Page 75 of Wildwood

The rain pounds the windows. I suddenly feel like I’m going to explode. My heart is beating out of my chest. I hurl my phone across the room. It hits the brick of the fireplace and skitters across the floor.

I pant, for a few moments, slowly coming back to myself. I walk timidly to my phone, afraid to see the damage. When I pick it up, the back is completely shattered, and pieces of glass fall like sand. The front screen is a spiderweb and the Apple icon looks like it’s reloading.

Thankfully I still have my laptop. I power it up, still breathing deliberately to slow my heart. I download the security camera app, and a few minutes later, I’m back in. I click on more videos. They are mundane. A few triggered by the swaying of branches, the movement of shadows across the field, a deer wandering through. Me pacing the meadow, looking for Hugo. Me taking Hugo out. Topher coming and going.

But then I find what I’m looking for. It’s a video taken at night, the images looking ominous in the way night vision always does. It’s from a camera that shows the back of the house, with a clear shot of the toolshed. It might even be from that first camera I noticed, glinting up in the trees. A figure emerges from the toolshed. She walks back toward the woods, but pauses, in front of the conservatory. About ten yards out, I think. I know I am inside the conservatory at this very moment, staring back at her, in my nightgown.

The video stops. My heart is racing. I click on the next one, taken twenty minutes earlier.

From the lower corner of the screen, the same figure appears. I can see her more closely in this video. She approaches the toolshed and enters. Ghostly pale and hooded. But I no longer think she’s a ghost.

Then she walks off and out of the camera. I realize I’d been expecting to see Madeline on the camera. And though I didn’t get a clear view of the face, I recognize the hooded winter coat the nighttime visitor wears. I know, without a doubt, that it’s Joan.

Chapter 67

I’m soaked by the time I get out to the toolshed. My flannel is sticking to my body like a heavy cloak. Joan came in here for something.

Inside, the shed smells of must, of rotting leaves, faintly of motor oil. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. The lawn mower sits in the middle. A large mat sits along the back wall, with a few pairs of boots on it. The walls are covered in a ramshackle of old shovels, pitchforks, handsaws. The ceiling is constructed of ancient-looking wood beams. I’m certain that if I were to push on them, they’d be soft.

I look around, not sure what I’m looking for. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. I walk the inside perimeter. I step onto the floor mat and almost freeze in place. It feels different here from the rest of the floor. It feels . . . hollow. I give a little jump. There’s give.

When I pull back the mat, it’s hard to see anything at first, it’s so dark in here. But then I see the faint outline, and I run my hands over the dusty boards. My fingers graze an indent. I hold my breath. There’s a door in the floor.

I jump up and look around me, for something to use to pry it up. I find a screwdriver lying on the ground and jam it in the groove. It lifts an inch and then the screwdriver slips and the door clatters back down. I try again, and this time slip my hand in the crack as soon as it’s high enough. It’s hard to do with the belly, but I manage to get a good grip. Then, with a groan, both from me and the boards, I lift it and move it aside. A plume of dust erupts as the door thuds on the floor.

Below is a stairway that disappears into darkness.

Holy fucking shit.

I come back, flashlight in hand, feeling wired. I shine it down the tunnel. The staircase isn’t long. Six, seven steps maybe. There’s no choice but to go in.

I haven’t gone to church since childhood, but I make the sign of the cross, an ingrained movement. Pascal’s wager.

“Okay, no big deal. Just going down some stairs,” I say out loud.

The first step creaks, and I can already feel the change in temperature. It’s much cooler down here. I take another step. Then another. Each time I pause, as though if someone were hiding down here, they’d suddenly announce themselves.

Finally, I step onto a dirt floor. Slowly, I cast my flashlight around, moving up stone walls and across another old, wooden ceiling. I’m in a narrow tunnel. It’s short, maybe six or eight feet long. I walk through, slowly, one hand holding the flashlight, the other dragging along the wall for support. I almost feel as though I would topple over, with some strange sense of vertigo if I weren’t touching the wall. The end of the hall opens into a small, square room. Maybe six feet by six feet. It’s chilly in here. Perhaps it’s an old root cellar? Or a secret hiding space?

But I’m less concerned with what this room is, and more concerned about where it leads. Because on the far end of the wall, opposite the staircase, is a door.

I cross the room in a few strides and press my face against the door. I look down at my hand placed on the knob. My belly nearly blocks my view.

Taking a deep breath, I turn the knob and push. Nothing happens. Then, I pull it toward me, and it swings open with a creak. I cast the flashlight into the darkness. There’s something directly in front of the doorway, though I can see through it. There’re objects on it. It looks like I’m behind a large shelving unit. Through the flashlight beam, I can make out a series of cylinders. Picking one up, I see that it’s a very old, rusted can of paint. That’s when I realize it. This door leads to the basement. This door is where I felt the draft, the cold wrapping around me, sending shivers up my spine. I put my hands on the metal shelf and push slightly. It’s on rickety wheels, but it moves slowly. So that’s how Joan did it. This is how she got into the house without setting off an alarm.

Chapter 68

Back upstairs in the house, I pace the first floor, weighing my options. I could call Topher or the police. I have video now of someone breaking into my house. But just as I didn’t think the figure meant me harm when I saw her in the fields, I don’t think Joan means me harm now. If she did, she had the perfect opportunity to do something about it when she found me in the woods. It almost seems like she wants to help me. Plus, I can’t stomach talking to Topher. I know the video doesn’t prove they are sleeping together. Maybe he asked Madeline to check on the house, and that’s why she came down to his car. Maybe she wanted to assure him that she’d keep an eye on things. Let him know if I come back. But still, the way they held each other, a heartbeat longer than friends would. The way she pulled his face to hers. Something is going on. But I’ll deal with that later. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

I pick up my phone. The home screen is back up. I click into messages. It seems to work, though it’s slow. I can feel a hundred miniature cuts slice through my thumb as I type out a brief message.

Hi. Want to come by for tea?

Three bubbles appear.

Sure. Now?

Yes.