If I didn’t know the history of this place, it would almost seem peaceful. The break in the trees gives my lungs a chance to expand as my eyes adjust to having more than a few feet’s worth of visibility at a time. The foliage has become fluffy light green as it spreads around the ground, everywhere but on a narrow dirt road that winds through the pass and along the various homes. I’d guess it could’ve fit maybe one buggy, could now fit a horse-riding party in a single-file line. There are about ten buildings, all made of the same golden wood slabs, some aged grayer and darker than others, depending on how much sun hits them. They’re all either one- or two-story structures, all seemingly one room per floor. No windows, no doors. Some have horizontal poles for tying up horses, some don’t.
Inside, the only bits of furniture that remain are a few workbenches made from the same material as the houses. They remind me of the old Lincoln Logs toys my parents would give Owen and I to play with when they decided Lego were too expensive. There were only like five combinations of structures one could make, an easy task for a child.
These homes truly look like a child designed them.
If the legends are true, children still haunt them.
And the witch.
I shiver.
Beck moves closer to one of the two-story structures as I find myself just staring. Children and a witch. The old fairy tales suddenly resurface in my mind. The witch who tried to shove Hansel and Gretel into an oven to eat them. My stomach sours thinking about it. Whatdidhappen to those schoolchildren? How were they “sacrificed” to the devil, to the witch? Does it even matter if the witch is fake if it’s caused such real, unspeakable harm?
Whyisit that Harlow and Opal were missing body parts? Why were Paisley’s teeth so messed up?
I shake my head, shake my whole body out to force the thought away. I can’t dwell on that. We’re here because Paisley’s video showed them coming here. Maybe we’ll find a new piece of evidence, maybe we won’t. I can’t assume the horrific unless the horrific comes.
But Beck seems to think otherwise. She stares blankly at a plaque right outside the buildings, which commemorated the ghost town and the schoolchildren who lost their lives here. There’s a photo on the plaque: twelve kids and a woman in her twenties, all of them frowning, their eyes dead as they stare ahead. Like the photo was taken after they’d already died.
“So, Opal and Harlow were found in the ravine,” she says. “Opal was missing her finger and Harlow’s body was intact but missing an ear. So…if they did die out here, we might find…that.”
The nausea returns. “I don’t think we’d find body parts,” I say. “The animals would’ve taken them by now.” I force a deep, long breath until the wave passes. “But clothing. We might find that.”
I don’t even remember what Paisley was wearing that night. We should look back at the videos, but I don’t want to see their faces as we do this.
How did they encounter the killer out here? Were they followed, or did they walk right into her nest by being here? Should we try to find Evan and check in with him? Just so someone else knows exactly where we are?
But Beck suggests we start by checking every building, so that’s what we do.
We’re completely alone out here, but it’s a whole lot bigger space to fully investigate than just the campsite.
By the time we finish our initial check and have to get on our hands and knees to do a more thorough inspection in one of the one-room buildings, I need to fill the silence. This place is vast, yet the pain here is palpable enough to leave dread swirling in my gut. I don’t believe in ghosts, but there’s something heavy here.
Maybe it’s just the grief at being so close to where they likely spent their last moments.
“Are you passionate about volleyball?” I ask Beck.
The building is full of aging trash: scrap metal that must’ve once been a part of the structures, rusting old tools, piles of dusty bricks, dead plants that made their way inside. Interestingly, it doesn’t seem like there are any framed photographs or vases or knickknacks. Maybe they’ve all been taken by hikers over the years.
“Uhhh, I like the adrenaline rush,” Beck says. “I like that I’m good at it. I like that it’s the kind of thing where if you put in enough hours to pick up a new sub-skill, it can be done.”
All those questions and then I remember what happened withBeck and volleyball. Despite my cheeks heating from that realization, I decide to just go for it.
“Are you upset about getting booted from the team?” I ask.
Beck examines a rusty tool, gingerly avoiding the most worn-out spots. “Honestly, it was the biggest relief of my life. I like being active, sure, but I hated the team dynamics and all the rules. I’m not going to say I was better off skipping school and getting into fights, but do you know how it feels to finally not have to adhere to a schedule and justexist?” She sighs. “I know what I was doing was a bad way to cope. But no, I’m fine spending senior year part two without doing a sport. Maybe I can find something I like doing that isn’t stressful as fuck.”
I’m still sifting through stuff, but I’m starting to forget what we’re looking for in the first place. “What do you want to spend your life doing?” I pause. “If you know.”
“I’m not sure,” Beck says. “I really love movies, so maybe I could study film or something? Not sure what I’d do with it, though. I’m not creative and I don’t know if I’m smart enough to be a critic. I know I have to finish high school, but sometimes I wonder if I even want to go to college. I really like being active, so part of me always dreams of becoming, like, a zipline guide and being in nature and having a quiet life. But my parents would never let me.”
I would’ve known the answer to what Paisley’s parents would think about Beck being a zipline guide just from knowing the pressure they put on Paisley with the auditions. But now knowingjusthow deeply Paisley’s mom has been living vicariously through her now-dead daughter, Beck doesn’t even have to say it. I don’t want her to have to say it out loud for my sake.
My throat stings again as I speak. “The expectations have changed.”
“Yeah.” Beck pinches the bridge of her nose. “I don’t even know if I can come out to my mom. She wouldn’t have cared before, but now that Paisley’s dead, I don’t think any alternative lifestyles are able to be processed by her brain.”
Fuck.
