Chapter 5 Chloe
CHLOE
Ican’t get Oliver’s story out of my head.
I tell myself it’s not my business, that I don’t actually know him or his family, but a thin snake of worry keeps wriggling around in my belly.
He’s ten years old and nonverbal. Surely it’s not a good idea for him to be traipsing around on the peninsula—the very same peninsula my realtor told me was dangerous? Where hikers routinely get lost?
I don’t even know what that means. It’s not even that big a patch of land. So how are hikers getting lost?
What if there really is someone living out there?
By the time I finish dinner, I feel like I ought to do something, although I’m not sure what. Eventually, I do what I always do when I’m feeling uncertain: I text Abi and Penelope about it. Penelope gets back to me first, which isn’t surprising. Abi’s been distracted lately.
Penelope’s response is also not terribly surprising.
Go check it out yourself.
I sigh, frowning down at my phone. Of course she’d say that, growing up the way she did. With the sister and mother she has.
And do what exactly?
I drop the phone on the counter and fix myself a bowl of strawberries and cream for dessert. There was a farm stand selling the strawberries when I drove into town the other day, with a hand-painted sign reading Last of the season! How could I resist that?
My phone dings.
Just check it out. See what’s out there. If it seems sketch, you can take it to the kid’s parents.
I roll my eyes. This is typical of Penelope.
She likes putting herself in danger because, from what I gather, her whole childhood and adolescence always existed at the edge of danger.
Now, she channels that energy into protesting.
She’s the sort of person who knows about anti-surveillance makeup and how to get pepper spray out of your eyes and what to do if you get arrested.
And if there is some dude out there? What then?
If the kid’s not scared of him, then he can’t be that dangerous.
I scowl. Penelope’s conception of what is and isn’t dangerous is wildly different from mine.
I shove my phone in my pocket and carry my strawberries out to the pier to consider my options.
There’s still plenty of light left, all of it soft and hazy and golden-tinged, the kind of light that gives everything a halo.
The lake throws up sparks as it laps against Oliver’s boat, still tied to my pier.
I stare down at the boat. I think about Penelope’s message. Go check it out yourself.
I take a big bite of my strawberries.
It wouldn’t be too hard to row over there once I’m finished. Poke around. Just to see. Then I could even take the boat back over to Oliver’s pier when I’m done.
I could look at it as an adventure, I suppose. Same as the adventure of moving to this lake house.
I pull out my phone and find that Abi’s chimed in.
Abi
Um, isn’t this kind of dangerous?
Penelope
Again, if the kid’s not scared, Chloe will be fine THIS ONE TIME. Enough to decide if it’s sketch or not. Better to take action than do nothing at all.
I fire off a reply before I can stop myself.
I’m doing it. Will let you know when I’ve landed.
Both of them start typing at once. I pocket my phone and polish off the rest of the strawberries. I wanted to sit out in the golden light and relish them, but what are some fresh strawberries compared to a bit of danger?
I leave my bowl and spoon sitting on the pier and then lower myself down into the boat.
It’s a lot more rickety than it looks, and it sinks beneath my weight, making the water splash around the sides.
In my pocket, my phone buzzes a couple of times, but I don’t check to see what either of them has to say. I’m already in the boat. I’m going.
I untie the rope and push off, the boat slicing sideways through the water like it wants to move along the shore.
It takes me a few minutes to figure out how to use the oars, and they feel awkward and clumsy as I dip them into the surface.
The boat spins sideways, and I slap the water around until I manage to at least point myself in the right direction.
Then I row.
Well, I attempt to row. For a few minutes, it feels like I’m not even moving, like I’m stuck in some swirling eddy and I’m never getting out.
I can not fathom how a ten-year-old could do this.
But then I heave with as much of my meager upper body strength as I can manage, and the boat shoves forward, toward the peninsula.
Once I get the hang of rowing, though, I find I actually kind of like it. I like the rhythmic slap of the oars against the lake, and the warm rush of the wind as it pushes my hair back away from my face.
It’s pleasant, at least until the hull grinds up against the shore of the peninsula.
I jolt forward, startled by how quickly I ran ashore. For a minute, I just sit there and look up at the dense crush of poplar trees forming a wall in front of me. The sun may be warm and golden out here on the water, but the trees seem to swallow up all the light.
Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
I force myself to stand up, though, thinking about Penelope’s last message, how it’s better to take action than do nothing. She isn’t wrong. Besides, the distance between the peninsula and my pier isn’t far at all. I could swim it easily. But I still feel like I just breached into some other world.
I slide my phone out and skim through the torrent of messages from Abi and Penelope. I ignore all of them as I type out my own.
Just landed.
That sets off a new flurry, of course.
Abi
Be fucking careful omg!
