Page 80 of Wildwood

“The paper clip?” I blink.

Joan flushes. “I’m so sorry. You must feel so violated. And I must look like such an idiot.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, you are much better with a hammer than you are with a paper clip.”

We stare at each other a moment longer, and then I start to laugh, in a crazed sort of way. And then Joan is laughing too. Both of us kneel, clutching at our bellies, tears streaming down our cheeks. Because everything is so absurd right now. And, I think, because we are both so damn grateful to not be alone in this anymore.

When the laughter subsides, I hold up the older of the two keys. “This was in that drawer. I bet it goes to this box.”

I sit down and slide the key into the lock. I look up at Joan and she nods. I turn the key and it moves, a dull chink as it turns. I open the lid, hardly breathing. It clanks as it falls open. There is a waft of must.

“Holy shit,” Joan says.

Inside are two pieces of paper, yellowed with age.

The first is a newspaper article. The Green Mountain Herald from 1945. The title and image, so familiar, it makes my breath inhale sharply. “Bishop Girl Goes Missing and Is Found Alive.” There’s a grainy photo, the little girl’s face half shadowed, surrounded by adults, some leaning down to talk with her, others huddled, exchanging looks of relief and dismay.

Ten-year-old Mathilde Bishop has been found alive and well after spending nearly 24 hours in the woods of her family farm, known as Wildwood. According to Bishop, she followed a woman outside of her house and into the woods.

“She was beautiful,” Bishop said, not appearing to understand the danger she was in. “She told me to follow her and that the woods were safer.”

“It happened to my grandmother,” I whisper. “Oh my god, it happened to her too.”

I look at Joan and shake my head slightly, as this new piece of information slides into place. It had happened to her. And then it happened to me. And then I think of her letter. I know you don’t believe me about what happened to Elinor. All this time, I’d thought she suspected Madeline. But it wasn’t that after all. She thought I was being haunted, just as she had been.

“That’s why she thought it was cursed.”

Joan and I hold each other’s eyes for what feels like an eternity.

“What’s the other one?” Joan finally whispers.

I pick up the second piece of paper. It is yellow and feels older than anything I’ve ever touched. It seems to smell of age and history. Carefully, I unroll it.

There’s writing on it, the kind of elaborate scrawl I’d only ever seen on important historical documents, like pictures of the Declaration of Independence. There’s also a drawing on it. It’s a map. I squint at it more closely. There are property lines, markings for a road, and markings for a river. In some innate way, I recognize the curve of the river, the distance of the river from the road. It’s a property map of Newfield Village. There’s a date in the corner. 1752. I knew it. I knew it.

I almost laugh, victoriously. But then I notice the details, the number of plots, the names and locations, and it makes my heart stop. Newfield Village currently is essentially two properties. With others scattered farther out. On this map, Newfield Village consists of many properties. My eye scans the paper and I see names, many of which I recognize. Clark. Garfield. Barrett. Smith. Proctor. Lord. Abington. Brown. The hidden graves. Amias Smith. Lavinia Brown. Hester Proctor. Isaac Garfield. The current Brook property was divided then among several smaller plots. One of the larger plots, which looks like it now contains the three Brook homes is labeled as D. Clark. The plot belonging to an L. Brook lies next to it. The plot of land where Wildwood should be is not labeled as Bishop. It is labeled as J. Abington. But farther down the road, there is a property line. This next property appears to be where the old foundation is now. This property is labeled W. Bishop (Blacksmith).

I stare at it, dumbly, trying to make sense of it all. This map contains so much. Proof that Newfield Village was settled in 1752, far earlier than everyone thinks. Proof that the Brooks and Bishops were still there from the beginning. But. It feels hard to breathe. I can almost feel Joan’s eyes on me, her turn to watch me crumble. But. The Bishops didn’t live on Wildwood, just as the Brooks didn’t live on what is now Cold Brook Drive. So how did they acquire this land?

“Other people lived here first.” Joan’s voice startles me in the silence.

“So . . . so did the Brooks and Bishops buy the land from these other families?”

An agonizing pause. “Possibly.”

Our eyes meet, her expression of understanding, resignation, and futile hope matching what I know is etched across my own face.

“Have you ever seen a deed?” I ask.

She gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of the head. “You?”

“No,” I whisper, my mind navigating a labyrinth back through time. Someone had mentioned a deed. Jean at the historical society. When Newfield Village incorporated with Newfield, the Bishops and Brooks simply came to town and filed their own deeds. They would have cut marks into trees with axes to declare their lines and town officials would have no reason to question their claims. Easy as that, Jean had said.

Easy as that.

Chapter 71

I hear a strangled sound beside me. Joan’s breathing is coming out strange and fast. Her face is white.