I pulled onto the shoulder when I reached it, sliding the gear into park. There was nothing but tall grass in every direction, spanning a dozen acres at least. What had once been a barn to the south was now just a couple of beams left standing and a pile of wood overtaken by blackberry vines. The skeleton of an old tractor was buried in a thicket of hedges by the road. The metal was rusted over, but the manufacturer’s name was still faintly visible on the side.
I couldn’t remember ever stopping here or stepping past that fence, but there was a nagging, prodding feeling that I knew this place. I’d been here before, hadn’t I?
I opened the door, getting out of the truck with the engine still running as I studied the land. The view of the mountains from here was a perfect one, with rows upon rows of misty blue peaks reaching far into the distance. The river wasn’t far, either. I could hear it behind the tree line that wandered along the property, but this was upstream from town, an area we’d never really ventured to as kids.
I stepped over one of the fallen fence posts, letting one hand touch the tops of the reeds as I walked toward the house. Most of the glass windows were gone or cracked, and the screen door was crooked. It looked like one of the hundreds of farms that dotted the expanse of the Blue Ridge Mountains, but there was something strange about the place. Something almost frightening. The prick that danced on the back of my neck made me feel like someone was watching me from those hazy, broken windows.
In the time it had taken me to get here, I’d all but convinced myself that this was the key. Like this last clue would be the thing that clicked the pieces into that pattern I was searching for. But I couldn’t see it. Instead, I was filled with a feeling I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was like hearing a sound and being unable to tell which direction it was coming from.
I looked up, watching the clouds roll in. They brought a swift wind with them, and the grass bent all around me, making a whispering sound that made my skin crawl. The soft tingle of something moving below my wrist pulled my mind from the thought and I looked down, going rigid. A wide-winged silk moth had landed on the back of my arm, its size stretching wider than my open hand. It was the same as the ones we found clinging to tree trunks in the woods when we were kids. Its brown wings swirled with red markings almost looked like two sets of eyes.
I lifted my arm carefully, watching in a kind of awe as the moth’s black legs climbed to the tip of my finger. There it sat, giant wings opening and closing in a silent rhythm.
I could tell by the pooling warmth spreading in my chest that it wasn’t real. I was seeing something that wasn’t there. But for once, I forced myself to stand still, pressing into the vision instead of driving it from my mind the way I always did. I’d always run from it, but now I was leaning in to that feeling, making the sense of familiarity widen inside of me. I could almost touch the thought, as if my mind were reaching into the air for it. But slowly. Carefully.
I blinked.
Behind me, I could feel the crumbling house and the gray sky. I could sense the cooler air and the empty road. But there, in front of me, was another world. The hills were greener, the sky bluer. And the fields—they weren’t empty anymore. Rows upon rows of tobacco covered the earth, the wide flat leaves like a sea of green.
I could feel the vision pulling at me, like I was teetering with one foot in this moment and one in another. Like I was standing in two places at once.
When I looked down to my finger, the moth was suddenly gone, and with it, the view of the tobacco field began to disintegrate. In a matter of seconds, it had vanished, replaced by the abandoned farm that surrounded me.
A tight breath escaped my lips as I stumbled back to the truck, my hand clumsily reaching behind me for the door handle. I couldn’t tear my gaze from that sinking porch as I hit the gas. The chimney. The crooked front door.
A bead of sweat trailed down the center of my back, and I rolled down the window, trying to wash that scent from the cab. The sweet, berry-ripe, wood-rotting smell that swirled around me. I drank in the wind, the speedometer climbing until I was finally able to breathe. And when I got up the nerve to glance in the rearview mirror one more time, the house had disappeared behind the hill.
The truck slid to a stop when I reached the river road and I stared into the empty field on the other side, still breathing too hard. What happened back there—that feeling—was different than the episodes that filled my notebook. What had Birdie asked me? If I was remembering? That’s exactly how it had felt. Like opening a hole in my mind that held something I’d forgotten. But what?
I glanced to the left, where downtown Jasper lay beyond the hills. I didn’t care what promises Birdie had made or how things were supposed to happen. She was going to tell me what I needed to know. Right now.
I turned the wheel in the opposition direction, headed for the farm. The urge I had to call Mason was so strong that I had to will myself not to reach for my phone sitting in the passenger seat. What would I even tell him? How could I ever explain this?The person I should really be calling was Dr. Jennings. There wasn’t a single moment that had made sense since I’d opened that envelope from Gran, and the image that kept replaying in my mind was of Susanna. Not the woman in the photo or the one in my files in the basement. It was what I imagined she had looked like that night, walking barefoot on that road in the middle of a snowstorm. Lost and confused, just like I was now. I could almost see her up ahead, trailing the edge of the road in her damp nightgown, skin drained of color in the cold. A drifting figure in a sea of white.
I swallowed down the nauseous feeling climbing up my throat. Was it Susanna I imagined there on the side of the road, or was it me?
The road curved sharply, and my fingers loosened on the wheel when I caught sight of something flashing into view through the driver’s side window and then disappearing behind me. I slammed on the brakes, tires screeching on the blacktop as the truck came to a jerking stop.
I watched as the smoke from the tires drifted past the windshield, and I took three deep breaths before I dared to look in the rearview mirror.
I hadn’t imagined it. It was the door. The red door.
The very same one I’d seen in the cemetery. At the farm. On Main Street. The same brass handle. The same chipping paint. It stood erect in the middle of the field, a blot of crimson against the rolling green hills.
I got out, walking slowly toward the trees. The truck rumbled behind me, and the sound of the wind swallowed up the silence, reverberating in every cell of my body. The scent of burning rubber still stung my nose as I waded into the tall grass.
“It’s not real,” I whispered, out of habit more than anything. The words were a knee-jerk reaction, but they weren’t true anymore. They never had been.
I put one foot in front of the other, breathing so hard that my lungs hurt. At any moment, I was going to wake, I told myself. I was going to open my eyes in my own bed and realize that none of this had ever happened. But the thought was followed immediately by another. That I had to see what was on the other side.
I stopped when I reached the door, boots sinking into the rain-softened soil.