Nancy Drew

by Micol Ostow

  “Missing?” I swallowed.

  She nodded. “Indeed. As time passed and no one showed, a crisis was declared. Search parties combed the bluffs, and the surrounding forests, but the children had vanished without a trace.”

  “Nothing was found?”

  “Not a scrap of clothing, nor a single footprint.”

  My throat felt tight. This was all very “Roanoke.” How was it possible for a group of people to disappear into thin air?

  “As you can imagine, hysteria ensued.”

  “Nobody likes an unsolved mystery,” I said. Least of all, me.

  “Indeed. People claimed that the town was cursed. The town leaders, in an effort to quell the panic, were quick to point a finger. A man was convicted purely on speculation.” She narrowed her gaze. “Humanity’s always been superstitious at heart.”

  It’s always a sacrifice.

  “They all stood by to watch,” Glynnis said. “When they strung him from the hanging tree.”

  “Who was it?” I was practically holding my breath.

  It was always a sacrifice, it was always a curse. That was the story, right? Of history? Of men, conquering. Something—someone—had to be conquered in the process.

  “No one knows. These days, there are just theories among us history buffs. But it seems that it was a member of a prominent family. The more scandal, the more eager people were to believe it, so it goes.”

  The clink of her setting her teacup on the table made me flinch.

  “This town does love its ghost stories,” I said. I didn’t expect it would lighten the mood, really—Glynnis had already indicated that now that the cookies and tea were out of the way and we were on to the meat of the story, there would be no further lightening. It was more that I had to balance my need to keep her talking with my own need to push back against any suggestion that the supernatural—a curse, no less—could be real. “What made them suspect … whoever it was?”

  “It was a girl, of course,” Glynnis said.

  It was always a girl. That, too, was perennial in the history of men and conquest.

  “Legend tells he was in love with one of the performers, but she spurned his advances.”

  “So he killed her, and made her disappear. Along with the rest of the performers.” It was elaborate … but as a detective, I knew that people had done even worse, for even less.

  Who needs a curse when we have real-life monsters in the mix?

  I shivered. I couldn’t help myself. The sun was setting beyond the living room window, fiery and fierce. Had the temperature dropped in this room since I’d arrived? It felt that way, but Glynnis’s expression remained fixed, impassive. “You know what comes next,” she said, prompting me, almost goading me. “Or you can guess. You’re a sharp one. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “The festival,” I said automatically. “They held it anyway.”

  “Yes. So they hung the man in the center of the town square. Everyone came out to watch. Days later, a new show was performed: this one, a reenactment like the one the children put on to this very day.”

  I looked at Glynnis, held her gaze. “This is an awful story. But I don’t believe in curses.”

  “Of course, you’re right. Neither do I. And we do commemorate those settlers every year, so clearly, whatever they may or may not have done—whoever it was—it hasn’t tarnished their reputations. Not to any notable degree.”

  I exhaled, only semisurprised not to see my own breath curl out into the air in front of me like a plume of smoke. It was colder in that cabin, I was sure of it, though Glynnis had been sitting with me since she’d first brought in the tea tray and there was no reasonable explanation as to why the temperature in the room should have dropped.

  I heard a sharp crack and jumped in my seat.

  “Tense, sweetheart?” Glynnis observed, watching me flush and settle back against the rubbery cover of her couch. The squeak of the plastic was damning.

  “I … the window. I thought I heard something,” I said, embarrassed. Keep it together, Drew.

  “The wind can be strong here in the woods,” she said. “It was likely just a branch. You get used to the sounds of nature.”

  I was sure she was right. But it had been barely a day since the last smashed window—and the blown-out light!—in my life, and that one hadn’t been something innocent or ignorable. So you’ll forgive me for being jumpier than usual.

  “You must get your own fair share of … ambient noise, being on the ocean.” She took a sip of her own tea, the rattle of the cup against its saucer making me think of chattering teeth.

