Page 34 of Wildwood

I smile and turn over Madeline’s words once more. They aren’t cursed or anything like that. There’s that word again. Cursed. Just like Mathilde had said. I’m angry at myself for not connecting the dots sooner, but I feel oddly exhilarated that I finally have. These nightmares, those graves, it’s all connected to why my family fell apart. Maybe Mathilde was right. Maybe this place is cursed. And I’m going to find out why.

Chapter 28

A hammer of thunder shakes the house, sending a throb through my brain. We are in a stretch of late August storms, which is driving me slightly mad. I hate not being able to leave the house. I want to explore the woods. To return to the graves, see if there’s anything more I can learn. But for now, I’m stuck inside, my head aching exquisitely. I used to think it was an old wives’ tale, that storms worsen migraines. But after a week of rain, I’m convinced it’s not. Topher says it’s to do with the pressure changes.

I want to do more research but staring at a computer screen makes the pain worse and, besides, the storms have made the internet even more unstable. So I’m lying in bed, corpse-like, with an ice pack on my forehead. The pain is behind my eyes this time. Topher slumbers next to me, sleeping the sleep of the dead. To take my mind off the throbbing, I’ve been going over the facts from my visit with Madeline. It was certainly helpful. I feel like I have a clearer picture of these two intrepid families that founded Newfield Village. They clearly had ambition, drive, and, it seems, a fair bit of luck. Even the most hardworking of people wouldn’t have been so wildly successful had they not had access to such fertile, resource-rich land, access to waterways, and to literally discover gold in the small tributary in their backyard, all during the boom of early settlements in the state.

But I didn’t learn anything that could explain my nightmares and the cemetery in the woods. I’m realizing that while Madeline said she didn’t think Newfield was founded earlier than the early 1770s, she didn’t actually explain why there is a separate cemetery. Part of me wishes that I had probed more, but at the end of the day, I don’t know her all that well.

Perhaps I’ll have better luck with the historical society. I have an appointment there next week. Two women named Patty and Jean agreed to meet, as I gather there isn’t enough foot traffic for them to keep regular hours.

A cold trickle of water runs down my cheek. I wipe it away, frustrated. Wildwood is haunted. And that fact is somehow connected to my family’s estrangement. Mathilde said Wildwood is cursed. It can’t be a coincidence. Was Ezra trying to break the curse? Damn, this is driving me crazy. Even as I grow more attached to the house, I find myself unable to understand my place in it.

I pull myself into a sitting position and discard the ice pack. It’s not helping. Lying here isn’t helping. I stretch my neck side to side. I’m just about to stand when there’s a sound, a loud thump that seems to shake the roof, followed by a series of low creaks. Suddenly, I feel all the hairs on my arms raise, and despite the heat, there’s a cold shiver spreading through my chest.

“Topher!” I shake his shoulder, my throat tight.

“Huh?” he mumbles into his pillow.

“Did you hear that?” I hiss. “There was a loud noise, like a thump.”

“Probably thunder,” he says, voice thick with sleep, before pulling the blankets tighter.

I stand, hardly breathing, and begin walking slowly to the door.

And then it comes again, a thump followed by low creaks. I whip my head around, eyes wide, staring at the bed. Staring at Topher. He doesn’t move, apparently already asleep. I wait, frozen in place, for the sound to come again. But it doesn’t.

It’s just thunder, I tell myself, willing myself to move. It’s just thunder.

* * *

The rain lets up a few hours later, and I see glowing wisps of sunlight fighting through the clouds. I feel some of the tension in my shoulders lighten. Finally, I can get some fresh air and clear my head.

I head to the forest, without even thinking, pulled like birds are to migrate by some magnetic force. When I get to the tree line, the sun is already out with more force, and I can feel the heat on my neck for a few glorious moments before stepping into the coolness of the woods. For a while I walk, trying to focus on the beauty around me. The trees are gorgeous, the colors so vibrant. Leaves of emerald-green mix with gold, the first indications that summer is closing, and autumn is approaching. All around me seems to glow.

