Page 34 of Buried in the Woods Below

I step outside and take a deep breath of the fresh summer air, glazed with the scent of chrysanthemums. The sun glows and the birds chatter in the forest. Olivia was right. Wallowing over Heathcliff won’t do me any good, but a long hike might.

I try to shift my mind to the present, but as I walk down the gravel path, I catch the sound of Eric and Laelynn talking by the side of the house. Not wanting to eavesdrop, I quicken my pace toward the entrance to the forest, but the voices follow me. As I enter the woods, I hear Laelynn’s throaty timbre, grief-stricken, finally articulate what I know is true.

“Eric, this wasn’t an accident.”

Chapter 17

I step off the Parkers’ property and into the forest. The first thing I notice is the isolation. No trail, no road, just dense woods in every direction. The Parkers’ house, like the others scattered through the area, is encircled by trees, each home tucked into its own cocoon of green.

As I move deeper into the forest, passing the occasional distant house, the pattern repeats: a battalion of trees guarding every property, sealing them off from the world.

The morning chill has given way to a sticky warmth. Overhead, a bank of dense clouds presses low. The sounds of the lake and the murmur of the Parkers’ house fade behind me, replaced by the sharp crack of twigs beneath my feet and the high-pitched whine of the cicadas grinding in my ears. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I can almost smell last night’s bootlegs leaking from my pores.

Am I doing the right thing? The Parkers’ dog is dead, the family is wrecked, and I’m off on a nature hike like an influencer on a glamping trip. #practicinggratitude #manifestingabundance. Olivia’s probably right though. They need their space.

As my strides grow longer and my lungs absorb the fresh air, my headache fades, and an overwhelming sense of relief washes over me. There’s no hint of civilization here—no distant roar of airplanes, no growl of car engines, no chatter of human voices. It’s just me and the still, dark shade along with the occasional tap-tap of a woodpecker. I can finally breathe again.

Still, as I move deeper into the birches, ashes, and oaks, I can’t help noticing there’s something slanted about the island. The trees, bent and gnarled, blocking the sun. Horseflies buzzing around, looking for prey. The remnants of paths that twist like veins, inviting you yet disorienting you, pulling you away from where you started. There’s history in these woods. Mysteries from another time.

I wander farther, mapping each inch of the island in my mind. I pass a dead squirrel buried in leaves, eyes mired in oblivion just like Heathcliff’s. Bugs circle the carcass.

Laelynn’s words ring in my ears.

“This wasn’t an accident.”

I shudder, remembering the tremor in her voice. The grapes. Could she suspect the girls? No, there’s no way. No mother would harbor those thoughts about her own daughters, no matter how creepy they are.

But if not the girls, then who? I picture the note. “LEAVE, OR ELSE.”

Was this the “or else”?

Russ Neuman might have killed his own mother. What’s a dog’s life worth to him? Was he sending a message? The modern version of the horse’s head in The Godfather?

I’m hiking on what used to be Neuman land. Russ’s house must be around here; the final remains of the Neuman dynasty. I hear Tim Colby’s growl from our first day of orientation at Winthrop. If you want answers, best to hear it from the horse’s mouth. A cottage emerges along the lakeshore as the bay curves toward the nature preserve. It has to be his.

I summon my courage and knock on the door, then wait in silence, my heart thumping. But no one answers. I peek through the grime-stained windows, revealing the dilapidated home of a lifetime bachelor. A single worn pea-green couch facing a TV, its cushions sapped of life. A hand-me-down dining table marked with rings, two empty Grain Belt beers perched on top next to a worn hunting knife. An axe leaned against an ash-ridden fireplace. Black-and-white photos of Marjorie Neuman on a dusty end table. A pang of pity stirs within me. I peer closer.

A high-pitched sound jars me.

I flinch.

It’s faint but distinct—a rhythmic squeak, coming from the nature preserve. Initially, I suspect a bird or animal. I listen closer. It’s the sound of metal on metal, like the screech of an unoiled door hinge. The eerie groans come every few seconds. The sound scratches at my eardrums, a man-made echo in a natural setting.

I tiptoe through a small opening in the trees that leads from Russ’s house into the park, following the shrill grind. With each step, it grows louder, like the staccato violin sounds in the movie Psycho. I round the bend, and then I see it. There, fifty yards ahead in a clearing, spins the remains of an old carousel, a fossil from the old amusement park, drifting in the breeze. It’s a macabre sight. Moss and lichen blanket the carousel like a shroud. Three of the horses have toppled, lying prone in the air. The rest wear the scars of time—hollowed-out eye sockets and coats pocked by stripped paint. I might get tetanus just looking at the thing.

I step closer, transfixed by the haunting scene. Watching the carousel is like staring at a mutilated corpse of something long dead. The mournful squeaks seem less like worn machinery and more like a warning. Carnival music runs through my mind, but it’s slowed and off-key.

“A sight, isn’t it?” growls a voice from behind me.

I spin around, my heart in my throat.

A man in sagging jeans and a camouflage hunting jacket stands a few feet away, craggy pale face covered in deep wrinkles and gray whiskers. A pipe dangles from his lips, wisps of smoke curling into the humid air.

“Sorry,” he says, raising a hand in the air to steady me. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” His eyes twitch.

I take a step back, trying to mask my alarm. “No. You just surprised me. I didn’t realize anyone else was out here.” My eyes scan in every direction.

No one else is out here.