  “At a certain point you stop hearing it. It doesn’t register. The sound of the ocean just turns into white noise,” I told her.

  “I remember. It seems a shame, in a way, to come to take something like that for granted. But you’re not wrong.” At my questioning glance, she reminded me, “I did live there once. As you must know, if you found that piece—found me—in the first place.” She looked at the window, at the spot where that one thick, crooked branch still scratched against the glass, evaluating. “To be perfectly frank, I didn’t find the ocean sounds to be soothing, though. Something about the call of the gulls.”

  “What was it?” I asked, flashing back to the image of inky feathers beating against my flesh.

  “To me, it always sounded like screaming.”

  I could hear it too—a thin, reedy keening in the distance, like the wail of a dying animal. Was I imagining things? Like the chill in the air, it was hard to prove but even harder to ignore.

  I was officially creeped out. And that’s not something that happens often.

  It must have shown on my face—apparently I was doing a lousy job of concealing my reactions today—because she brusquely sat up in her chair again. “But you were asking about my piece. About the Naming Day curse. And I’m sorry to say, there aren’t too many details to be added.”

  “To your article?” I asked, confused.

  “To the curse itself,” she said. “That was the crux of my article in the first place: how much Horseshoe Bay loves its traditions, but how arbitrary so many of them are. I argued that the Naming Day curse is yet another example of, as you call it, small-town mythology, and no one actually knows the specific origins of it. Somewhat of a ‘blessing,’ as the article termed my letter. Here we are, inspired every year to reexamine the sins of our fathers—quite literally, in this case. Even without a true origin story.” She laughed. “We’re reminded of the evil that man is capable of.”

  “I’m amazed you were able to dig up any information on the curse in the first place.”

  She looked at me. “I’m a smart one too.” She leaned forward, peering at me. “And though it’s not something I like to revisit, the fact is that it’s because of the article that I relocated to Stone Ridge. There were people in Horseshoe Bay who weren’t happy to have me stirring up ancient history.”

  I shuddered. The idea that this woman had been forced to move based on a piece she’d written criticizing the town’s history? I needed all the info. I had to come clean. There was no option, at this point. “The truth is, Ms. Strathmore—”

  “Glynnis,” she corrected.

  “Glynnis. The truth is, I didn’t read the article. I couldn’t, actually.”

  “Then how did you find me?” she asked.

  “I saw it. The title of the article came up in an online search. But the link didn’t lead anywhere. So I went to town hall to check in the back issues of the Tribune. And I found it there.”

  “But you didn’t read it? If I may say so—that doesn’t seem like you. You strike me as the type who does her homework.”

  “Well, no. I mean, yes, I am the type who does her homework. I guess what I mean is, I found the paper where your piece ran. But the article itself … it was gone. Someone took it.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Took it? Well, I suppose it’s like I’ve been saying—people don’t want to confront the uncomfortable truth
s. If they were willing to chase me out of town, practically wielding pitchforks, is it any wonder they’d destroy what little evidence remains about the curse in the first place?”

  I shivered again, and not only because of the chill in the room. “No,” I said. “It’s no wonder at all.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  What was that line from that movie, again? The one with the police lineup and the big twist ending with the guy with the limp? The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.

  So the Naming Day curse was probably just another tall tale, like Bloody Mary or the Easter Bunny, told to keep children in line and later just from sheer force of folk nostalgia or habit.

  And yet.

  Someone out there felt strongly enough about this imaginary curse to try and erase that one, singular mention. The person who’d written the piece had been tormented, ostracized, and run out of town. The hard copy had been destroyed, and I didn’t doubt for a minute that whoever had been invested enough in disappearing the article could have also done a little digital scrubbing, either on their own or with some generous funding.

  But why?

  The question rattled through me as my car bumped along the wooded path leading from Ms. Strathmore’s cabin. The moon was out now, a small slash set against a blaze of stars.

