Breathe, I told myself. You’re all right. You can do this.
I’d driven right by the exit for Fayeville over an hour ago. I’d felt the pull of it, of Fayeville and the Inn, felt the place reaching for me with dark little tendrils.
Part of me longed to stop, to go see what was left of the place.
Others had, I knew. True-crime junkies who loved The Helping Hand of God and wanted to see for themselves where it had all taken place.
But the book, and the movie based on it, had gotten so much wrong. I was never able to sit through the entire movie, but I used to have a copy of the book. A copy I’d dog-eared, written all over, crossed out and corrected sections. I’d thought, briefly, of sending it to the author, Julia Tetreault. But no. Parts of the story could never be told.
* * *
THE BEGINNING OF the peninsula that was Chickering Island was barely wider than the two-lane road, and if I squinted at the glistening water of Crane Lake that surrounded me, I could imagine I was crossing by boat.
After a few hundred feet, the land widened. The road forked, and I bore right along East Main Street, following the signs to downtown. According to the map, Main Street looped along the edges of the island. I slowed, following the 25 mph speed limit as I passed through a quaint New England village. Candlestick Art Gallery, Island Antiques, Tip of the Cone Ice Cream, Apple of My Eye Diner (Fresh Baked Pie Served All Day!), Roger’s (a seafood restaurant and market), Jameson Realty (Vacation Rentals Available for Next Season!), Chickering Island Books and Gifts, Newbury Market, Perch Sisters Coffee, Rum Runners Bar and Grill. A wide brick sidewalk ran in front of the stores, full of tourists clutching maps, shopping bags, and coffee cups. The shops had flower boxes outside, and tourists ate muffins and sipped lattes on metal benches.
On the left was a small town green with a twelve-foot-tall stone lighthouse in the center. A mother was watching two young children run around, tackling each other. At the other end of the park, four women on yoga mats leaned into downward dog.
I stayed on East Main Street, which traced the whole eastern edge of the island down to the tip, where the map showed the Chickering Island Wildlife Sanctuary. Once out of the downtown area, the road narrowed and the island became more forested. I passed houses and cottages, driveways full of cars with out-of-state plates, lawns littered with inflatable tubes and kayaks and beach toys, bathing suits and towels hung on clotheslines. I drove by Crane Farm Vineyard and Wines: a little octagonal building surrounded by trellised grapes, though I found it hard to imagine that you could really grow wine grapes in Vermont.
The woods grew thicker, the road draped in shadow, as I approached the wildlife sanctuary. I pulled over into the empty parking area for a quick look. On a gate at the entrance hung a metal sign:
OPEN SUNRISE TO SUNDOWN
NO MOTORIZED VEHICLES
HORSES AND BICYCLES ALLOWED
NO CAMPING
NO FIRES
The dirt road into the sanctuary was tree-lined and well shaded. I knew from my research that the refuge was over a hundred acres of woods, trails, and waterfront, including marshlands. Bald eagles, loons, and peregrine falcons nested there.
I also knew that most of the Rattling Jane sightings had taken place out here in these woods, along the edge of the water.
I felt the woods pulling me in, calling to me, dark and full of possibility. It was the same pull I’d felt as a kid on our monster hunts; the one that drew me to place after place hunting creatures most didn’t believe existed at all.
“Later,” I promised myself as I pulled away.
I followed the road around the horseshoe curve and started back up West Main Street, which ran along the west side of the island. More woods. A couple of houses. I spotted the sign: CHICKERING ISLAND CAMPGROUND. The little lighthouse from the town green was painted on the sign.
I pulled into the gravel driveway. The office was a small shack covered in weathered cedar shakes. Beach roses grew along the edge of the building. I parked the van and stepped out. I smelled campfires, heard the happy screams of children splashing in the pool out behind the office.
A man a bit older than me looked up from his computer screen when I walked in. He had close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and was wearing a green polo shirt with the campground name embroidered on the left side. “Hi there, welcome.” He looked out the window at my van. “You must be Ms. Shelley.”
I nodded, gave him a polite smile. “Yes.”
He pulled out a paper and peered down at it through the cheater glasses perched on the end of his nose. “Reservation for four nights, no hookups.”
“Right.”
“And just yourself? No pets?” He peered at the van like maybe I had a secret pet hidden away inside.
“Just me.”
“Okay, I just need your credit card and signature, and we’re good to go. I’ve got you in a prime site, nice and private, all the way in the back of the campground. There’s a trail down there that’ll take you into the nature preserve.”
“Sounds perfect. Thanks.”
He passed me the registration form and the sheet with the campground map and rules and the Wi-Fi login info. The password was CRANELAKE. Of course.
“Your first time on the island?”
It’s not an island at all, I wanted to argue, but instead, I smiled and nodded. “My first time in Vermont.” The lie came out easily. And it wasn’t a lie—not really. This was Lizzy Shelley’s first time in Vermont.
“Fantastic! Welcome. If I can answer any questions, make any recommendations, please let me know. I’m the owner, Steve. We’ve got activities going on every day; schedule’s on the back side of the map. Tonight, s’mores and campfire sing-along starting at seven.” He beamed a pleased how can you go wrong with s’mores and singing? smile.
I smiled back. “Thanks. I’m looking forward to taking it easy. Having the time to decompress, you know?”
“You’re in the perfect place for that. Give a shout if you need anything. We’ve got kayaks and canoes to rent if you want to get out on the water. Nothing more relaxing than that.”
I thanked him, hopped back into my van, and headed for Site 23, which turned out to be perfect. No close neighbors, all the way at the end of the campground, up against the woods. I backed the van in, pleased at the shade and cover the surrounding trees gave me. The front of the site was open and sunny enough for my solar panels.
First order of business: making a cup of coffee. Then I sat down at the picnic table outside with my laptop to try to log on to the Wi-Fi. I wanted to quickly finish and upload my podcast about the Honey Island swamp monster. I’d decided to leave the Where’s Lizzy now? field on my website set to Louisiana for the time being. I checked the most recent comments and posts in the forums—strange lights in Utah, shadowy figures with red eyes in Oregon, a large cat that walked upright in Tennessee—nothing that couldn’t wait.
I was finishing the final edits to the Honey Island podcast when I heard a small engine coming my way, and looked up to see a four-wheeler pulling up right in front of my site. A teenage kid was driving it, dressed in khaki shorts and a green Chickering Island Campground T-shirt. The back of the four-wheeler had a trash barrel strapped to it and a collection of tools: rake, hoe, shovel. I slipped off my headphones and waved at him.
“No way!” the guy said, hopping off the four-wheeler and practically skipping over to me with a goofy grin. “Lizzy Shelley! I knew it had to be you. I mean, how many Lizzy Shelleys with Ford Transit conversions can there be, right? I saw it on the registration form and just about flipped!”