Penelope
Keep your phone out of sight. If you see anyone, play it cool and then get the fuck out as quickly as you can.
I decide to take Penelope’s advice to heart, slipping my phone back down into my pocket.
Then I take a few hesitant steps forward, the boat rocking precariously underfoot.
There’s one terrifying moment when I think the whole thing is going to tip over and dump me in the shallow, muddy water, but I manage to leap out and land on the shore with a huff.
“Last adventure for you,” I mutter to myself, then drag the boat further up on the shore so it doesn’t get loose on the lake.
I look up at the trees again.
They rustle in the wind, that soft, persistent rushing sound that I’m still getting used to. Plus, there’s all the usual insect sounds over here, too: the constant buzzing rattle of grasshoppers, the occasional whir of a cicada.
I swallow and do what I’m certain Penelope would tell me is a stupid idea, but which, in this moment, feels right.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice getting swept up on the wind. “Hi, I live across the lake!”
There’s no answer, just the rustle of the trees. I creep sideways along the narrow strip of dirt, the air heavy and damp and hot. The only respite comes from the breeze blowing over the water. The growth is so dense and tangled that I can’t imagine anyone lives out here.
But then I see it. A place in the underbrush that’s been stomped down, where the underbrush isn’t quite so thick. It’s not a path, per se, but I can tell that someone’s walked there more than once, forming a narrow, dark tunnel that goes deeper into the woods.
My heart hammers. I glance back at the houses again. Not just my house. All of them, with their big picture windows catching the golden light of the sun. I’m not actually isolated. I’m swimming distance from at least four other families.
I pat my phone, reassuring myself that it’s still in my pocket. Then I step into the woods.
It’s hot and still in here, and the thick, leafy branches stretch out to claw at my skin.
Stick to the eastern side of the lake. I keep hearing the realtor say, shaking her head ruefully.
The peninsula’s got a bit of a reputation, you know.
If you like hiking, there are more well-maintained trails over in Nantahala National Forest.
Yeah, this definitely isn’t well-maintained. I keep swiping at my bare arms, certain I feel ticks crawling on me, although it’s probably just beads of sweat. The trees seem to bow down under the weight of the hot air, and my skin is already damp and sticky.
This is looking more like a path, though.
I can just barely make it out through the dense undergrowth, but there are enough trampled ferns and bare patches of dirt that it’s clear someone has walked here, even if it was just Oliver.
Although I don’t think Oliver’s footsteps are heavy enough to crush down the greenery like this.
Which is a thought that makes my heartbeat quicken. Because that means someone does live out here.
“Hello?” I call out again. “I’m just a—” I’m not sure how to classify my relationship to Oliver. “Oliver’s babysitter,” I finally finish.
The forest ripples around me. Somewhere, birds cry out. I keep creeping forward, following the path until I step, suddenly and unexpectedly, into a clearing.
I stop, sweeping my gaze around. The light here is dim and dappled, like early twilight, but I can see that the space is large.
Larger than you’d expect for a natural clearing, although it’s also quite overgrown, and the trees are tall enough that their branches still form a spiderwebbed roof overhead.
Long, pale grasses grow out of the fallen leaves and mulch, along with a few dots of white flowers, pretty and unexpected.
Then the wind gusts, making the trees groan and the grass ripple. And I realize this isn’t a clearing, but a graveyard.
Not a new one, certainly. The glimpses of gravestones I see are old and cracked. I would have taken them for rocks, honestly, except that the one closest to me is still fully intact, even if it’s covered with a fine, velvety pelt of moss.
I crouch down, sweeping the grass aside. The name carved into the stone has faded, but even in the dim light I can read it:
Theodore Shorn
1943 - 1960
“Theodore Shorn,” I say out loud, and then, a second later, make the connection: Theo. Oliver said his friend’s name was Theo.
Any lingering trepidation melts away, replaced with a rush of pity. The realtor was right. No one lives out here. Oliver probably just followed the same path I did and saw the gravestone. What did he say about Theo? That he didn’t like living people and couldn’t leave his territory?
“Sounds like a ghost to me,” I say as I stand up. Not that I believe in ghosts, of course. But a sweet, lonely ten-year-old would. He might see a name on a sixty-year-old gravestone and give it to an imaginary friend. A ghost who can’t leave the confines of these overgrown woods.
Another gust of wind. More groans and creaks from the trees. More soft rustling.
And then a loud, sudden snap.
I freeze, my adrenaline spiking, even though I know it could be anything. A squirrel, a deer, a dead tree branch finally succumbing to its rot.
Still, I call out a shaky, “Hello?”
Nothing. No movement, no sounds but the insects and the wind.
“I’m leaving now,” I say, just in case, and then I flee.