  It was cold out here, colder than nights by the bay had been lately, and I’d cranked the heat as soon as my car had warmed up enough. Now the windows were fogging over slightly, which wasn’t great given that even with clear windows, visibility out here in the woods was not the best. I hit the defroster button and clicked the windshield wipers on to clear the glass off.

  And gasped.

  Before the wipers cleaned away any trace, I saw a word written in the condensation: BEWARE.

  But there hadn’t been anyone around in the forest, other than Ms. Strathmore herself, either. It was so still, so quiet, it had almost freaked me out when I first pulled up at her cabin. We were alone.

  Weren’t we?

  And wasn’t I, still? Reflexively, I checked my rearview mirror. Then I nearly skidded off the road.

  A pair of ghostly white legs dangled in the frame, streaked with mud.

  I slammed on the brakes, sending the car skidding. I swerved to avoid a looming tree and clutched at the steering wheel, my heart thudding.

  I had to check. I had to look and see. I had to know that whatever that was …

  It had to be gone.

  Slowly, I peeled my eyes open. I glanced at the windshield, feeling a trickle of sweat down the back of my neck.

  The image had disappeared. Instead, there were two vines hanging down the back of my car, pieces of forest that must have fallen while I spoke with Glynnis. Who had been quite the storyteller, apparently, if her tale had me hallucinating like I just had.

  I took a breath. It was just me, alone, in the forest, my pulse pounding and my heart in my throat.

  And a sneaking sensation of being watched.

  With Glynnis’s words echoing in my head, dread settled over my shoulders as I cranked on the high beams, put the car back into drive, and screeched off down the road, away from the forest and back toward Horseshoe Bay, as fast as I possibly could.

  * * *

  The drive back felt much longer than the way to Ms. Strathmore’s cabin. Normally, the reverse was true. But normally, I didn’t have the sinking, suffocating feeling that I was being followed as I twisted my way down once-familiar, now-ominous roads. WELCOME TO HORSESHOE BAY, the sign read, but instead of relief at seeing it, my breath caught. A pair of twin beams appeared on the road behind me as I made a left turn onto Main Street… . Nothing particularly odd about that … except that literally moments before, the streets had been deserted. To the point that it had felt eerie to me.

  Was I losing my mind? Clinging to the lingering aftereffects of whatever semibreakdown I’d had leaving Stone Ridge? It wasn’t an appealing thought.

  Casting a quick look in my side mirror, I pulled a left turn, sharp and abrupt. Now I’d have to make an unnecessary loop just to get to the Claw to meet Parker … but I also wasn’t being maybe-followed anymore either.

  With shock, I realized those twin beams appeared in my rearview mirror again, this time a few more paces back, rolling smoothly down the road. One of the headlights—the right one—flickered on and off like a stutter, then settled back into bearing down on me in tandem with the left again.

  I squinted, ignoring the goose bumps breaking out on my forearms, trying to make out the car’s license plate, but its headlights were too strong. Images from the past few days came to me, unbidden: Daisy’s locker, trashed. The dead raven, its open, unseeing eye. The constant beating of feathers from my nightmare.

  A deathly pale ankle, swaying slightly in the wind.

  The Claw’s sign beamed like a beacon, and I gratefully turned right, into the parking lot. It, too, was unusually empty—it was like the entire greater Horseshoe Bay environs had banded together to unsettle me.

  It was working.

  Shaking, I parked the car and killed the ignition, suddenly fearful of what I might see in my mirror if I dared look.

  I dared. And there it was: a flash of headlights. As though whoever had been following me was still on my tail. Even though I wasn’t moving anymore.

  I blinked, terrified. When I opened my eyes again, the night was finally, blissfully still.

  “Hey!”

  I screamed.

  “Sorry!” His voice was muffled through the car window, but it was clearly Parker, looking truly apologetic, his expression abashed and his hands up.

