I stopped, surprised. A bridge meant people. This one clearly hadn’t been used in years, but it was far enough from the compound and old enough that it couldn’t be my father’s doing. I glanced through the woods, wondering who had built it and if they were still alive—and if they were dangerous. All I could hear was the trickle of water and wind in the trees.
I climbed out of the stream. The ground here was softer, and I followed it cautiously until I broke out of the jungle into a grassy clearing.
A cabin sat decaying in the middle of the clearing.
I stopped.
My feet didn’t dare go any closer, though I knew there might be something useful inside. I tried to remember what Father had said about the island’s previous inhabitants. The Spanish who had built the fort. The Anglican missionaries who came later. Father said they’d all gone—what exactly had happened to them, he’d neglected to say.
I circled the cabin cautiously. The soft blades of grass felt like down feathers on my bruised and bloody feet. A support beam had collapsed and the roof sagged on one end. The tin roofing was rusted and eaten away in places. No one could live here now, but the previous occupants might have left an old pair of shoes. Maybe a knife. I’d settle for a strong board with a rusty nail—anything I could use as a weapon.
I hobbled toward the cabin. The wooden steps had long ago rotted and collapsed. I set my stick aside and pulled myself onto the bowed porch. The soles of my feet left bloody prints on the rough old boards, which protested under my weight as I crossed to the doorway. The door hung open a few inches. I only had to push it a little farther.
The hinges groaned, sending gooseflesh over my skin. I peered inside. The interior was as dilapidated as the outside. It was sparsely furnished—a low table, a wooden bed frame. No sign of inhabitants. I stepped inside but felt a tug at my skirt. With a shriek I ripped it away, but it had only caught on a nail in the doorframe. A snag of dingy fur was also caught on the nail.
My throat tightened. Just because the cabin had been abandoned by people didn’t mean some wild animal hadn’t taken up occupancy.
A wild animal … maybe one that was killing the islanders by clawing their chests. I glanced around the clearing, looking for signs I was being watched. Not a blade of grass rustled. I slipped in anyway and closed the door behind me, breathless. There was a crude wooden latch attached to the door that I fumbled to twist closed.
Sunlight poured in from rusted-out patches in the roof, throwing puddles of light on the room. Dust danced in the hazy air.
My breath began to calm. I was alone, I told myself. I cleaned the cabin’s one dirty window with the edge of my sleeve. Outside there was nothing but empty porch and my walking stick leaning against a post.
On the table was a nub of tallow candle and a grimy green bottle filled with dust and the petrified husks of flying insects. I spied a cupboard in the corner and twisted open the latch. The door came off in my hand, and a heavy, rusted wrench spilled out at my feet, just missing my toes. I jumped back, my heart in my throat. Several more tools tumbled out with a dull crash of metal. I stooped to look. A claw-headed hammer. A railroad spike. A rusted pair of shears. My hand closed over the shears. Though the blades were dull, they could be used as a weapon. I slipped it into my pocket.
I turned to the bed and sucked in a quick breath. The remnants of a straw mattress and old quilt were matted with thick yellow fur. Something had made a den out of the bed—some animal. Images jumped to mind of a savage beast with claws big enough to slice a man open.
I fumbled with my skirt pocket and pulled out the shears. With my other hand I touched the quilt, hesitantly. The fur felt gritty and rough against my fingers. A creature lived here.
And it might return.
A desperate need to flee pulled at my gut. When I turned, I caught sight of something startlingly white on the mantel above the caved-in fireplace. I stepped closer to see what it was.
On the mantel was a small glass bottle, broken at the top, filled halfway with water. In the bottle was a single fresh white flower.
No animal could do that. Someone had been here. A human.
A chill seized me.
This wasn’t the den of some wild animal—it was the filthy home of some person. I hurled myself at the door. But the wooden latch wouldn’t turn.
A creak sounded from the porch. I pulled back my hand as though the latch were on fire. My body went still as stone. I closed my eyes.
I waited.
I licked some moisture back into my quivering lips.
Another creak. And another, slow as the shallow breaths I took. Someone was walking on the bowed wooden boards on the other side of the door.
My eyes flew open. I dared not take a step and make my presence known. From my position I could see out of the window’s corner. The shadow of a tall figure stretched across the porch.
The latch rattled.
I shrank into myself, feeling a silent scream coming from every pore in my skin. There was no other way out of the cabin. The window was on the same side as the door, and the chimney had fallen in. I looked up into the dappled sunlight blinding my eyes. The roof would never take my weight.