Page 27 of Coram House

All right, girl, then why aren’t they answering you now?

“Hello?” I call again, wondering if I might be losing my mind.

A branch snaps behind me. I whirl around, but there’s nothing there. My ears strain with the effort of trying to pull noise from the silence. But then I do hear something, coming from ahead and below—the direction of the water. It’s a scraping sound, like something heavy being dragged along a rock. It’s different than the other sounds in the woods. Louder. More deliberate. More human.

“Is someone there?” I shout, louder this time.

The scraping gets faster, like someone in a hurry. Like someone heard me.

It’s followed by a hollow thunk. Then another.

A faint splash.

Something falling in the water? I look down at the trail. The footprints are even smaller than I’d thought. Narrow and at least three inches shorter than my size-ten running shoes. Definitely a woman or, my heart clutches, a child even.

“Hello?” I call again, hearing the desperation in my voice. “Is anyone there? Are you all right?”

Silence. Only then, like an idiot, do I think of my phone. I pull it out with shaking hands, but there are no bars. How is there anywhere left with no cell phone service?

I’m two miles away from the road. And who knows how long it will take for help to get here. I think of the rocky cliffs below the viewpoint, the freezing water lapping beneath. Then I follow the footprints into the woods.

I half run, half fall down the steep trail. The snow is deeper here, piled up against the trees as if it’s all flowing downhill. Every few feet I stop to scan the forest for any sign of movement. The footprints in the snow are steady—someone walking, not running. But they go in only one direction. No one came back this way.

The wind picks up as I get closer to the water. Around me, ice-covered branches sway against one another, making the sound of tiny bells. The woods are still—there’s no one here. And yet, I feel eyes. The predatory gaze of something waiting for my back to be turned. My teeth are chattering, which is strange since my insides feel hot and liquid. Like my organs have turned to soup.

I keep walking, back and forth, down endless switchbacks. It’s going to be a teenager with a twisted ankle and I’m going to feel like an idiot. I will this to be true.

At the bottom of the hill, the trail emerges onto a narrow rock ledge, blown clear of snow. The footprints are gone, but the only place to go is straight ahead where the path ends at a long set of wooden stairs, leading down to a rocky beach. A cove, really, sheltered by rock ledges topped in tall pines. The beach is empty. Shit.

I turn around, but there’s nowhere else to go. The hill is too steep to climb. I scan the ground for any sign a person came this way. The red rocks are pitted with pools of ice, leaves and pine needles frozen inside like museum exhibits, encased in glass. No footprints anywhere, but no snow either.

“Hello?” I call. The only answer is the rhythmic slap of water against rocks. I’m starting to feel ridiculous. I’ll check the beach, and then I’ll get out of here.

The stairs have seen better days. The railing wobbles and I step over the treads stained black with rot. Tiny pebbles squeak and shift underfoot as I walk right up to the water’s edge. There’s a crust of ice near shore, but twenty feet out, waves slap gently against the ledges of rock. From down here, they’re not as steep as they looked from above—more like a natural staircase that leads into the water. In the summer, I imagine this place is full of people sunning themselves on rocks before slipping into the cool water. But today, it feels desolate. The water is empty.

Whoever I heard is gone or was never here to begin with. It was probably some raccoon mating call. After all, what do I know about the woods? A knot deep in my gut loosens. But my toes have stopped hurting, which scares me for a different reason. I jump a few times and swing my arms, trying to get blood back into my fingertips. Time to go.

I turn to head back up the stairs. The relief drains out of me so quickly I’m lightheaded. On the ground, right under the staircase, purple flashes against the russet rocks. It comes into focus. A purple jacket. Not just a jacket. A person. Two wide-open eyes stare at me. And blood. So much blood.

9

A scream echoesoff the rocks—strangled and wild. Then I realize. It came out of me. The thought breaks whatever gravity roots me in place.

I run forward, then stop. The woman’s body—I can tell it’s a woman, even through the mask of blood—lies in a few inches of water. You’re not supposed to move people with a head injury, or is that a spinal injury? If she fell off the cliff, it could be both. Though I’m not sure that rule applies when they’re lying in freezing water.

The woman’s jacket is lumpy and dark where water has soaked through. Below, a sliver of jeans, white socks, water lapping against brown boots. You could almost believe it’s just a bundle of clothes except for the pale hand floating in the water, fingers curled. And the face. Oh God, her face.

She must have hit her head on the rocks when she fell. One side of her skull looks caved in. Blood is everywhere. In the deep wrinkles around her eyes that are open and staring at nothing, coating the wisps of white hair poking out from under her hat. Threads of blood run from her body into the water and disappear.

She’s dead. I’m sure she’s dead. But I have to check. I pull off my gloves. My fingers scrabble through her layers of clothing like some scavenger searching for the meat. No pulse, or maybe my hands are just numb. Her skin is warm. It feels good. My stomach heaves and I turn my head away to vomit.

A twig snaps. I stagger to my feet, still wiping threads of saliva from my chin, and scan the pines above me. Some of them are fifty feet tall,but lean over, clinging to the rocks with exposed roots. They’ve probably grown that way for a hundred years, but they still look like they might crush me any second.

“Hello?” I call, but my voice is a whisper. I try again. Louder this time. “Is someone there? I need help!”

Some distant part of my brain sends off warning signals. I’m miles away from the nearest road. I’ve been standing in freezing water. I’m wearing leggings and sneakers. I’m pretty sure this woman is dead. I’m the one who’s in danger now. I fumble the phone out of my pocket and can’t believe it when I see one bar of service. I dial 911. Seconds of eternal silence.Come on. Come on.

Then a voice answers. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” He sounds young and cheerful. I want to dig my claws into that voice, cling to it.

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