Page 35 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow
“We’d be fine if we stuck to the shore. And just went to the end of the property.”
I shake my head. “I’m not taking the chance that they can say the property ends at the shoreline.”
“Maybe a quick swim? The monitor is waterproof.”
I don’t answer. I’m trying very hard to see the bright side of my “house arrest.” It’s summer, and I’m at the lake. But part of being at the lake is swimming and boating and going into town for ice cream.
I shake it off. I’m being immature, pouting because I can’t do the things I did as a child. There is plenty I can do, along with work I need to do. If I can pull this off—which I will—I can go to the damn Caribbean this winter if I want. Enjoy the beaches there.
I’m turning away when something rises from the water’s surface. Seeing it out of the corner of my eye, I spin, and it disappears.
“Did you see that?” I say.
“The lights?”
“No, something popped up.” I point. “You can still see the rings where it went down.”
“Oooh.” Gail cranes to look where I’m pointing. “Otter? We used to get them all the time when I was a kid.”
“I don’t think so.” I mentally replay what I saw. It had looked like a head. “It was bigger. Maybe twice the size.”
“Huh. The back of a fish? Breaching and diving back under?”
“Maybe.”
I walk closer. Water laps at my bare feet. I’m wearing shorts, and I start to wade out, but Gail grabs my arm.
“No swimming at night,” she says.
I roll my eyes. “I’m wading.”
“Still off-limits. You know the rules. The undertows here can be wicked.”
I look over at her. “Have you ever felt one?”
“No, which is why I’m still alive to talk about it.”
Her tone is light, and I suppress the urge to argue. Why ruin our good evening fighting over something I don’t even really want to do? It’s just…
I look out to where I saw something pop up.
Don’t go in the water after dark. It isn’t safe. Undertows.
People often talk about undertows in the Great Lakes, and theyarea thing—rip currents that can pull you off your feet. But if I fell whereI am, with the water barely over my ankles, I’m hardly going to get dragged out into the lake. Yet we grew up hearing that.
Don’t go in the water after dark. Yes, that includes wading. No, it doesn’t matter if you’re only up to your ankles. Just don’t do it.
I stare out at the lake.
“Fire’s dying down,” Gail says. “It should be small enough to pull our chairs closer.”
After one last look, I take the hint and follow her back to the bonfire.
That night, I toss and turn, haunted by memory and nightmare. Again I wake imagining I heard hoofbeats, and again, once I’m up, everything is silent. I curse under my breath and toss a few more times before rising, putting on my glasses, and heading into the living room.
We’ve left the windows open. It was too hot and stuffy with them shut, though Gail made me promise to keep my bedroom one closed. At least in here I can breathe, and I move to the window and inhale the night air, thankfully free from the stink of rotting rabbit.
The lake is dark. No lights on it. No lights shimmering beneath the surface. A quiet and still night.