I sit down against a birch tree and close my eyes, leaning my head against the trunk, breathing in deeply. It’s funny, as much as there has been a shadow hanging over me recently, it doesn’t make me want to leave this place. If anything, it’s had the opposite effect. I feel increasingly drawn to Wildwood, and increasingly like I belong here. Like I am meant to be here. I feel myself getting drowsy and I tell myself that I’ll just sit here for a few minutes.

The sounds of the forest are soothing, especially when you are still and allow yourself to really hear them. Rustle of leaves, faint chittering and chirping, water moving in the distance, a hum, a twig snapping. My eyes open suddenly, and I stand up, feeling almost like I’ve been commanded to. Maybe I stood too quickly, because my head feels strange, so I lean on the trunk for balance. The bark feels smooth against my skin and hangs in sheets like creamy paper. A small section has started to peel and I curl a finger under the bark, grasping it between my index and thumb, and pull. It starts to unravel from the tree with ease, uncoiling into silky, white ribbon. I hold up a piece, admiring it. I want another. I reach to tear more, but when I look down, I see that the place where I tore the first piece is dripping. Curious, I place my hand on the spot, expecting to feel the stickiness of sap. But when I pull my hand away, my fingers are covered in crimson. My stomach drops. The bark starts to peel on its own, dropping off like giant patches of skin. From each wound, blood pours down the trunk, which I realize is white as a bone.

I drop the bark and turn to run. But I cannot see clearly. The trees in front of me are starting to blur. It’s like I’m looking through Madeline’s bay windows, the rain obscuring my view. Only it’s not rain, but tears. I feel like I’m sobbing, heaving without control, feeling a sadness like I’ve never known.

And then I sense something in the watercolor of trees in front of me. A shape moving. It is thin and black, arching and undulating. Like a serpent. It lifts its head, pausing to look at me, before returning to its task. Then, the watercolors start to pool together, forming a river, and everything starts to wash away before I can make sense of it. I open my mouth to scream. But my throat feels choked. The birch has wound its branches around my neck. I look down and see dirty, limp locks of curling hair falling onto my chest. I can feel the rough scrape of rope and the ground disappearing beneath my feet. But before everything goes black, I hear two words, soft as smoke. Find us.

When I wake up this time, I expect to hear screaming. My screaming. But I don’t. It is silent. I’m in The Forest of the Dead and my body is rigid. I will myself to move, will myself to scream, but I can’t; I’m paralyzed. But my heart is still beating. Yes, I can hear the thuds, seeming to echo in my brain. My eyes dart around, desperate to find help. Hugo. Topher. Where are you?? It’s just like it was that night after the Ouija board, when I was a little girl. Then I realize that I’m not alone. In the corner of the room, I can see the vile serpent, just out of my periphery. He is coiling and uncoiling, almost like breathing. How did he get here in the real world? I try to scream but I can’t. There’s just a soft strangled noise in my throat. In my direct line of sight, I realize a painted tree branch begins to shake. Leaves fall, turning to ash before they reach the floor. The branch then groans and breaks off from the wall. It begins to reach toward me, a gnarled hand with sharpened claws, stretching toward my neck. Move. Move. MOVE! If I didn’t know evil existed, I do now. Because this is hell and I’m stuck in it. A tear leaks down my cheek, and I hear something that sounds like a sob.

Chapter 29

The lights flicker as I enter the historical society, which resides inside an old colonial-style home on Main Street. Outside, an early September storm is in full swing, dumping rain and filling the sky with loud claps of thunder. I shake off my umbrella and lean it in a corner.

The walls of the main room are lined with blown-up prints of Newfield, the grainy black-and-white images showing a much sparser Main Street, barns, and grim-looking men and women posing, American Gothic style, in front of homesteads. I scan some of the text beneath the old image of Main Street. Newfield was originally chartered in 1750 as part of Benning Wentworth’s initial New Hampshire land grants, though settlements didn’t crop up until 1758.

“Looks a lot different from today, right?” I turn around and a stooped lady is standing in front of me. Her white hair is cut into a neat bob and is held back with an old ribbon functioning as a headband, and she wears a pale blue sweater. Her eyes are bright, and I can tell that age has not slowed down her faculties at all.

“I’m Jean. You must be Elinor?”

“Yes. And thank you so much for coming out to meet me today; I know the weather is awful.”

“Not a problem. And my goodness, you are expecting! You didn’t tell me that.”