Chapter 17
I step off the Parkers’ property and into the forest. The first thing I notice is the isolation. No trail, no road, just dense woods in every direction. The Parkers’ house, like the others scattered through the area, is encircled by trees, each home tucked into its own cocoon of green.
As I move deeper into the forest, passing the occasional distant house, the pattern repeats: a battalion of trees guarding every property, sealing them off from the world.
The morning chill has given way to a sticky warmth.
Overhead, a bank of dense clouds presses low.
The sounds of the lake and the murmur of the Parkers’ house fade behind me, replaced by the sharp crack of twigs beneath my feet and the high-pitched whine of the cicadas grinding in my ears.
Sweat beads on my forehead, and I can almost smell last night’s bootlegs leaking from my pores.
Am I doing the right thing? The Parkers’ dog is dead, the family is wrecked, and I’m off on a nature hike like an influencer on a glamping trip. #practicinggratitude #manifestingabundance. Olivia’s probably right though. They need their space.
As my strides grow longer and my lungs absorb the fresh air, my headache fades, and an overwhelming sense of relief washes over me.
There’s no hint of civilization here—no distant roar of airplanes, no growl of car engines, no chatter of human voices.
It’s just me and the still, dark shade along with the occasional tap-tap of a woodpecker. I can finally breathe again.
Still, as I move deeper into the birches, ashes, and oaks, I can’t help noticing there’s something slanted about the island.
The trees, bent and gnarled, blocking the sun.
Horseflies buzzing around, looking for prey.
The remnants of paths that twist like veins, inviting you yet disorienting you, pulling you away from where you started.
There’s history in these woods. Mysteries from another time.
I wander farther, mapping each inch of the island in my mind. I pass a dead squirrel buried in leaves, eyes mired in oblivion just like Heathcliff’s. Bugs circle the carcass.
Laelynn’s words ring in my ears.
“This wasn’t an accident.”
I shudder, remembering the tremor in her voice. The grapes. Could she suspect the girls? No, there’s no way. No mother would harbor those thoughts about her own daughters, no matter how creepy they are.
But if not the girls, then who? I picture the note. “LEAVE, OR ELSE.”
Was this the “or else”?
Russ Neuman might have killed his own mother. What’s a dog’s life worth to him? Was he sending a message? The modern version of the horse’s head in The Godfather?
I’m hiking on what used to be Neuman land.
Russ’s house must be around here; the final remains of the Neuman dynasty.
I hear Tim Colby’s growl from our first day of orientation at Winthrop.
If you want answers, best to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
A cottage emerges along the lakeshore as the bay curves toward the nature preserve. It has to be his.
I summon my courage and knock on the door, then wait in silence, my heart thumping.
But no one answers. I peek through the grime-stained windows, revealing the dilapidated home of a lifetime bachelor.
A single worn pea-green couch facing a TV, its cushions sapped of life.
A hand-me-down dining table marked with rings, two empty Grain Belt beers perched on top next to a worn hunting knife.
An axe leaned against an ash-ridden fireplace.
Black-and-white photos of Marjorie Neuman on a dusty end table.
A pang of pity stirs within me. I peer closer.
A high-pitched sound jars me.
I flinch.
It’s faint but distinct—a rhythmic squeak, coming from the nature preserve.
Initially, I suspect a bird or animal. I listen closer.
It’s the sound of metal on metal, like the screech of an unoiled door hinge.
The eerie groans come every few seconds.
The sound scratches at my eardrums, a man-made echo in a natural setting.
I tiptoe through a small opening in the trees that leads from Russ’s house into the park, following the shrill grind.
With each step, it grows louder, like the staccato violin sounds in the movie Psycho.
I round the bend, and then I see it. There, fifty yards ahead in a clearing, spins the remains of an old carousel, a fossil from the old amusement park, drifting in the breeze.
It’s a macabre sight. Moss and lichen blanket the carousel like a shroud.
Three of the horses have toppled, lying prone in the air.
The rest wear the scars of time—hollowed-out eye sockets and coats pocked by stripped paint.
I might get tetanus just looking at the thing.
I step closer, transfixed by the haunting scene. Watching the carousel is like staring at a mutilated corpse of something long dead. The mournful squeaks seem less like worn machinery and more like a warning. Carnival music runs through my mind, but it’s slowed and off-key.
