Chapter Seventeen

The wall, when it appears in the distance, sends a shudder of recognition running through me. It looks just as imposing now as it did thirty years ago. Maybe even more so, thanks to its obvious lack of upkeep. Some stones have broken off, leaving behind dark crevices slick with moss. At the top, rust clings to the teeth of the razor wire. It all suggests something not just forbidden, but truly dangerous as well.

Once I reach the wall, I follow the path blazed thirty years ago, looking for the gap we had passed through. It's still there, making me think both stewards of the land—first the Hawthorne Institute, now the county—either don't know about it or don't care.

Passing through the gap in the wall, I get the same nervous chill I'd felt as a child. I shouldn't be doing this. Not now, not then. The biggest difference between these two journeys is my fitness—or lack thereof. When I was ten, I was barely aware of the ground sloping higher as we approached the falls. Now forty and in only semi-good shape, my legs ache as I trudge onward. By the time I reach the outcropping, I need a minute to catch my breath. Then I peer over the falls and lose it again.

Billy was here all this time.

While I grew up, grew older, went to college, met Claudia, got married, Billy remained right here, unable to do any of those things. The unfairness of it—the downright cruelty—brings a tear to my eye that I quickly wipe away.

Although there's currently no police activity at the base of the falls, signs of their recent presence are everywhere. On the lake, a small inflatable dinghy sits moored to a rock, the unsettled water from the falls making it bob slightly. On the shore, yellow police tape has been stretched along the lake's edge. A bit of procedural overkill that nonetheless reminds me I'm looking at a crime scene.

Rescue vehicles have left large tire marks on the grass, including two parallel ruts in the ground that lead right to the water. I can think of only one vehicle that would need to get that close: the van that carted away what was left of Billy.

Sobered by that thought, I turn my attention to the rest of the grounds. The place has grown in considerably since the last time I was here, with the forest encroaching on all sides. Thirty years ago, I could see most of the outbuildings, even though I was too high up to tell what they were. Now, though, I can barely make out anything through the trees. Maybe the people who pay to have their weddings here prefer it that way.

The only structure that can easily be seen is the mansion. Even among the increased growth, it's too big to miss. Looking at it now, I remember what Billy said about the place.

They talk to ghosts.

Scanning the institute grounds from my perch, I see no one else around. No cars. No people. Even though I know the area isn't completely abandoned, it feels that way. As if the police, having recovered Billy's body, decided to pack up only what they needed and left the rest behind.

I wonder if the same is true of the institute itself. While the mansion is put to occasional use for weddings and parties, I assume there are areas where guests can't go. It's a big place, likely containing rooms that haven't been touched since the institute closed. Is it possible that, just like the police here at the lake, the people who worked at the Hawthorne Institute left things behind?

I leave the outcropping and start to make my descent to the rest of the institute grounds, relying on the memory of my long-ago previous visit. There's no path down. Just a steep, densely wooded slope studded with rocks and waist-high weeds. I step carefully, gripping tree trunks and ducking under branches. The whole time, I listen for noises like the ones I heard on the way here. The echo of footfalls that aren't my own. If someone followed me to the road, I see no reason why they wouldn't continue to do so here.

But no one is following me.

At least, no one I can see.

That—and the fact that I hear nothing as I resume walking now—makes me think what I heard back there really was an echo of my footsteps. Or my imagination getting the best of me.

Or maybe it was just an auditory hallucination. Considering everything I've experienced in the past few days, that's the likeliest explanation. That guilt, grief, and a lack of sleep have at last broken my brain.

But then my phone pings in my pocket, reminding me that at least some of this is real. Trail cams don't capture hallucinations. Whatever it just sent me is real and currently in my yard.

Henry, it turns out.

I open the app, and there he is, standing in front of the camera with a big grin on his face and a sheet of paper in his hands. He's written on it with Magic Marker.

Hi, Mr. Marsh!

I see it and smile. Ashley's right. He is a good kid, and the tinge of worry I feel for the boy is nothing compared to what she must endure every single minute of every single day. Life is hard. There's no point denying it. The world is often brutal and cruel, and it only seems to get harder as time marches forward. The pressures and dangers kids face today are so much worse than when I was that age. I can't imagine how parents like Russ and Ashley handle the anxiety. I don't have the emotional bandwidth for it. Something Claudia never understood.

Now that the phone is in my hand, I think about calling her, just to tell her I'm currently marching down a wooded hillside, surely getting poison ivy as I go. Claudia was the outdoorsy one in our marriage, constantly dragging me to one park or another to, in her words, "experience nature."

"I'd like to experience my couch," I'd tell her. "And my television."

But I've already called too much in the past few days. I cringe when I think about the voicemail I left last night. I think Billy might be haunting me, Claude. So I send a text that's short, sweet, and one hundred percent true.

walking in the woods and thinking of you

Once the phone's back in my pocket, I continue my descent to the rest of the Hawthorne Institute grounds. The forest thins where the land flattens. There's even a gravel path that I remember from thirty years ago. I take it now, going in the opposite direction of the route we followed back then. I wouldn't mind avoiding the things we encountered that day.

I follow the path's winding route past a field of wildflowers and over a stone bridge that spans a tributary of the lake. On the other side, in an area that had once been a meadow but is now slowly being overtaken by trees, is a barn that looks as old as the land itself. Its wooden walls are unpainted and sun-bleached, and the whole thing leans slightly on its stone foundation, looking like it could be toppled by a stiff breeze.

The barn's door is ajar, a sliver of darkness tantalizing not for what it reveals but for what it hides. Curiosity draws me closer, and I find myself leaving the path to peer through the crack.

The barn's interior is a web of shadows broken only by the occasional slash of sunlight leaking through gaps in the walls. I smell more than see what's inside. Dried hay, likely baled decades ago. Dust. The warm, earthy scent of old wood. There's something else, too. Something distinctly unpleasant.

I spot the source on the barn floor, sitting in the strip of light coming through the open door behind me.

A tin can.

Now that's odd.

The can's been opened, its flip-top lid hanging on by a jagged thread. Even from a few feet away, the stench wafting out of it tells me what it had once contained.

Tuna.

Surrounding it are footprints that spread in all directions. Some are pointed toward the door, others deeper into the barn. Mine do a little bit of both, toes aimed at the barn as I take several quick backward steps away from it.

It hadn't occurred to me that there might be squatters on the property. But now that it's clear there are, it makes perfect sense. The Hawthorne Institute is an isolated place, all but abandoned save for the occasional wedding or private event. Someone could live here undisturbed for days, possibly weeks. And while it's unclear just how long these footprints have been here, I don't want to stick around to find out.

Back on the path, I quicken my pace, going over another bridge and past a semicircle of statues, the ground surrounding them choked with weeds. I round a corner and am stopped cold.

This is the place we'd stumbled upon thirty years earlier.

The place I'd been hoping to avoid.

Staring at it now—the granite walls, the wrought iron gate—I'm struck by a single, all-consuming thought.

This is where I betrayed Billy.