Stranger in the Woods: A tense psychological thriller

by Anni Taylor

  “Oh, good on you. It’s not always easy for kids to get a job.”

  “Grandma says I could be a model if I wanted. I’m not pretty enough though.”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re so pretty.”

  “You don’t have to say that. Even my own mum says a look a bit goofy. Big teeth and all.”

  “What? No. She was probably just teasing. You have the height and the looks if you wanted to do modelling. It’s not an easy path though. I’ve done a bit of photography for a model studio. The girls cop a lot of disappointment—they don’t get most of the jobs they turn up for. It’s not for the faint-hearted by any means.”

  “I’m not faint-hearted. I want to make money. Then I can go wherever I want and no one can make me do what I don’t want to do.” She indicated towards my camera. “If you like takin’ picture of birds, I know where’s there some ducks and grouse. The females aren’t much to look at, but the males are real colourful. Up near the creek, where the berries grow.”

  “Show me the way.”

  “Okay, but you have to keep up.”

  She broke into a run. I knew straight away that I wasn’t going to be able to keep up. She was probably hoping I’d try to run and then fall flat on my face on the moor. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. I kept to my own pace. If I lost sight of her, then so be it.

  My phone rang. Plucking it from my pocket, I saw that the call was coming from a number I didn’t recognise.

  “Hello? Isla Wilson speaking,” I said gingerly.

  “Isla, it’s Rory.”

  “Oh, hi. What’s up?”

  “It’s just…I was wondering if you’re planning on talking to anyone else? About the line painting that you saw?”

  “No, I mean, it’s not like I can go to the police with that. It’s probably nothing, as you said. And who else could I tell?”

  “Okay, good. It’s better that you don’t, at this point. Because, if the culprit is someone from this town, they could be tipped off that we’re on their trail. It’s better we fly under the radar, you know?”

  “I agree. I’d better go, Rory. I’m trying to follow a teenage girl across a bumpy moor, and she’s fast.”

  “A teenage girl?”

  “Oh wait…she’s your stepdaughter. Stella. She’s taking me to see the creek here at Braithnoch.” I’d forgotten that Rory was married to Stella’s mother, Camille.

  A clipped laugh came through the phone line. “Well, I’d better let you go then.”

  Stella had stopped, waiting for me to catch up. I sped up my pace.

  The ground was growing stickier. With alarm, I realised where we must be headed.

  “Stella,” I called. “We can’t go this way. The McGregors told me there’s a peat marsh here. It’s not safe.”

  Breathing hard with the exertion, I caught up with her quickly. At least I knew that the ground was solid enough up to where Stella was standing, as she hadn’t disappeared into a pool of mud or anything.

  She crossed her thin arms. “I used to go through here all the time. Or don’t you trust me because I’m a kid?”

  “Of course I trust you.”

  Without replying to that, she kept walking, picking her way through. Maybe I trusted her, but I didn’t trust the ground not to fall away beneath my feet. Actually, no, I didn’t trust her. She was just a kid and I should be ordering her back to her grandparents’ house.

  But she was already too far in. And there was no way a headstrong girl like her was going to obey a stranger. A thought came to me. Maybe this was some kind of test. To see if I trusted her enough to follow her.

  Gritting my teeth, I followed, walking where she did, tracking her path. I didn’t watch my feet—I just watched her.

  The ground felt firmer and firmer underfoot.

  We were on the other side of the bog. Already, I could hear gurgling water. We must not be far from the creek.

  She turned to me, unable to stop a small smile from flitting across her face. “Your boots are muddy.”

  I shrugged.

  Her smile grew wider.

  “Hey,” I said. “If you like, I can take some photos of you and show you just how pretty you are. I’d need your mother’s permission first though.”

  She had a hopeful glint in her eye, then turned away shaking her head. She started walking fast. “No. I don’t want to. Okay?”