“A sight, isn’t it?” growls a voice from behind me.
I spin around, my heart in my throat.
A man in sagging jeans and a camouflage hunting jacket stands a few feet away, craggy pale face covered in deep wrinkles and gray whiskers. A pipe dangles from his lips, wisps of smoke curling into the humid air.
“Sorry,” he says, raising a hand in the air to steady me. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” His eyes twitch.
I take a step back, trying to mask my alarm. “No. You just surprised me. I didn’t realize anyone else was out here.” My eyes scan in every direction.
No one else is out here.
It’s just us, and the rusty carousel squealing in the background.
He takes a pull from his pipe and studies me, his yellow eyes squinting against the smoke. His face is round, his skin waxy. I’m suddenly acutely aware that I’m wearing nothing but black yoga pants and an orange sports bra.
“Yep, there ain’t too many of us on the island, ya know.” His words carry an old rural Minnesota accent, like in the movie Fargo. He extends a calloused hand and offers a stained-tooth smile. “I’m Russ. It’s a pleasure to meetchya.”
Hearing the name “Russ” chills my blood. I extend my hand and shake his, keeping my knees bent in case I need to run. “I’m Charlotte.”
His eyes squint, and I think he hears the quake in my voice, because he walks around me, giving me a wide berth, and watches the carousel spinning its morose turns.
“Never seen you around here. First time on the island?”
I consider running, but then I ask myself, what would Olivia do in this situation? She’d investigate. No fear. Find out whether he left the note. If he killed Heathcliff. “Yes. I’m here on vacation. It’s beautiful. I take it you live here?” I ask, playing dumb.
He grunts and takes three deep puffs from his pipe. “You staying with the Parkers?”
I say nothing, but my silence gives me away.
“Bet they didn’t tell you my family’s been here since the 1800s. Before that amusement park even existed, ya know,” he says, gesturing toward the carousel with the pipe, still looking away from me. I notice the deep grooves in the stem from a lifetime of smoking and gnawing.
“That’s a long time. You must love the place.” Another grunt and a plume of smoke around his head like fog. I screw up my courage. “Is that why you left that note on the Parkers’ front door?”
He hangs his head and chuckles to himself. “Note? I wouldn’t know anything about no note.” The carousel issues a shrill squeak, as if calling out his lie.
“Then I’m guessing you wouldn’t know anything about any dead dogs either, huh?”
He drops the pipe to his side and lurches toward me, a sharp eyebrow raised high on his forehead. “What? You say dogs?”
His eyes twitch, and sharp breaths rush from his nose. I wonder if I’ve overstepped. I backpedal. “Never mind. It was nice meeting you. I’ve got to get going.”
He runs a meaty hand over his slick, thin, receding gray hair. “Enjoy the island. Beautiful place. Watch out for ghosts.”
The words hang in the air like the smoke from his pipe, and I laugh a little too loudly as I backpedal.
His eyes follow me. “Oh, it’s no joke. You see that hunk of junk over there?” He points at a large, curved piece of metal leaned up against a tree in the distance. “Used to be a Ferris wheel. Back in 1908, a little girl fell off that Ferris wheel and died.”
My breath catches, and I stop in my tracks. I think of Olivia.
He blows more smoke from his pipe. “Yep, she’s been haunting this place ever since. I’ve seen her myself.”
I turn and start walking. Regardless of what he means, I have no desire to spend another minute alone in the woods with this man. “Ghosts, got it. Yeah, I’ll be sure to watch out for them. Thanks.”
“Wrote a poem about the ghosts once,” he says, his voice following me as I retreat. Another twitch. “Want to hear it?”
“Maybe another time,” I call over my shoulder, picking up my pace.
As I jog away, his raspy voice recites the words, each syllable echoing through the trees. I realize I have no idea where I am. A shiver runs through me with every word.
“Shadows on the wall,
Noises down the hall,
Life doesn’t frighten me at all…”
I break into a sprint.
“Bad dogs barking loud,
Big ghosts in a cloud,
Life doesn’t frighten me at all.”
I can still hear his voice as the poem ends. Silence. For a moment, I think our interaction has ended. But then he shouts two sentences that cut through the forest like a blade.
“You shouldn’t have come here.” He pauses, and I catch a tremor in his voice. “Bad things happen to people in that house.”