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“What’s wrong?” Anthony asks. “Why aren’t youcalling?”
“The phone isn’t working. The line’sdead.”
“Everybody needs to stay calm. We’ll keep this under control. Somebody needs to go into town to get the police. And we need to get the campers secure,” Mikesays.
“Emily is gathering up the campers to the dining hall,” Anthony tells him. “Grant was down at the campfire, but she told us when it started raining, the campers all ran off to their cabins or the dining or rechalls.”
“Alright,” Mike nods. “You two go to town. Use my truck. I’ll find Emily and Grant and make sure everyone is in place and accounted for. We need to avoid causing any kind of panic. Until we know what’s going on, don’t say anything to anyone. Go straight to the police and tell them there is an emergencyhere.”
He tosses Holden the keys to the old green pickup he uses to move around the camp, the same one that was here twenty years ago, grabs his raincoat from where it hangs on a rack by the door, and they head out into the building storm. The night has gotten dark enough that it’s hard to see the boys once they are a few yards ahead of him. He can only watch as they approach the truck and wait for the glow of the headlights to pierce the streaming rain before turning and running further into the camp with only the light of his flashlight to lead him.
Ahead of him, the campfire is dying in the rain. The fact that it’s still glowing, the embers still red deep in the heart of the wood piled up in the center of the rock ring, is a testament to the skill of the counselor who’d built it. This is a fire created not for the marshmallows and hot dogs roasted over it, but for survival. Even under the rage of the storm, it perseveres.
There’s no one near the fire pit, but Mike can see the remnants of the nightly campfire. Roasting sticks scattered on the ground. Marshmallows melting in the rain. A forgotten canteen hunkering under one of the benches like it’s seeking refuge from the storm. A hooded sweatshirt likely packed carefully by a mother wanting her child to have protection from weather the teenager didn’t believe would come.
Mike’s heart pounds hard enough to make his stomach turn as he moves across the camp. His field of vision is limited to only the pool of light produced by the heavy yellow flashlight he keeps in his raincoat pocket. It makes the dark around the edges deeper, more ominous. Anything could be just beyond that light. Anything could be waiting for him steps ahead.
But he keeps going.
His light sweeps back and forth across the ground to cover as much of it as possible as he goes. He wants to see everything he can, to catch anything that might be hiding in the shadows. And hedoes.
The light touches feet first. Mud-streaked tennis shoes laced over soaked white socks. Mike steps up closer and sees the streaks of mud across the once-white leather are tinged with red. Mixed with blood, not water.
His beam travels up stained legs and reaches a torso split from chest to belly. Every human instinct would say to run, but he stays in place to bring the beam higher and focus on vacant eyes and a mouth open in terror. A silent scream pouring out of it for eternity.
Mallory Barnett. Seventeen years old.
He doesn’t want to, but he has to leave her where she lies. There are other campers and counselors who are still on the grounds. He needs to find all of them, to make sure they are accounted for. He doesn’t know where to go next until a scream tells him. His feet take off toward it before he can fully process the direction. His body knows the camp better than his mind. He’s been on these grounds since before he formed memories. The land knows things about him he doesn’t know about himself.
And it has secrets of its own. Secrets Mike fears are coming to the surface again.
On the other side of camp, two campers run blindly through the rain, trying to get away from the sound of the screams so close it feels like the sounds themselves are chasing them. They rip through the rhythm of the raindrops and rolled through the open windows to reverberate through their cabin. They’re so close. Right next door. Connie, Belinda, Caroline, Patricia. It could be any of them. Or all ofthem.
Lisa and Hillary couldn’t just sit in the cabin and wait. They didn’t know what was right outside, but they ran anyway. Their shoes are still sitting just inside the door, their raincoats hanging on the hooks on the wall. Forgotten in their terror. They run grasping hands like they are each other’s lifeline. If they are still touching each other, they aren’t alone.
Ahead of them, they see the craft building. It’s dark inside, but they know it’s never locked. There’s no need to secure paint and clay. Both and neither want to look behind them. They hope there’s nothing there, but they can’t bear the thought of turning and seeing what might be.
Lisa’s foot hits a slick patch of wet wood as she tries to climb the steps onto the low porch. She lets out a cry of pain when she lands hard on the porch, her chin smashing down and the edge of the top step crushing into her lower ribs. Hillary drags her to her feet, trying to quiet her. They have to be quiet. They can’t let anyone hearthem.
They open the door just enough to slip inside and close it, dropping the never-used latch into place to secure it closed. Both are gasping so deeply for breath and fighting the sobs crawling up their throats so desperately they don’t realize they aren’t alone. They don’t hear the trembling breaths from the far corner until Lisa has swallowed down the pain. The sound makes the fear jump into their chests again. Hillary tightens her grip around Lisa’s and pulls her backward toward the door so their backs press against them.
The building is dark. Even with the large windows all around the sides, some of the few in the camp that actually have glass rather than just the screens, it’s almost impossible to see even right beside themselves. The moon and stars have been swallowed by the storm.
“Is there someone there?” Lisa calls out, her voice shaking despite her trying to sound strong and unafraid.
The crying sound is almost inaudible under the rain, but the girls can hear it. They know someone else is there with them. Hillary reaches behind her for the latch, ready to open it so they can run again.
“Who is it?” she asks. “Who’sthere?”
“Hillary?”
The voice is familiar, but she can’t place it.
Another voice shushes the first. There’s more than one other person there with them.
“Hillary, is that you?” the first voice asks. “It’sPenny.”
The girl she rode in a canoe with the day before. The one who couldn’t fit in her life jacket and was afraid of the boat, but swam like a fish when they toppled over.
