I know just about everyone in this town.
And I’m certain they still know me.
You don’t forget the girl whose beloved boyfriend was murdered. They found his body afloat in the ghostly waters of the lake, a Water Moccasin resting on his bloated chest full of stab wounds.
That I may—or may not—have been responsible for.
“Don’t go there,” I warn myself as I take the turn-off to my childhood home. The car rattles over the washed-out section ofroad as I weave through the trees, red dirt mixing with what little gravel remains.
There are two sides to this lake: the one cleared for tourists and the one that’s overgrown and uninhabited. The latter is where my late father built our cabin, preferring to be away from people. I used to not understand that sentiment, but now…
I understand more than ever.
My lungs expand as I take a deep breath and make the final turn into the long driveway. The two-story cabin looms in the distance, and what was once a manicured lawn with a couple of large pine trees is now an overgrown mess of weeds and briars.
I frown at the sight, the wooded siding of the house faded and warped from neglect. My presence sets off the howl of Bullet, my mom’s old Beagle, who sits on the decrepit front porch beside a wilted potted rose bush.
Welcome to the House of Horrors.
I pull in behind my mom’s old Dodge pickup and put the car in park. I flip the visor down, feeling the need to wipe the sweat from my brow. However, as I meet my jade irises, there’s no sweat on my skin. I justfeellike there is.
Swallowing the nerves that follow that realization, I pop it back into place and reach for my backpack resting in the passenger seat. I drag it across the console onto my lap and grab my phone from the console. I hit the unlock button, and sigh.
Of course, there’s no service here.
I roll my eyes and shove it into the side pocket, deeming it useless. I reach for the handle of the car, and kick it open with my converse, startling as I’m met with the obnoxious pant of Bullet.
“I don’t know how you’re still alive,” I tell him, my tone warm as I take in the white around his eyes. “It’s been like, what? Fourteen years since I brought you home?”
His white-tipped tail wags obnoxiously as he jumps up, placing his paws against my black jeans. I’d have given anything to take him with me, but my mother insisted he’d never make it in a city like Los Angeles.
I give him a good scratch behind the ears and then slide the rest of the way out, my feet colliding with the grass mixed with gravel. “I guess Mr. Wilson doesn't help Mom with the yard anymore??”
Bullet tilts his head at me, like the suggestion is completely foreign. I shrug it off and wince at the weight of my bag. My shoulders and back ache from a long stretch of driving and no sleep.
I use my heel to kick the driver’s side door shut, and take a moment to breathe in the heavy, musty scent of pine and stagnant lake water. I squeeze my eyes shut, my chest tightens, and a gurgled groan erupts in my ears.
No, no, no…
I don’t have to let the memories creep back in just because I’m here.
My eyes fly back open, and I swallow the rising bile. I clear my throat and head for the front door. The yard is even worse up close, and I make it my focus to distract me from the memories threatening to pull me under. The chipped steps give to my weight as I ascend to the porch, glancing back at my beige Pathfinder.
I could just leave now.
But Bullet drags my gaze back as he whines and bounces along beside me, as if my homecoming is somehow a good thing. I once read that dogs can’t remember specific details of events, only how they made them feel.
I guess that’s why he still likes me, despite seeing the worst day of my life.
A shiver rolls down my spine as my mind flashes to the red stains on his white fur, and how my father vigorously scrubbed them, desperate to rid Bullet of the evidence of witnessed violence. My head swirls, and suddenly, I feel like I’m back inside the nightmares it took years to rid myself of.
Bullet spins in circles as I reach for the knob, unsurprised to see it’s unlocked. After all, this is the kind of place they say you can leave your door open, and the only thing you have to worry about is the wildlife.
Though I’m not sure that’s entirely true.
I push the door inward, and blink as my eyes adjust to the dimly lit cabin. It’s less chaotic than the yard, but still stale and musty inside. Bullet prances in beside me, as I scan the clutter, searching for any signs of life.
“Rue!” A voice erupts from the back room, and I notice the wave of dread that settles in my gut. “That better be you in this house!”
