“Anyhow,” Janelle said, “they say the spirits of these Indians haunt the woods, ready to kill any white man they see. So watch your back, Rodney.”
“Why me?”
“Because Craig is too strong to be defeated by a ghost, Indian or otherwise,” Quincy said.
“What about you?”
“I said the white man killed them,” Janelle said. “We’re women. They’ve got no beef with us.”
“People really did die out here.”
Betz is the one who said it. Quiet, observant Betz. She looked at them all with her too-large, slightly spooky eyes.
“A guy in my world lit class told me about it,” she said. “A pair of campers were killed in the woods last year. A boyfriend and girlfriend. The police found them stabbed to death in their tent.”
“Did they ever catch who did it?” Amy asked, sinking deeper against Rodney.
Betz shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
No one spoke as they climbed the rest of the hill. Even the crunch of their feet on the leaf-strewn ground seemed to quiet down, letting them subconsciously listen for the sound of someone else in the woods. In that soft, new silence, Quincy sensed they weren’t alone. She knew she was being foolish. That it was simply the byproduct of what Betz had told them. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else was in the woods with them. Not very far at all. Watching.
A twig snapped nearby. Less than ten yards away. Hearing it made Quincy chirp out a half-shriek. It set off a chain reaction of yelps, rising almost simultaneously from Janelle, Betz, Amy.
Rodney, on the other hand, laughed. “God,” he said. “Nervous much?”
He pointed to the source of the noise—a mere squirrel, its tail a white flag waving above the underbrush. The rest of them began to laugh, too. Even Quincy, who instantly forgot how strangely jittery she had felt mere moments before.
At the crest of the hill, they found a large, flat-topped rock as wide as a king bed. Dozens of names had been carved into the surface—remnants of similar kids who’ve made the same trek. Rodney picked up a sharp stone and began to add his name to the list. Beer cans and cigarette butts were scattered around the rock’s perimeter, and an unrolled condom drooped from the spindly branch of a nearby sapling, prompting disgusted squeals from Janelle and Quincy.
“Maybe you and Craig can do it up here,” Janelle whispered. “At least protection is provided.”
”If we do it,” Quincy said, “it certainly won’t be on a rock that, from the looks of it, is an STD waiting to happen.”
“Wait—You haven’t decided yet?”
“I’ve decided not to decide,” Quincy said, when in fact she already had. Agreeing to sleep in the same bed with Craig sealed that particular deal. “It’ll happen when it happens.”
“It better happen fast,” Janelle said. “Craig is prime beef, Quinn. I’m sure lots of girls are dying for a taste.”
“Interesting metaphor,” Quincy replied dryly.
“All I’m saying is you don’t want to wait so long that he loses interest.”
Quincy looked to Craig, who had scrambled atop the rock and was studying the horizon. He wasn’t like that. They had been friends first—meeting on their official first day of college. Their entire freshman year had been a slow, budding flirtation. After a long summer spent emailing each other back and forth, they decided to date. Quincy hoped she’d have no need to date anyone else for the rest of her life.
Craig caught her looking and smiled. Quincy raised her camera.
“Smile.”
He did more than smile. He stood on the rock, fists on his hips, and puffed out his chest like Superman. Quincy laughed. The camera’s shutter clicked.
“How’s the view?” she asked.
“Pretty swell.”
Craig reached down and helped her climb onto the rock beside him. They were higher than Quincy expected, able to see how the rest of the forest sloped sharply downward for another mile before ending in a shadow-filled valley. The others joined them, with Janelle ordering another picture.
“Group shot,” she said. “Everyone in. Even you, Quincy.”
The six of them squeezed together and Quincy stretched out her arm until everyone had edged into the frame. Once the picture was taken, Quincy studied its frenzied composition. That’s when she noticed something behind them in the far distance. A mammoth building, it sat in the middle of the valley, its gray walls barely visible among the trees.
“What’s that?” Quincy asked, pointing it out.
Janelle shrugged. “Beats me.”
Betz the wise owl knew. Of course.
“It’s an insane asylum,” she said.
“Jesus,” Amy replied. “Are you purposely trying to freak us out?”
“I’m just telling you. It’s a hospital for crazy people.”
Quincy stared at the asylum. A low-lying breeze in the valley rustled the trees around it, giving the place a shifting, restless air. Almost as if the building itself was alive. There was a definite sadness to the asylum. Quincy felt it emanating from the valley all the way up to their lookout atop the rock. She imagined a storm cloud permanently hovering over the place, unseen but keenly felt.
She was about to take a picture of it but stopped herself. Something about keeping its image in her camera disturbed her.
Standing next to Quincy, Craig studied the sky. The sun had slipped below the tree line and become a fiery glow that warmed the woods. Trees sliced the brightness, their long shadows grid-like across the forest floor.
“We need to head back,” he said. “We don’t want to be out here when it gets dark.”
“Because, you know, Indian ghosts,” Janelle added.
Quincy joined in. “And crazy people.”
Their departure was delayed by Rodney, who insisted on finishing his defacement of the rock. He added Amy’s name beneath his own, connecting them with a plus sign and surrounding it with a hastily scratched heart. Then they were off, heading back the way they had come. It took them no time at all to reach the flat expanse that led to the cabin, the incline having made their journey feel longer than it actually was. All told, the distance between the flat rock and Pine Cottage was less than a quarter mile.
Still, the sun had fully set by the time they emerged from the woods, giving the cabin a pinkish, autumnal glow. Shadows crept from the tree line and brushed its fieldstone foundation. Craig, still in front, stopped suddenly. When Quincy bumped into him, he shoved her backward.
“What the—”
“Shush,” he hissed, squinting at the half-shadows gathering on the back deck.
At last, Quincy saw what he had. The others did, too. Someone was on the deck. A stranger with hands cupped to the window in the back door, peering inside.
“Hey!” Craig called, stepping forward with his walking stick wielded like a weapon.
The stranger at the door—a man, Quincy now saw—spun around, startled.
He looked to be about their age. Maybe a couple years older. It was hard to tell because of his glasses, which reflected the dying light, obscuring his eyes. He was thin, almost gangly, with his long arms pressed stiffly against the sides of his beige cable-knit sweater. A dime-sized hole sat at the shoulder, the white T-shirt beneath it peeking through. His pants were green corduroy, scuffed at the knees and so loose around the waist that he had to crook an index finger through a belt loop to keep them from sagging.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you.” Hesitation streaked each word, as if he didn’t quite know how to talk. He spoke English the way a foreigner did, halting and formal. Quincy listened for a trace of an accent, not finding one. “I was looking to see if someone was here.”
“That would be us,” Craig said, taking another step forward, his bravery impressing Quincy, which just might have been his plan.
“Hello,” the stranger said, waving with the hand not hooked to his waist.
“Are you lost?” Janelle said, more curious than afraid.