Chapter 26
It’s a hot, muggy Saturday in August. I’ve spent the day trying to do the things I am supposed to do for me and my baby.
I did yoga. I ate a salad with hard-boiled eggs.
I drank roughly a gallon of water. I listened to classical music.
And whenever my brain felt the tug of the dreams, saw the flash of a woman’s face contorted with rage, I’d pull myself back.
I’d close the door on those dark thoughts.
Topher has the weekend off. He’s already mowed the lawn, which even at ten in the morning was in sweltering heat. He drank a beer at lunch, which I eyed jealously, as I watched the beads of condensation gather and roll down the tall can as we sat on the back porch.
He’s now passed out upstairs, sleeping off the heat. I tried napping on the porch, but found myself just turning over restlessly, uncomfortable, my clothes sticking to my damp skin. None of the houses in Vermont have air-conditioning, but summers didn’t used to be so hot.
I decide to head out to the river, hoping the water will cool me off, and hoping that I can go back to viewing the woods as magical and safe.
“Be a good boy, I’ll be back soon,” I say to Hugo, scratching the side of his head.
I’m tempted to take him into the woods with me, but I’m paranoid about the ticks and how impossible they’d be to find in his thick, dark hair.
Usually I feel guilty about leaving him, but today he simply looks up at me with baleful eyes and yawns lazily. He’s too hot to care.
Topher has mowed a path to the edge of the meadow so that we don’t have to wade through tall grass if we want to walk in the woods. This portion of the walk is through the blazing open sun. But finally, I step into the coolness of the woods.
I force myself to take in the beauty around me. It’s good to be in here. People are meant to be among the trees. The Japanese have a name for it, I think. Forest bathing. They believe simply spending time among the trees can lower stress and improve blood pressure.
When I reach the old foundation, I pause, breathing deeply, willing my muscles to relax.
Part of me wants to head to the river, to sit in the cool mountain water, but another part of me is being drawn deeper into the forest. I can almost see two paths through the trees. Do I choose the known or the unknown?
I bite my lip. The unknown. Because maybe if the unknown becomes known, it will no longer be so scary.
“Come on, feet,” I say and venture deeper into the wild wood.
I walk absentmindedly for a while, lost in my thoughts, hauling myself over downed tree trunks and up and down gently sloping terrain. I’m not paying enough attention to where I’m going, though, and walk straight into a rock, roughly thigh high.
“Shit!! Gahhh!” I’ve bashed my knee pretty good and a few trickles of blood travel down my leg. It’s not deep but it stings like hell.
“Goddamnit,” I seethe, grateful no one’s here to hear my profanity.
And then, looking down, I realize I’m not exactly alone.
The rock I’ve walked into is not a rock.
It’s a headstone. It’s old. Very old. The stone nearly black and so rough it looks almost like tree bark.
I wonder if that’s why I didn’t notice it.
And it’s not the only one. Looking around, I see three headstones in a row, all looking like the earth is slowly consuming them.
I bend down and touch the cool, rough face of one of the stones.
I can just barely make out the image of a skull, with wings sprouting out of its sides.
The inscription is faded, though I think I can make out the name.
Lavinia Brown. The year is too difficult to read.
Two other headstones are marked for Amias Smith and Hester Proctor.
As with the first, the dates on these are faded.
Strange. As I scan the stones, I notice a fourth one that has fallen over onto the earth and is covered by moss and bramble.
These graves are ancient, older, maybe, than the ones in the cemetery across from Wildwood.
And there’s something that feels different about these. These feel abandoned.
I am just about to go when I notice something else.
It is another cluster of stones, set maybe fifteen feet back.
I approach them, cautiously. There are four of them, as well, and smaller than the other stones, made out of nothing more than fieldstone, perhaps.
They are tilted toward each other, like crooked teeth.
I kneel down and touch the surface of one.
A cool chill runs through my body and I feel the hairs on my neck stand up.
The stone feels smooth and there’s not even a ghost of an inscription on it, or any of them. Four unmarked graves.
Quickly, I’m hit with a strange sensation and fall forward onto my hands.
Maybe it’s the heat of the day or the pregnancy.
Or maybe it’s because I’ve just stumbled upon something that feels like it was meant to be forgotten.
But my head is beginning to throb and the edges of my vision are blurry.
The forest floor seems to swim beneath my hands and the trees around me seem to contract and expand, almost like breathing.
I lean forward, digging my fingers into the dirt and pine needles, as though I could still the movement with my bare hands.
I force myself to take slow, deep breaths. In. And out.
Finally, my vision clears and the forest stills.
I’m just dehydrated, I tell myself, though even the voice in my head sounds desperate.
I just need water. I hoist myself back up into a sitting position.
I glance down at my watch and press a button to ping the location, so I can find my way back here.
I’m about to leave, anxious to get back to the house, when I feel eyes on me.