  I caught up. She was my only ticket out of here and I didn’t want to lose her. I wouldn’t be able to find my way back out of that bog. “Of course. Of course that’s okay.”

  We walked in silence for another few minutes. Then we rounded a stand of trees and the creek came into view. A small wooden bridge spanned the width. After the muddy expanse of peat marsh, it was unexpectedly picturesque.

  As we approached the creek, she stooped to pick up a handful of rocks and tossed them one by one into the water. I was reminded again of how young she was. Immediately, I felt bad for being annoyed with her earlier.

  “When I was little, I thought a troll lived under that bridge,” she said.

  “It looks exactly like the kind of bridge a troll would live under.” Taking my camera out, I took a few photos. There were no ducks or birds here at the moment, but I wished there were.

  She picked a flower, twirling it between her fingers. The way the sun framed her, I ached to capture her in a photograph. To show her how lovely she was. But she’d asked me not to, and I had to respect that.

  She let the flower drop in the creek. The water carried its newfound cargo downstream, spinning and dancing with it.

  “Now I remember,” I said.

  “What?” She squinted at me.

  “I saw a picture of you and Elodie on the McGregors’ photo wall. I didn’t realise it was you until now. You were younger. Maybe nine or ten. Elodie was little.”

  “I used to go over there sometimes when Mum brought me to visit my grandparents.”

  “And you were Elodie’s babysitter for a while, right?”

  “Yes. When she was eight. I was only twelve, but I’d done a bit of babysittin’ already that year. And the McGregors knew me, so I think they felt okay with me.”

  I turned back to watch the trickling water. The flower had disappeared from view. “What did you think of them—the McGregors?”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious, I guess. They’ve been a little hard to get to know. Especially Mr McGregor.”

  She was silent as I glanced at her. There was a sudden hint of tears in her eyes.

  “Stella? I’m sorry, what is it? Is it Mr McGregor?”

  She nodded. “He scares me.”

  “Why does he scare you?”

  “Because he’d make Jess cry. I’d hear them arguing upstairs.”

  You and me both, I thought darkly. I’ve seen and heard quite a bit of that even though I’ve only been here a few days.

  “Do you think he scared Elodie, too?”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t know. She said some strange things sometimes.”

  “What kind of strange things?”

  “She said—” Stella raised her head abruptly, looking past me.

  I turned to see Rory Kavanagh stepping up to the bridge, his long legs making fast strides. “Stella. Hoo boy, you went a long way. Didn’t think I’d ever find you.”

  “What do you want?” she said in a guarded voice.

  Rory ignored her tone. “Your mum knows that you’re staying at your grandparents’ house. She’d love to have you over for dinner. I mean it. She really, really wants you to come—”

  “No,” Stella said.

  “Just like that…no?” Rory lifted his eyebrows.

  “You heard me, Rory,” she answered.

  “What about if dinner was at your grandparents’?” he countered. “You know, I’m sure your mum would agree to that, if you’d—”

  “I said, no. If you or her come anywhere near Grandma’s house, I swear I’ll run off and hitchhike back to Aviemore.”
>
  Rory’s shoulders slumped. “You’re hurting her a lot.”

  “Get knotted.” The teenager stalked away, then broke into a run.

  “Will she be all right?” I asked. “Going through the peat marsh?”

  “She took you that way?” Rory shook his head. “You don’t have to go through the bog. The dirt road that goes past the Keenans and Chandlish properties goes all the way here. If you start at the hill with the scarecrows and take the path through the forest, and then go left, you end up here. Or if you keep going straight, you’ll end up at the Chandlish house.”

  I sighed in response. “She tricked me.” I remembered the straight path that led from the scarecrow hill to the Chandlish house, because I’d walked it with Aubrey. But it had been too dark to see that the path also went upward.

  Rory was right—Stella was heading a different way than the direction we’d come in.

  He watched as Stella disappeared from view, then swung his head back around to me. “I can’t manage to say a thing right to her.”

