T-shirt with a Poké Ball at its center.
His blue jeans were cuffed high, and his green rain boots sported Pikachu faces.
“Are you okay?” Jennie tried to engage the boy, wondering where the boy’s parents were and why he was roaming the countryside alone.
The boy motioned with his hand, waving toward himself. He looked over his shoulder at the sawmill and then back to her.
“Is something wrong?”
The boy didn’t seem to have any intention of responding. But as she came alongside him, he beckoned for her to follow. Curious and concerned about the boy’s welfare, Jennie pursued him, their feet slopping through the muck. It grew muddier and slicker as they neared the old sawmill.
Newton Creek had been blown out entirely by the flooding.
What had once been a delightful small stream that fly fisherman could wade in and catch brown trout from its undercuts, was now a wide swath of clay muck.
The rains had caused the creek to swell, overfilling its banks until the small, man-made dam above the mill gave way, leaving Newton Pond to finish the job of destroying the landscape.
The flood had forever changed the creek. Now only a trickle of water remained, a few feet in width and shin-deep.
The boy hopped across the creek by stepping strategically on exposed flat stones, revealed by the draining of the creek.
As Jennie struggled to keep up with the child, her foot slipped and landed with a splash.
Her boot was barely tall enough to protect her jeans, and mud splattered over the front of the purple galoshes.
The clay earth tried to swallow her foot like quicksand, but she tugged it free with a watery squelch.
“Wait up!” Jennie called after the boy.
Ignoring her, he continued on, scampering toward the mill wheel.
The ruins of Traeger Sawmill marred the otherwise natural surroundings of meadow and rocky earth. What had once been an area rife with workers, roads, wagons, and domestic animals was now nothing more than a demolished creek, bordered by a meadow on one side and a soybean field on the other.
Newton Creek had died right along with Leopold, Traeger Hall’s original owner, back at the turn of the century.
What had supposedly been a burgeoning village and a growing economy was handed down to the few folks left behind, leaving them pieces of ghost-town memorabilia and not much else to speak of.
The boy balanced on a rock that was dotted with lichen the color of mint. Spring water gurgled past it as though trying to keep Newton Creek alive. He pointed toward the mill wheel.
Jennie stood on the bank and leaned out.
“I don’t see anything.” She squinted. That wasn’t entirely true, as she saw rusted tin cans half buried in the mud of the former creek bed.
And she saw scraps of wood and old iron spikes littering the area, with water trickling over and around everything.
The worst part was the fish. A few small trout flopped and flipped in puddles, trying to make their way to the deeper part of the water’s flow to survive the demise of their creek.
It already stank of rotted dead things and algae mixed in a cocktail of amoebas and frogs.
The boy shook his finger as if to mime what his mouth could not voice. There! He pointed once more toward the base of the sawmill wheel that tilted precariously from its moorings and appeared ready to collapse alongside what remained of the mill’s building.
Jennie craned her neck to better see what the boy was pointing at. Her breath caught in her throat. She focused on the five brownish-white things sticking up in the mud. A claw. A wild grasp, frozen in time as if reaching for the sky.
In a split second, Jennie grappled for the boy, twisting him toward her and away from what she hoped was not the grisly reality she imagined. She squatted in front of him, locking eyes with the boy and gripping his upper arms.
“Do you live nearby?” She searched his face, hoping he’d finally speak to her.
The boy nodded instead.
“Okay.” Jennie tried to steady her nerves by sucking in a deep breath.
Bones. Was she overreacting? Was that really a hand, unearthed and clawing the air?
She glanced over the boy’s shoulder. It would be hard to tell for certain until she got closer, but there was no way she wanted the kid to see it any more than he already had.
“Can you run home and get help? Your mom or dad? I’d like them to come and help me.
” She applauded herself for the calm in her voice.
Again, the boy nodded.
Jennie released him and gave him a reassuring fist bump. “All right then. Why don’t you—?”
Before she could finish, the boy skirted around her and sprinted off as though the earth was made of granite and the slippery mud not an obstacle.
Jennie straightened, rubbing her sweaty palms on her jeans.
She scanned the old sawmill, the creek, the land on each side, and Traeger Hall on the hilltop in the distance—all of this was hers now.
Dad had purchased the Traeger Estate, which included hundreds of acres.
The township of Newton Creek, now just a patchwork quilt of farmland and private homes that met in the middle of the tiny village, sat in the shadows of everything Traeger.
As the new custodian in charge here, it was Jennie’s responsibility to investigate the potential appendage sticking up from the sawmill’s ground.
She might not be a Traeger by ancestry, but she was the rightful owner of this place.
And she didn’t want to call the cops just yet.
If it turned out the appendage was only sticks, then she’d feel like an idiot.
Jennie was nowhere near as adept at maneuvering around the obstacles as the boy.
She attempted to balance on a log that was slimy from years of being underwater.
Her foot slipped, and she yelped as she sank ankle-deep in the mud.
She tugged at her leg, the clay from the creek bed pulling determinedly at her boot.
Crying out, Jennie lost her balance, her captive foot sinking deeper into the muck.
Her hands splashed into the cold stream of water.
Mud painted her chest and face as she finished her downward trajectory with a splat.
She lay prostrate in the creek bed for a moment, considering her options.
Traeger Hall and its legacy was as murky as this creek bed—ruined and marring anything and everything that encountered it.
She hadn’t even had time yet to reconcile why she was here at Newton Creek, let alone deal with Traeger Hall’s burdensome history.
She lifted her face . . . and froze.
Not far away, the five protruding things still scraped the air. Jennie recognized the unmistakable shape of knuckles and joints, stretching, palm upward, from the mire of the creek bed, as if the unfortunate soul had, with a last breath, frantically raked at the air above.
Jennie winced but forced herself not to look away this time.
It seemed the thick mud was the only thing holding the skeletal hand in place, and whatever else remained of the unfortunate one beneath the mud was completely out of sight.
She changed her mind then, deciding it was time to call the authorities.
Meanwhile, she’d be careful not to disturb the scene.
Thank God she’d sent the boy to get help—not because anyone he returned with could help her so much as this vision would have etched itself into the child’s mind for life.
The innocence in his eyes having communicated he’d discovered something out of place was enough.
He didn’t need to know he’d identified a dead body.
Jennie’s hands sank deeper into the mud as she pushed herself up from the creek bed, away from the offensive appendage.
Her ankle twisted in the clay, her knees sinking down and scraping against buried rocks.
Scrambling to extricate herself caused clay to squish between her hands and release the stench of rotting earth.
“I gotta get out of here,” she muttered to herself.
She twisted, grappling for a wooden beam that had broken off the mill and was stuck halfway out of the creek.
Wrapping her hand around it, Jennie hoisted herself to her feet.
As she did, more mud and silt slid from beneath the mill wheel nearby.
The skeletal hand moved as if it still had life within it.
The index finger and thumb curled inward.
She gasped as more horror was revealed.
Turned toward her, half buried in the clay, a hollow eye socket stared back at her, and she recognized the unmistakable breadth of a skull’s temple.
A scream echoed across the meadow, resonating in her ears as a shrill siren of terror. It was her own scream. And now she screamed again for the corpse—for the human remains whose own screams had long been silenced by the creek.