“No!” I cry, rage and grief welling up like a tsunami inside me. “You’re gone, Parker. You can’t help me.” I know I should be hugging him, clinging to him in what precious little time we have before the rapids swallow us. But all I can do is scream.
He looks at me tenderly, almost sadly. “I’m right here. And you’ve got this, babe.” He points to a life jacket. “Splinter Ridge isn’t so bad, if you know what you’re doing. Now, let the paddles do the work, baby. Head down, row hard. This river’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“We won’t make it!” I cry, my voice ragged with panic and heartache.
His mouth opens again, and I just know that what he’s about to say is important. I lean toward him as the pounding river drums louder, desperate to hear him over the roaring water.
To my horror, the only sound that emerges from his open mouth is a shriek.
It isn’t the shrill, startled cry of someone spotting a spider or slipping on ice. It’s an earsplitting, raw, gut-wrenching noise that makes every hair on my body stand on end—and yanks me away from my dream.
I clutch my chest in the dark tent, gasping for air and reaching for the pocket flashlight I tucked beside my pillow.
My fingers freeze mid-fumble as I hear the same scream trail off into whimpers.
What the hell is happening? My heart pounds and my cheeks burn with tears as my finger hesitates on the flashlight’s ON button. Is somebody hurt? Or are Josh and Bryan playing some sick prank, after scaring us with Kellen Stroop stories around the campfire?
My breath comes in short, fast spurts, blood pumping in my ears. Do I stay inside the tent or do I go outside?
In spite of myself, I suddenly picture Kellen Stroop, a shadowy figure stalking the line of tents with that camopatterned knife.
I pull my phone close, squinting at the screen. It’s three in the morning. A NO SERVICE icon blares in the corner, same as it has since halfway through yesterday’s van ride.
To my left, footsteps scramble past, a zipper rips open, then more feet thud across the sand. I strain to hear anything more over the low roar of the Devil’s Stairs. Now, voices, frantic and half-whispered, come from the right side of my tent.
“Should we look inside? What if she’s hurt?”
“Oh my god, I can’t stop thinking about Kellen Stroop,” someone cries.
“We need to check if she’s okay,” another hisses.
“I’m scared,” says Pam’s voice. “Let’s go get one of the guides.”
“But she was screaming, just like in the story …”
Nylon fabric rustles.
“Maybe she’s trying to scare us? I swear to god, if this is a joke,” a woman insists. It’s Deborah, I think.
My breath comes in shallow, shaky draws while I ease out of my sleeping bag, crawl to the tent entrance, and slip on my shoes.
I hear the sound of fingernails rapping against the nylon of a tent. “Allie? Allie, are you okay in there?” a quivering voice that sounds like Nikki’s calls out.
Silence. Then more muffled footsteps on sand, followed by the slow creep of a zipper.
“We should get a guide before we open her tent,” offers a voice I don’t recognize. She sounds terrified.
Grabbing my useless phone, I unzip my own tent flap—just in time to hear another scream split the night.
8
I spring out of my tent and onto the sand, unsure whether I need to be ready to run or fight.
Four dark figures surround Allie’s tent, one leaning halfway inside through the flap. Along the row of tents, zippers run and flaps open as more blurry figures emerge to join the commotion.
Then I hear a familiar voice.
“What thefuck,you guys?” It’s Allie. “Pam, is that you? Deborah? You scared me to death.”
