BloodsplattersacrosstheTV screen, and a high pitched scream fills the air. I let out a gasp, sending a fistful of popcorn across my Airstream, a flash of lightning slanting through the windows and illuminating the pieces scattering the floor like confetti.
On the screen, the shadow of a knife slices down, and I pinch my eyes shut.
I don’t know what I was thinking when I rented this movie from the video store in town—the one that has been open since my childhood and is still somehow a thriving business. There’s still a stain on the dingy, blue carpet from where I spilled a milkshake in middle school, and a message handwritten in green Sharpie on the bottom of a shelf that saysStevie was here. It’s been an integral part of my life.
I typically rent romcoms. The occasional period piece. But tonight, I wanted something different. A movie that makes me feel something other than a stab of longing when the screen goes black.
I guess I chose bone-chilling terror. Not my smartest move. Especially as a single woman living alone on a secluded piece of land in the middle of the woods in a glorified tin can.
Blindly, I reach for my television remote, my fingers sliding against the whisper-soft fabric of my sofa. It’s cold to the touch, the air inside somewhere between comfortable and chilly, the early-autumn storm dropping the temperature enough to almost justify turning on the heat.
Beneath my stack of blankets, I find the remote and shut the TV off, sending the Airstream into darkness broken up by quick flashes of lightning. I hadn’t realized how bad the storm had gotten during the movie. Outside, the wind howls through the trees like a banshee in the night. I can hear branches snapping, thunder clapping closer and closer, rain pelting against the metal surrounding me. A rhythmictap, tap, tap.
It makes everything feel eerie. Cold snakes beneath my skin, settling in my bones, and I curse myself for renting the damn movie as I grab for my phone and click on my best friend’s contact.
Wren answers on the third ring. In the background, there’s a peal of laughter from her stepdaughter June followed by the giggle of her toddler, Wilder. I can imagine them perfectly in the cozy, lived-in cabin her husband, Holden, designed and built with his own two hands. There’s kid’s artwork taped to the walls and curling at the corners. Warm blankets tossed over every piece of furniture. Rain boots in the entryway and a companionless mitten in a basket by the door. It’s the kind of home that makes your heart hurt.
“Hey, what’s up?” She sounds a little out of breath, the smile in her voice making me think she was just chasing after the kids with a blanket wrapped around her neck like a cape, mismatched fuzzy socks on her feet so she can slide across the hardwood.
Instantly, I feel silly for calling. I’m an independent woman. I’ve lived on my own since the day I saved up enough money to buy this piece of land in the woods. I work as a backcountry hiking guide, taking people on hours-to-days-long excursions through the Appalachian mountains. I’ve never needed anyone, or so I like to tell myself.
“We still on for coffee in the morning?”
It’s not why I’m calling, but I’m glad for the excuse. It has been increasingly difficult to find time to spend with my best friend these days. She has a husband she’s obsessed with, two kids who are her entire world, and a job she loves as the marketing manager and event coordinator at my parent’s farm. She’s got a whole life I’m no longer a part of. And while I couldn’t be happier for her, when I’m alone in my bed at night unable to outrace my thoughts, I can’t help but feel like I’m being left behind.Again.
“Yeah, of course,” Wren says, breaking into my thoughts. I shove another handful of popcorn into my mouth, pushing the thoughts away. “Smokey the Beans?”
It’s the only coffee shop in town besides a poorly attended chain that came in last year. I’m surprised it’s made it this long. Our little town in the mountains of North Carolina, Fontana Ridge, is nothing but loyal to its own. America might run on the other stuff, but Fontana Ridge sure doesn’t.
Before I can answer, thunder booms outside, close enough to rattle the Airstream, and I choke down a gasp. We get our fair share of storms here, and I usually enjoy them, but tonight feels different. Maybe it was the scary movie, the way the rain lashed against the windows as the murderer sliced at his victim, but my hair is standing on its ends. The air, even inside, is charged with electricity.
“That was loud,” Wren says.
I find myself nodding along with her, about to stand to look out the window and assess the storm. “Yeah, it—”
Outside, there’s a loudcrack. AsnapI feel in my bones.
“Stevie?”
The ceiling of the Airstream caves in, metal screeching so loud I think I’ll hear it for days. I look up just in time to see something dark and heavy hurtling toward me before everything goes black.
There’s a bright light seeping through my eyelids, a pounding in the back of my skull, and a grating noise piercing my ears. I’m not sure what the cause of the first two are, but the last one is familiar enough. It’s the sound of my family and friends all talking at once and at great volume. I love them all so much, but none of them have ever figured out how to use their inside voices.
I blink my eyes open and then hear Wren gasp. “She’s awake!”
“And she has a headache,” I grumble through a mouth that tastes and feels decidedly like cotton.
She winces, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Sorry.”
My gaze slips past her, taking in the room. White walls, harsh overhead lighting, the beeping of a monitor, the smell of antiseptic. Wren’s husband, Holden, standing in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest, and my mom hovering near the bed I’m lying in. Scratchy sheets tangled around my legs. A blood pressure cuff wrapped around my arm.
I’m in the hospital.
I have hazy memories of a storm and blood. The blood was on my TV screen, but the storm was real. And loud. Pounding harshly against the metal frame of my Airstream, thunder rattling the windows. Lightning flashing. Everything else is foggy, just out of reach.
Before I can ask what happened, the door to the tiny room squeaks open, and a nurse walks in. He’s tall, with broad shoulders that stretch his scrubs, and a mop of thick, dark hair that falls in waves across his forehead. Days-old scruff covers his sharp, pale cheeks. He moves with the ease of someone who is confident in their capabilities. Handsome, I think absentmindedly, the thought blurry around the edges.
Blue eyes connect with mine. “Good to see you awake.” His voice is deep, smooth. Calm. A contrast to the noise coming from the people gathered in my room. “I’m Jack. How are you feeling?”
