Stranger in the Woods: A tense psychological thriller

by Anni Taylor

  They kept walking, until her house was in view.

  Peyton squinted. “Is that balloons I see down there?”

  She nodded, a small thrill of excitement seeding itself in her chest. “I’m six today.”

  “Well, a big happy sixth birthday to ya,” Peyton said.

  “Don’t drink too much,” Hamish added.

  “Och!” Peyton elbowed Hamish.

  Saying goodbye, she tore home across the moor and up and down the hills. Only when she was almost home did she remember that she’d left her new straw hat at the Chandlishes’ house. The hat was meant to be for a special photo session later. Mum had a special hat just like it, too.

  She couldn’t go back to the Chandlish house now. Peyton and Hamish just took all that time to walk her through the wood and they might be cranky if she returned.

  Maybe she could tell Mum that one of their dogs got the hat and chewed it or something. But the deerhounds were so well-behaved they’d probably never chewed hats and shoes, not even when they were puppies.

  She stepped closer, rounding the side of the house. Tables and bright tablecloths had been set up outside. A piñata hung from the tree—a piñata of a tattie bogle.

  Disappointment pushed down in her stomach like a stone. She’d asked Mum for a pony piñata.

  Mum always forgot stuff like that. Often, it felt like Mum barely listened to her. She was always busy, always telling Elodie to go and play.

  There was only one good thing about it being a tattie bogle. She could hit it over and over again with a stick and no one was going to stop her.

  25

  ISLA

  I walked past the white walls of the children’s ward, with their brightly-coloured motifs of balloons and cartoon animals, I shivered, thinking that this must be where Elodie spent her last days.

  I found Trent’s ward on the second floor. He was asleep as I peered in from the doorway of his hospital room, a meal lying half-eaten on the swing table beside his bed.

  “Let’s go.” Aubrey prodded Bridget. “He probably won’t talk if we stay here.”

  Reluctantly, Bridget allowed Aubrey to pull her down the corridor. Aubrey waved a silent goodbye to me.

  Trent woke, his eyes tracking me as I entered the room, measures of surprise and wariness on his face. There was no hint of an apology or regret in that expression. Was Aubrey mistaken? It must be someone else that he so desperately wanted to see. Not me.

  “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, pushing himself up on the pillows.

  Okay. Aubrey wasn’t mistaken.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Feeling like I got churned through a cement truck.”

  I moved closer, not knowing where to put myself. It seemed too intimate to be here alone with this man—he lying there in a loose hospital gown and attached to a hospital drip. Hospitals were for family and close friends.

  “Pull up a chair.” He gestured towards two plush, plastic armchairs. “You’ve got the best seat in the house.”

  I pressed my mouth into a rigid smile as I perched gingerly on the chair. “I’m glad you’re recovering.”

  A silence unravelled between us, until he stopped it by saying, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a talk with you.”

  I didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried at his directness. There was something in his eyes that was making me distinctly uneasy. “Go ahead.”

  “First of all, I’m sorry—about going in for the kiss. I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “It’s okay. I’m guessing you weren’t yourself.”

  “No, that’s the problem. I was being myself. It’s about time I quit being myself and showed some manners.”

  I wasn’t sure what to answer to that, so I changed the subject. “They seem a very high-spirited bunch, the Chandlishes—and Bridget. How do you know them?”

  “I met Aubrey at an art school in Inverness. We were both doing commercial art. She invited me to her house for a party, just as friends. I got on well with her and her brothers. I’ve been back a few times. There’s often a lot more people than were there the other night. It gets pretty rowdy.”

  “I can imagine. So, you’re both artists, you and Aubrey?”

  “Yeah. She’s better than me. Have you seen her handiwork on the scarecrows?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She did the faces. Hand sculpted them when she was a teenager. Each one different. That’s Aubrey in all of her many moods.”

  Why would Aubrey—who had professed to be terrified of the scarecrows—have crafted faces for them? Was Trent lying?

  “Hamish told me that the scarecrows had always been like that. He said they changed by themselves. Like it was folklore or something.”

  Trent shrugged. “He’s just pissed because Aubrey broke up with him when they were teenagers.”

  “I can’t picture them two together. They must have changed a lot.”

  “Why can’t you picture them? Is Hamish not good enough for Aubrey in your mind?”

  His voice remained friendly but there was still that undercurrent in his eyes. I wasn’t sure how the conversation had taken this turn, but I wished it hadn’t.

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” I said. “Their personalities just seem very different. That’s all.”

  “Well, maybe he did get a bit quiet after she strung him along for six months and then dumped him when she got bored.”

  “That was a long time ago, right? He must be over it by now.”

  “Maybe I just find that kind of story a bit hard because the same thing happened to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told him.

  I wasn’t actually sorry at all. He had a hard, bitter edge to his voice. I’d been dumped by a boyfriend in the past. But I didn’t go around trying to make strangers feel bad because of it. When Trent had mentioned the scarecrows, I’d thought that was going to lead up to a confession or something. But instead, it had developed into an odd rant about men being wronged by women. I started to worry that he was unhinged. Maybe I should just make an excuse and get myself out of here. I stared down at my hands, twisting my fingers together. No, I’d come all the way here. I wasn’t going to leave without at least talking about the scarecrow.

