Twenty-Two
The mining town. In retrospect, it seems so obvious.
It’d all come back to the whole reason I wanted to come to this forest in the first place.
But what got Paisley so set on going there?
What was it she talked about in the video?
“Energy”? And they mentioned Vanessa to boot, corroborating Ivy’s story about them all meeting that night.
I don’t even know what thread to unravel first.
“Since when does Paisley care about energy?” I mutter as I set Harlow’s phone aside on the outdoor café table.
There aren’t any other videos, but it gives me the biggest clue yet about the whereabouts of Paisley’s phone. I don’t know when it stopped picking up her location, but this is at least a trail to follow. I can still find that damn voice note.
Beck rolls her eyes. “Sounds more like a Mom thing than her.”
Only women get possessed. It’s daylight, but a shiver hits me like it’s night again. Paisley doesn’t care about energy or full moons, but a witch would.
If I believed in witches.
“How far is the mining town?” Beck asks.
“Not far.” I pause, glancing back toward the campground. The woods are uncomfortably far away as we sit in our signal perch in town. “But we should probably ask Natalie for directions. Make sure she knows where we’re going.”
Beck licks her lips nervously. “Yeah, for sure.”
Before we go, though, I check my email for good measure. I gasp.
There’s an email from the ISB. My fingers shake as I open it. It’s short, which doesn’t feel promising, like getting a thin envelope while applying to college.
Dear Emma Tedesco,
Thank you for submitting your tip to our tip line. At this time, the rangers and coroners feel confident in ruling the deaths you mentioned as accidental. Most likely, you received a cruel prank message. We advise you to disregard it and block the number. We’re so sorry for your loss.
Sincerely,
The National Forest Service, Investigative Division
It’s like the texter said; the forest service cops don’t believe us.
I hand the phone to Beck. She slams her hand against the table.
“Well, fuck them,” Beck says. “We’ll go to the mining town ourselves.”
I nod along, even as my skin crawls with creeping dread.
There’s no one from the outside world to come and save us.
* * *
As Beck and I stand up from the café tables where we were watching the video, every one of my muscles tenses up.
Neck, back, hips, shoulders, even my fingers seem to revert to a stiff and unwieldy form of themselves.
I stumble through the first few steps back toward the campground before finally getting the fluid running through my muscles.
Clouds have covered every inch of the sky, turning what should be the afternoon into a false evening.
Even the mechanic shop with Beck’s car seems more ominous as we pass it on our walk back.
It’s three blocks to the welcome center. A five- to maybe ten-minute walk.
But the walk itself reminds me, strangely enough, of those old documentaries from middle school about human ancestors.
I’d never thought about it much before, but they really were just forced to walk through vast, open lands where creatures with big teeth and big claws prowled around them, nothing but some animal skin clothing and a tiny spear as protection.
Did they think about how easy it’d be for those teeth to sink into the delicate skin around their throats?
Or is that something the human brain only developed after we were protected by swords and chainmail and stone homes?
The pocketknife Beck gave me bounces in my backpack, but I can’t feel it with all the other stuff in my pack. I want to stop us and pull it out to have it closer to me, but Beck is walking normally and I don’t want to get her paranoid too.
Signs flip to CLOSED on storefronts as we walk down the sidewalk. The sun’s hidden by the clouds, yet the streetlights haven’t turned on yet. I have to squint to make out the details around us as my retinas fail under the strange light we do have.
And much like the night we arrived, it’s eerily quiet as we reach the end of the first block and wait at the stoplight. I swallow. Only two more blocks and we’ll be at the welcome center.
“You okay?” Beck asks.
I exhale. “I’ve watched too many movies.”
“Would it help if I talk to you?”
Beck’s hand brushes against mine, sending a jolt through my heart. But it ghosts away as quickly as it hits me. “Yes, please.”
Someone in a hoodie stands on the other side of the street. They face the same way we’re facing, one foot off the curb. We accidentally make eye contact. I practically throw out my neck looking ahead again. The pedestrian sign for the crosswalk between us signals us to walk.
Beck continues, “I want you to know the rumor that I crashed my car in some outburst of teenage behavioral issues is one hundred percent false. I crashed my car when I misjudged a median on Moorpark and hit a planter.”
Despite myself, a rasp of a laugh escapes me.
“However,” Beck continues. “I was kicked off the volleyball team and will repeat senior year. That was because of destructive behaviors.”
“Are you—?” I start to say.
But the word okay disappears as the figure suddenly turns their body toward us and walks across the street. The four-lane main street feels a few inches wide.
They make it across the street and linger a few feet behind us. As sweat forms on my palms, I regret not having given their face a better look.
The light isn’t white yet to walk. But there aren’t any cars in sight. Is it worth the risk, though?
And then, suddenly, the figure is closer. Close enough that the hairs on the back of my neck spring up.
Their hand is within the invisible forcefield of my consciousness. On its way to physical touch.
The light isn’t white for walk, but I start walking forward anyway.
“Shit, Emma,” Beck says before joining me in jaywalking.
We make it to the other side of the street safely. That should be the end of it. I force a breath like it is.
“That person got too close,” I say, leaning into Beck to speak.
Beck glances back, turning back to me quickly. “Are they following us?”
I don’t know. We’ve walked so fast there’s enough distance between us and the figure that I can’t make out their face. I put a hand to my chest. We’re okay. It was just a coincidence. One and a half blocks until we’re at the visitors’ center. We just have to keep moving forward.
“I’m sorry about senior year,” I say, winding us back to our conversation.
We pick up our pace ever so slightly, heading toward stoplight number two. But shit, this block is long. The streetlights still haven’t turned on in the dark.
“It’s okay. Beats my parents’ original plan to send me to rehab.”
Jesus. “Were you even drinking that much?”
“Well…”
But Beck’s words die on her tongue. She picks up our pace.
“The person started moving faster,” Beck mutters to me.
I dare to sneak a glance back.
They’re practically jogging. Clearly trying to catch up to us.
I stop breathing.
I grab Beck’s hand.
I start to run.
And it’s not just our footsteps pounding on the pavement. It’s theirs too.
We reach the second stoplight just as it gives us the walk signal. We speed across the street. Our stalker runs behind us.
“We need to move,” I pant.
Beck glances out at the street. A moment, two, before she—
—yanks us out into the street. Into any car that passes by.
And we bump right into a car. Not enough to fall over, but enough for my balance to falter and a nasty ache to bloom on my hip. Beck and I wheel around as we reach the other side of the sidewalk.
It’s a cop car.
We ran right into a cop car.
But it rumbles away from us.
“What the hell?” I mutter.
When I look to the other side of the street, our stalker stares back. Hoodie huge enough to engulf their figure, strands of long hair covering the major features of their face.
And I swear I see a knife in their hand.
A scream trapped in my throat, I sprint again. Like I’ve never sprinted before. Beck is right beside me. When we hit the final stoplight before the campground, I don’t even remember looking both ways.
Tears burn in my eyes, blurring my vision as we step onto the campground property. We move from the asphalt of the street to the gravel of the parking lot. The welcome center is right there to greet us.
We’re so close.
But I can hear the third set of footsteps on the gravel.
We’re twenty yards away.
Ten.
Five.
How is this real?
My body slams against the welcome center door. My sweaty hands fumble for the handle. The weight of the door, so heavy a few hours ago, suddenly feels feather-light.
Beck slams the door shut, pushing her body weight against it. I double over as my chest aches from the workout. I’m sucking air in, but my lungs can’t pull enough oxygen in. Stars dot my vision.
“What’s going on?” Natalie asks.
I don’t even know where to start.