  “She certainly seems to have a few issues.”

  “What were you two talking about?”

  “Photography, mostly. I also asked her about Elodie.”

  “Drives me nuts how she won’t talk to me.” He eyed me curiously. “What did she say about Elodie?”

  “She was about to say something. About strange things that Elodie had been saying. But then you walked up to us.”

  “Really? Damn. If there’s one talent I have, it’s that I have the best timing.”

  I stretched my mouth into a wry grin.

  “Well, I’ve achieved nothing today except to make a mess of everything,” he said mournfully.

  “You didn’t know,” I told him.

  I walked with Rory to the path and we started along it.

  If Stella caught sight of me walking with Rory—and I was sure she would—she probably wouldn’t open up to me again.

  Life was a series of missed chances. You thought your life consisted of options, but it didn’t. There were only ever chances, and you had to grab them while they lasted.

  With Stella, I’d probably missed my chance.

  21

  ISLA

  I stirred myself a hot chocolate back at the cottage, suddenly realising I was stirring so hard the cup was at risk of shattering.

  What had Stella been on the edge of saying about Elodie?

  I gazed out the kitchen window. Jessica’s car was still gone. That meant it was just Alban at the house. Should I just march up there and ask him if I could photograph him and the house interior today?

  I had to complete this portfolio, one way or another.

  Making myself a quick lunch, I mentally prepared myself.

  Just as I was washing up my plates, I saw Jessica drive back in.

  Okay, that’s a flat-out no. I knew what she’d say.

  But I felt restless. I couldn’t just stay inside the cottage all day.

  I made myself a second hot chocolate, dropping three marshmallows in this time—rationalising that running about in freezing cold weather required chocolate and marshmallows.

  I took my cup over to the table and sat glumly. Plucking one of Elodie’s gold-tipped larch cones from the bowl once again, I fixed my gaze on it.

  Who was it, Elodie? Who hurt you?

  The one place in Braithnoch that I hadn’t yet seen was the last place she’d ever stepped foot in. The playhouse. The thought came to me that my time here wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t see it for myself. The idea solidified in my mind. The playhouse wasn’t far into the forest from the road. If I walked out to the road first, the McGregors couldn’t see where I was headed.

  But I could also get lost.

  Taking out my phone, I brought up the image of the abductor’s exit path that I’d copied. I could try to follow this, just in reverse.

  I swallowed the last mouthful of hot liquid and then got myself ready in warmer clothing, stretching a knitted cap over my head. The afternoons often turned colder. I locked the cottage door behind me and set out.

  On second thought, I grabbed the bicycle from the shed and rode it down the driveway and around the corner. If the McGregors spotted me, they’d think I was going into town or something.

  A truck carrying hens rattled passed me on the road, heading into town. Nerves fizzed like electric wires under my skin. I told myself to settle. I was just going for a walk. No one knew what I was really doing. And it wasn’t as if I were doing something dangerous.

  I stashed the bike behind a tree.

  Checking my phone, I found the spot where the abductor had emerged from the woods—just behind the speed sign, next to the spruce tree. The spruce tree was easy to spot. It still had its leaves. Even in summer it’d be easy to spot, due to the blue colour of those leaves.

  Okay, just left of the sign and spruce—the entry point. Together, the sign and the spruce completely hid me from the road. It was a good place to be if you didn’t want to be seen.

  The news article had estimated the number of steps the abductor had taken. The interest in every tiny detail must have been intense in the weeks after Elodie was abducted and drugged. To follow the path, I just had to take extra-big man-sized steps. Maybe I’d get it wrong, but the playhouse wasn’t too far in.

  I couldn’t get totally lost, as in days-out-in-the-wild lost, could I?

  I remembered my brother telling me once that people thought they could walk in a straight line through a forest, but they couldn’t. Without any reference points, people tended to walk in circles. Something about the brain constantly recalibrating the direction. I had to be extra-careful.