  I raised my head, drawing more air in than I needed. “Trent, did you hang the scarecrow in the tree?”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “You think I did that? You do, don’t you?”

  “I heard you, near my window that night. After I returned from Aubrey’s house. You were calling my name.”

  “My apologies.”

  “So, you admit to that.”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “And you dragged a scarecrow down from the hill and hung it up on a branch,” I continued boldly.

  “I was in no condition to do any such thing.”

  This was pointless. He was playing with me.

  I rose from the chair.

  He held up a hand. “Just wait. Can I tell you a story?”

  “I don’t think so. I have to go.”

  “It won’t take long. Then I’ll tell you the truth about the scarecrow.”

  My shoulders hunched as I considered my options. Walking out now seemed more satisfying than staying. But he somehow sounded genuine.

  “Make it short.” I sat back in the seat.

  “Oh, it’s short. There’s not much to tell. It’s more about the emotion of the story than what actually happened. That’s what I want you to picture. It was a little over two years ago. I met a girl. Straight red hair that fell to her shoulders. With a bit of a—what do you girls call it—a fringe? Bangs? She had a pretty smile. Fun to be around. We went out for about a month. Guess you might say that’s not long, but I fell hard for her anyway. I connected with her in a way I’ve never connected with a girl before. I guess I fell in love. But one day, she ghosted me. Do you know what that feels like?”

  “Of course. I had a guy do that to me once. We’d been on three da
tes. I thought he liked me. But I never heard from him again. That’s what dating these days is like. People ghost you.”

  “Yeah, and it hurts. She hurt me a lot. The girl. Well, that’s it. That’s my story.”

  “Okay,” I told him, glad that he was done but confused that he’d told it to me.

  “Wait,” he said. “I’ve got a picture of her. A photographer at a nightclub took it—one of those dudes that come around and take a snap and then try to sell it to you for an inflated price. And you’re drunk and happy and so you buy it. Or maybe, in my case, I just wanted a picture of me and her. Because I couldn’t believe my luck that a girl like her was going out with me.” Leaning over, he took his phone from the bedside table.

  “I’ve got the photo in here. I’ll find it for you.”

  Silently, I waited.

  He turned the phone around and I glanced at the screen. It was the name of a website: Trent Jay Dorrington.

  “Is that your blog?” I asked.

  “It’s everything. A bit of my adventures. A bit of a personal journal. And my art portfolio. Anyway, I just wanted to prove that the photo I’m about to show you is mine and I didn’t just pull it randomly off the interwebs.” He swiped through a few screens and then handed me the phone.

  A picture of two young people filled the screen. As he’d said, it was taken at a nightclub.

  The man in the photo was Trent—his hair longer but it was definitely him—looking a little younger and a lot happier. The redhaired girl was resting fondly against his shoulder. He had his arms wrapped around her. It was clear that the two of them were a couple.

  I was about to hand the phone back to Trent when something made me hesitate and inspect the picture more closely.

  My stomach lurched.

  “What is this?” I asked coldly.

  “It’s two people who wanted nothing else but to be together, at the time,” he responded.

  “You’re crazy.” I jerked my head up to face him, feeling queasy. “Why did you do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Photoshop my face onto this girl. That face is mine.”

  “You have a habit of accusing me of things I didn’t do.”

  “I was never there in this nightclub and certainly not with you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  His face creased into a scowl. “Doing this to you? Try to see it from my point of view. A girl I was once very fond of crosses my path. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again. I’m still hurt but maybe a little hopeful that she’ll want to rekindle the romance. But—she sees me and then acts like I’m a complete stranger.”

  “You are a stranger to me.” I flung the phone onto his bed.

  “So, you’re really going to keep this up, huh? You’re really going to keep pretending.”

  “If it’s true, why don’t I remember you?”

  He sighed, staring at the picture. “Maybe you don’t want to. Dump ’em and burn the memory.”

  I turned suddenly at the sight of two figures entering the room.

  Aubrey and Bridget. They gaped at Trent and then at me.

  Bridget’s eyes opened wide. “Hoo baby, these two are at it again.”

  “Is everything okay, you two?” asked Aubrey, a note of concern in her voice. “Isla?”

  “I have to go,” I crossed the room, not looking at Trent again.

  “Isla,” Trent called.

  I paused at the door, still not turning around.

  “I didn’t put the scarecrow in the tree,” he said, enunciating each word slowly.

  I felt Aubrey’s hand on my arm. “Isla, would you mind waiting at the hospital cafe for me? I want to talk to Trent for a minute. He’s my friend—but not for much longer if he’s going to behave like this. Okay?”

  I nodded, just wanting to get away from him.

  With legs of jelly, I blundered along the corridor.

  I didn’t even know where the hospital cafe was. My lips felt almost too numb to talk as I asked a nurse where it was. I made my way to the ground floor.