I look around, but no one is there. Then I hear a noise above my head, the faint fluttering of wings.
A black bird that I think is a crow swoops down and lands on one of the unmarked graves.
It looks at me with its head cocked to one side, its eyes like tiny black marbles.
My mind flits to the black bird in the conservatory, the spiderweb of cracks and the convulsing little body.
My breath quickens. And then the bird flies directly at me.
I lift my hands to cover my face, bracing for sharp claws and beating feathers, and scream.
My shriek echoes through the forest. But nothing happens.
I slowly open my eyes and lower my trembling hands.
The crow is gone. There’s a warmth on my leg and I look down.
I laugh, almost psychotically, at the realization that I’ve peed myself.
I’m losing it. I’m losing it, I think, clenching my fists.
Then I jog, more recklessly than a pregnant person should, out of the woods, desperate to clean myself.
Because the scent of urine feels primal.
Though not like I’ve marked my territory.
More like I’ve marked myself, for someone or something to come and get me.
* * *
“Topher!” I bark, slamming the front door behind me.
No response. He must still be sleeping. I am jogging toward the stairs, feeling oddly exhilarated, when I hear his voice from out back. He must be on a call.
I fling open the screen door that leads to the back deck, unable to wait to tell him what I’ve found.
“Topher—” I begin and then halt, as I realize Madeline is sitting on the deck with him, glowing in the afternoon sun, glass of white wine in hand. Leftover from our date night, judging by the familiar bottle by her feet.
“Elinor!” She smiles warmly, standing up.
“Madeline.” I’m momentarily wrong-footed, feeling as though I’ve just intruded on something.
“I just stopped by to say hi, and Topher was nice enough to offer me a drink.”
“That’s great.” I give a strained smile. “Yes, of course.” A trickle of sweat rolls down my back and I wish I could pound a glass of wine myself.
“Are you okay?” Topher asks, coming up beside me and touching my forehead. “Your skin’s a little clammy.”
I take a tiny step back, out of his reach.
“I’m fine,” I say, nodding aggressively, hoping Madeline doesn’t notice how pale and sweaty I am.
She sets her half-drunk glass of wine down and makes a show of glancing at her gold watch as she stands. “Well, I should be going.”
“Are you sure—” Topher begins, but I cut him off.
“Do you think we could meet soon? To go over the history of Newfield Village?”
Madeline halts, gives an apologetic smile, tossing a lock of hair over her shoulder.
“Of course. I’ve just been so busy I haven’t had a chance to gather everything.
Soon. I promise.” And then she gives a little wave, and a little wink, and skips down the steps, striding through our backyard like we are very old friends.
When she’s out of earshot, I spin back to Topher.
“I found something,” I hiss. “Something that proves this place is haunted.”
He hesitates a moment. “What did you find?”
“A bunch of graves. In the woods.” I cross my arms across my chest. “And four of them are unmarked.”
I stand back, waiting for his reaction. Surely he’ll see it. But it doesn’t come.
“Well?” I ask. “Isn’t that weird?”
“Sure . . . I mean I guess it’s weird.” He’s nodding slowly, eyes moving back and forth. “But that might also be common in old settlements. The state is probably full of tiny, backyard cemeteries. But how does that prove Wildwood is haunted?”
“Because of the unmarked graves!” I nearly shout.
“I mean, unmarked graves usually mean something bad happened. Like the person did something so unforgivable that they didn’t deserve to be recognized in death.
And the graves look really old. Older than the ones in the cemetery across the street.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t find anything nefarious when I researched the town.
Maybe whatever happened, happened before the recorded history. ”
Topher gently places his hands on my shoulders. “It’s not exactly a smoking gun,” he says softly.
“But there was this bird too.”
“A bird?”
“Yes, a black bird and it flew right at me. And the same thing had happened in the conservatory and that bird died and I had to bury it.”
My heart is thudding so erratically it seems impossible Topher can’t hear it. And suddenly, I see myself objectively, as Topher would. Pale, sweating, rambling about graves and dead birds.
“It means something,” I whisper, meeting Topher’s gaze.
“Okay,” he whispers, pulling me in to lightly kiss my forehead. “Okay. You are right. It is weird. And it’s creepy. And if ever one was going to think they were being haunted, it would be in a place like this.”
I let myself lean into his embrace, hoping that just, maybe, I’ve convinced him.
“But, Elinor, this is the real world. There are no ghosts. No haunting.”
And just like that, my hope crumbles like ash and I have to close my eyes against the disappointment threatening to overtake me.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “You are safe here. You are always safe with me.”
The words stir something in my chest. They feel familiar yet strange.
Maybe they feel strange because they are coming from Topher.
We’ve always been peers. Both smart, both driven, both scientific.
But now that’s changed. Now, I’m pregnant and frightened, believing in ghosts.
Now, my husband is looking at me like I’m something to be protected.
The thought shouldn’t unsettle me, but it does.