  I counted my steps from the spruce into the forest. Then I stepped to the left, passing a tree blackened by lightning strike, trying to memorise everything for the path back. Straight ahead then until I came up against a wide tree that wasn’t a larch—it was a tree that didn’t fit the forest. I didn’t know what it was, but I reached out and touched its smooth bark. You and me, tree. I don’t fit here either.

  There shouldn’t have been a tree blocking my path. That meant I’d gotten the steps wrong. Already.

  Should I go back and start again? Frustrated with myself, I tugged the elastic from my ponytail and used it to wind my hair up into a knot. I decided to keep going. It was when I came face to face with yet another tree that I kicked the ground and my gaze dropped to the forest floor. There was a thin path underneath the dry leaves. I hadn’t needed to count my steps at all. Someone walked this way often.

  Walking the path, I noted that it was the same kind of path the abductor had taken—All straight lines and ninety-degree angles. Whoever was walking to the playhouse and back was keeping to a strictly regimented route. If it was Alban, why would he do that? Was it the abductor, revisiting the playhouse over and over again?

  I shivered. It was an awful thought that the abductor was returning to the forest all the time.

  Did I just hear a shuffling noise? I stopped, listening hard.

  Nothing.

  A tall figure appeared in my side vision. Until I pivoted and saw nothing but forest.

  Get it together, Isla. This isn’t helping.

  I had the abductor on my mind, that was all.

  Steeling myself, I kept walking.

  In the middle of a small clearing, there it was.

  The playhouse.

  It wasn’t anything much. Just a shack made of bits of cut larch and twigs, roughly hammered together. It looked as if it had been repaired numerous times—mismatched and buckled lengths of wood turning the exterior into a patchwork.

  I drew the latch back and let the door swing open. A flurry of leaves blew inside. It was barely big enough for six adults to stand. The ceiling so low I had to bend my head. How terrifying this would have been for a little girl, to be locked in here with someone who wanted to hurt her. The horror of an eight-year-old child having their life effectively snatched away in the playhouse made my head swim. It see
med so raw and real now that I was here.

  Papers littered the floor—wrappers, crinkled and balled up in the corners. Old, empty men’s razor packets and a few mint and chocolate wrappers. A couple of cigarette butts. One old condom wrapper. People must sometimes still come here—probably Aubrey’s friends stumbling around drunk and on drugs in the middle of the night. It seemed wrong. This was the place Elodie had been taken.

  Stepping back outside, I framed up the playhouse in the viewfinder of my camera and took several photographs. I wouldn’t be using these for the portfolio, of course. But somehow my photos of Braithnoch would seem unfinished without these.

  An odd electrical sensation zipped through my head, as if a swarm of bees had just passed.

  Blundering for a few steps, I leaned against a tree trunk for support. Black spots swum in front of my eyes.

  I knew what this was.

  Impending seizure. Incoming.

  The days without my full round of medication had caught up with me.

  I barely had time to sit before my world went dark.

  When I came back to consciousness, it felt like I’d been away for a long time. I was lying on the forest floor, among the leaves.

  I checked my watch, panicking. Less than a minute had passed. I exhaled slowly, ordering myself to breathe. I was okay.

  A cloud of depression swiftly followed. Along with muscle aches and a deep tiredness.

  Seizures were like that.

  You thought you could do this, Isla. Come all the way to a foreign country and work all alone. Well, there’s your reminder that you can’t, and you shouldn’t be here. Mum is right.

  Pulling myself to my feet, I rubbed my arms. That was my anxiety talking and it was the worst thing about my condition. That black cloud that would settle on me.

  I just wanted to get back to the cottage now. Crawl into bed for a while and try to unpeel the sadness and despair from my skin.

  At least I didn’t have to try and calculate my steps and direction on the way out. The worn path was a Godsend. I straightened my clothing and picked leaves and twigs from my hair and scarf.

  Rewrapping the scarf around my neck, I hurried along the path.