  Inside the cafe, the antiseptic smells of the wards and corridors gave way to smells of hot baked foods and coffee. Whoever had decorated the cafe had made an effort to make it cheery—yellow chairs and rows of plastic potted plants hanging above the tables. A small outdoor section lay through double glass doors, but no one was heading out there. Too cold and windy, leaves eddying around in listless circles.

  After grabbing a tea at the counter, I sat myself down in a corner, away from the clusters of people.

  Drawing out my phone from my handbag, I called my mother.

  She answered sleepily, stifling a yawn. “Yes, Lana Wilson speaking?”

  “Mum, it’s me.”

  She sounded a lot more alert when she spoke next. “Oh, Isla. Sorry, I didn’t even look at my phone before answering. I just woke up. It’s a quarter past six in the morning.”

  “Sorry I woke you.”

  “Don’t be silly. Call anytime. Time for me to get up soon anyway.”

  “I just need to know something. It’s about something that happened two years ago—you know, that time I got really sick.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did I have a boyfriend back then? I’m having trouble remembering.”

  “Isn’t that all best left in the past, Isla? You’re having an adventure right now. Why are you thinking about that old stuff?”

  “It’s important. Because when I think back to those months, it’s like one big tumbleweed blowing around in my head. I lost a chunk of my life. I need to know—did I have a boyfriend then? I mean, before I got sick?”

  “Oh…you’d been on a couple of dates. Nothing serious.”

  “With who? Did his name happen to be Trent?”

  My question was met with silence. Then she said in a careful tone, “I didn’t meet him.”

  “Okay. But was his name Trent?”

  “It might have been, yes.”

  “My God. Why can’t I remember him?”

  “Honey, why don’t we talk about this when you get home? No point upsetting yourself when—”

  “He’s here, Mum. Trent. I’m at a hospital in Greenmire, where he’s a patient. Trent had a drug overdose days ago. He just showed me a photograph of him and myself. I was shocked. I accused him of altering the picture to put me in it. But then I remembered how sick I was back then, and I wondered—”

  “Oh, I can’t believe this. He turned up there, in Greenmire? How does something like that even happen?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I can’t believe that I went out with this person and I don’t even remember him.”

  “How did you find out? And how did you know he was in the hospital?”

  I didn’t want to explain the scarecrow incident to her. “It’s a bit complicated. I’ll tell you another time.”

  “Look, honey, you need to stay away from him. He’s bad news. He must have been stalking you to turn up there.”

  “What happened? Please tell me.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to tell you any of this. But he left you in a terrible state. Bruises on your arms and face. You hadn’t showered or brushed your hair for days. You were in a state of confusion, barely able to talk to me.”

  “Oh my God. So, it wasn’t just a seizure? This man hurt me?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry honey.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It was a terrible time. You were in such a state. You began having awful dreams. And you were having seizures every day. You had to spend weeks in the hospital and then you were completely zoned out for months afterwards. When you came out of it, your memory of all of it was gone. I thought it was better to let it go.”

  “I know how sick I was. But you should have told me about Trent. Who is he? How did I—?”

  “Isla, listen to me. He’s dangerous. You need to get on the first plane home.”

  “He’s in a ho
spital ward. He’s no danger to me.”

  “But he’ll get better and get out. Whatever he did to you, it took you months to recover. Do you understand me? He’s a bad person. You don’t need to stay there. Your safety comes first.” Her voice rasped and she sounded terrified.

  “I’ll be careful, Mum. I—“

  I caught sight of Aubrey and Bridget entering the cafe.

  “Mum,” I said into the phone, “I have to go. I’ve got some more questions, but I’ll call you later, okay?”

  I thrust the phone back into my pocket, my heart hammering.

  26

  ISLA

  The air was chillier than usual when I woke and climbed out of bed, as if the weather had suddenly dropped ten degrees.

  I’d called Mum back last night, but she didn’t have any more information for me. She didn’t know anything about who Trent was or what he’d done. All she knew was that I’d called her one day and she’d come to get me from my apartment, and she’d been shocked by the condition she’d found me in. Next, I’d tried the two friends who I used to see the most two years ago. Only one of them remembered me mentioning a guy named Trent and only vaguely.

  I opened the bedroom shutters.

  A gasp flew from my throat.

  The world had turned white while I slept. The trees looked as if icing sugar had been sifted over them.

  I noticed then that it was still snowing. Just barely. Individual snowflakes spiralled past my window.

  Distracted and entranced, I stood there watching for minutes.

  Photos. I should grab photos. What if the sun came out and the snow melted, and it didn’t snow again for weeks?

  Dressing in a thick layer of clothing, I headed out.

  My boots crunched the icy ground. I caught a snow flake in my hand. Then, crouching, I trailed my gloved fingers through the snow and packed some snow into a tight ball. I pelted the snowball at a tree, hoping I wouldn’t lose my footing and send my butt skidding across the ground. I’d been waiting a lifetime to throw a snowball.

  Only, now that I’d seen snow for the first time, I had no one to throw snowballs with.

  A curtain moved aside upstairs in the McGregors’ house. It had to be Jessica. Alban’s car was gone and the figure at the window was an adult. Well, I didn’t care if she was watching.