Page 38 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow
Am I sure?
It wasn’t as if I’d been here for the funeral. Wasn’t as if anyone told me what happened after I gave my statement.
I fumble my way to where my phone’s plugged in on the kitchen counter. When my fingers tremble, mistyping on the keypad, I take two deep breaths. Then I try again.
Austin Vandergriff. Paynes Hollow. Funeral.
My page fills with results, my stomach clenched as I see my father’s name peppered among them. I force myself to click on a local article titled “Funeral Held for Austin Vandergriff.”
My gaze skims over the words, landing on the ones that matter. Body recovered. Postmortem examination. Laid to rest. Paynes Hollow Cemetery.
I lean against the counter and shut my eyes.
There. It wasn’t him.
Of course it wasn’t. Because even if Austin had drowned—which he did not—he’s dead. He’s been dead for fourteen years.
“Sam?”
That startles me so much I nearly drop the phone. Then I realize it’s Gail. I walk to her bedroom door and crack it open. She’s sitting up, one hand pulling out an earplug.
“I thought I heard you,” she croaks, still obviously half asleep. “You okay?”
“Just getting a glass of water.”
She nods and slides back down onto the bed. I shut the door and look at the window.
What happened out there?
I don’t know.
I only know that I didnotsee Austin Vandergriff.
I shut the front windows and return to bed.
Twelve
“Sam!”
I startle awake to Gail’s panicked scream, and I half roll, half fall out of bed. Then I race in to find her at the open porch door, hand over her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” I run toward her. “What happened?”
She points. I follow her finger but see nothing except that open stretch of grass and sand, like last night.
She saw him. She saw—
“Down there,” she says. “I didn’t mean to scream. It’s just…”
I step out and even without my glasses on, I can see a heap of fur and blood and bone. My brain goes wild, that girl gibbering in terror. Austin was here. Last night. He did this. I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to retreat for my glasses. Then I walk out onto the porch.
Again, it takes a moment for my brain to resolve what it sees. I’m thinking of the rabbit from yesterday, and this doesn’t look like that. Because it’s not. The fur is white and brownish red and the head is—
Fox. I’m seeing a fox. My stomach roils, those old memories surging, that terrified girl peeking out.
I push her back and firmly tell her this is not the same.
Am I sure?