  I opened the car door, humiliated, willing my pulse back down to its normal rate. “God, no—I’m sorry. I’m just … never mind. It’s been a long night.” I managed a small smile. “And it’s barely eight o’ clock.”

  “The witching hour,” Parker joked, but I must have made a face at that, because he quickly changed tack. “Or—just as scary, to some—dating hour.”

  “Right, that.” I smiled again, for real this time, beginning to feel some semblance of normalcy return. “You startled me. I overreacted. Let’s start again.”

  “Happy to,” Parker said, giving me a funny little bow. “Glad to see you. Hey, how are you? Sorry for sneaking up on you like that.” He peered at me. “You were really shaken. I am sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize,” I assured him, following him toward the front door of the restaurant. “You didn’t sneak up on me.”

  But he had, I realized as we walked through the door, overhead bell chiming our entrance. He absolutely had, which was kind of hard to believe, given that I was on extra-high alert and sitting in a wide-open parking lot, as one hundred percent focused on my immediate surroundings as a person could possibly be.

  And, not to be too easily impressed with myself or anything, but, like, as a general rule, I tended to think of myself as someone who was difficult to catch off guard. So what did it mean, then, that Parker had done so—pretty impressively, at that?—in a moment when I’d like to think I was trying to be hyper vigilant?

  The investigator in me, the one who was so wedded to facts they practically shared a surname, knew that it had to be one of two things:

  Either I was woefully less alert tonight than I meant to be, which felt like exceedingly bad news, given how the night had been going. Or:

  Parker had meant to startle me. He’d been trying, for some unfathomable reason, to sneak up on me.

  The door to the Claw swung shut behind me, sending a gust of wind around my ankles as it did. George Fan, behind the hostess stand, gestured vaguely toward an empty booth in the barest demonstration of hospitality humanly possible. “You’re back,” she said tonelessly.

  Parker gave her a quizzical look, and I offered a noncommittal shrug. “After you,” he said to me, sweeping his hands out in a faux-chivalrous wave.

  I stepped in front of him and led the way, refusing to allow myself to
dwell on the fact that leaving him trailing behind me, beyond even the scope of my peripheral vision, made me suddenly uneasy, like someone had just tied a blindfold around my head.

  Or bound my hands and ankles with twine, I realized. Kicked the footstool out from under me. Left me to swing, alone, from the gnarled arm of a crooked tree branch.

  “Hey,” Parker said, startling me again, but less aggressively this time. He passed a plastic-covered menu across the table to me. “You’re looking so serious. What’s on your mind?”

  Hanged men. Ghosts. Curses. And someone—maybe you?—following me down dark alleyways, late at night.

  His expression, though! So sincere. The tilt of his eyebrow, the concern on his face. Please, please don’t be a weirdo or stalker or some other kind of creep. He was right—we were already in semideep, what with it being date-o’-clock, and if my runaway imagination had managed to pique my suspicions about Parker? I could only hope it would run back in the opposite direction soon enough.

  “I’m starving,” I said, taking the menu and flipping it open, avoiding the deeper question he’d been trying to ask. “Let’s eat.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE Wednesday

  Caroline had been a little annoyed when I’d suggested that I was going to talk to Stephenson about her alibi. But that was fine by me. I was certainly no stranger to making a few enemies in service of a case. And now, with the lingering suspicion that someone had been following me, I wasn’t worried about making things any worse with Caroline than they already were. And with my own mind cooking up some seriously disturbing images, I was even less inclined to care. I just wanted this case solved.

  He kept “office hours” during lunch, which I guess was bad news for anyone who was struggling in English and yet still also wanting to eat. But then again, he generally made himself more available to students than a lot of other teachers, so maybe it was hard to give him too much flack for certain choices.

  I found him in his classroom, surreptitiously wolfing down a sandwich even though technically we weren’t supposed to have food outside of the cafeteria. Hmm. Not above flouting the rules. Duly noted. Did that entitle him to more flack? Or less?