Page 18 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow
“He’s supposed to be looking for a head, to replace his own. But how does he take them? His was supposed to have been blown off by a cannonball, but he’s not going to use a cannon.”
Grandpa laughs. “You’ve thought about this far too much, little girl.”
“But also, in the story, we’re never sure there’s a horseman, right? That’s what my dad says. It’s probably Bram Bones, trying to scare Ichabod away.”
“Your father is too much of a teacher. Always pulling stories apart and ripping out the magic. There’s a horseman, and he’s out there, looking for his head, ready to take yours instead.”
“But mine wouldn’t fit. He’s a grown man—”
“What’s going on here?” It was Mom, bearing down on us. “Did I hear you trying to scare her, Douglas?”
My grandfather straightened. “We were having a bit of fun. Samantha wanted to know why she can’t go in the forest at night, and I was teasing about the horseman.”
“But it doesn’t make sense,” I pressed. “A horseman would explain why I can’t go in the forest, but not the lake. He isn’tinthe water.”
“She’s got you there, Dad,” a voice said. It was my father, walking over, his arms loaded with wood.
Mom said, “We don’t go in the lake at night, Sam, because we can’t see. An undertow could grab you, and we’d never notice you going under. As for the forest, while most of the people who camp here are just ordinary people, some have problems. They can be dangerous, especially around children. We don’t want you getting hurt.”
They can be dangerous, especially around children.
I rub the back of my neck and shake off the memory. That’s going to keep happening, isn’t it? Memories of my life here. Memories of Dad. But it’ll be worst at the beginning, as it all rushes back. Eventually, I’ll settle in, those old memories played out.
For now, I need wood, and that means getting the old hatchet.
I have the keys in my pocket—there’d been an extra set in the cottage. I fish them out as I head for the shed.
To get there, I need to pass my uncle’s cottage. My grandfather’s and ours have a view of the shore, but my uncle’s is farther back among the trees. My dad was the oldest, the heir. A ridiculously outdated concept to me, but not to my grandfather. He got the best cottage, and Dad got one almost as good. My uncle had to make do with one that only caught a sliver of lake view. As for Gail? She didn’t get one at all. She was just a girl.
As I head toward Uncle Mark’s cottage, I’m aware that I really should have brought a flashlight… or at least my cell phone. I can see—it’s not fully dark—but once I pass into even the sparse trees, Ineed to keep my hand outstretched so I don’t bash into anything. The thing I almost bash into is the cottage itself.
When my hand hits the porch railing, I stop short and frown. The trees never used to come up to the porch. But now saplings crowd in.
Under my fingers the wood is damp, and when I pull back, bits of wood come with them. I reach out and touch the railing. Rotting? I run my fingers over it. Yes, it’s definitely rotting.
I remember Ben saying he was charged with maintaining my family cottage. I thought he specifically mentioned that one to clarify the devil’s bargain my grandfather made—that Ben had to maintain the house where his brother’s killer had lived. But from the looks of this porch, he’d meant exactly what he said. Ben had been hired to maintainourcottage. This one—once used by the son who is still alive—could rot.
I shiver and make my way along the porch. The shed is about fifty feet in that direction. When I reach the end of my uncle’s cottage, I catch a break with the cloud cover, and I can see the shed ahead.
I take one more step, and something skitters inside the shed. I stop. The sound comes again, not from the dirt floor but the wooden walls. A squirrel racing into the eaves as it hears me coming.
I square my shoulders and continue on. I’ve spent six months in an apartment with so many mice that my cat had lost interest in catching them. I’m fine with a squirrel in the eaves.
I’m almost at the door when another sound comes, this one stopping me in my tracks.
A grunt and a shuffle. Someone moving.
I flip my back to the wall and press up against it. Then I scan the forest, as if I’m actually going to be able to see a person in the darkness.
I strain to listen, but everything’s silent.
I didn’t hear a person out here. As overgrown as my uncle’s cottage was, the shed is one of Ben’s responsibilities, and there’s a ten-foot cleared gap all around it. I might not be able to see into the forest, but I can see what’s right here, and it’s just me and the shed.
I wait another minute, letting my heart rate slow. I must have imagined the grunt and the shuffling sound. Or I heard my own breathingand movement, which is embarrassing, but proof that I’m freaked out. Either way, I am very clearly alone.
Still, as I edge toward the door, I’m grateful there aren’t any security cameras to watch me creeping along. Even when I reach it, I do a weird twist so I can undo the padlock without turning my back on the forest. I throw open the door and reach inside for the light switch.
Like the rest of the buildings, the shed is hooked up to electricity. I never thought much about that as a kid. I lived in a world where electricity was a given. But now I realize it would have cost a small fortune to hook up these buildings.
