Harrow Lake

by Kat Ellis

  I hate this place.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I tell Grant. “Maybe I’ll find my crap out in the woods.”

  He barks out a laugh. “You’ve got a dirty mouth on you, don’t you?” Grant lays his trap down. “Wait up, I’ll keep you company.”

  “No. You won’t.” I don’t like this man, and I don’t care if he knows it.

  Grant’s lip curls, somewhere between annoyance and a leer. “Just remember what I said,” he says. “You never know what’s out there.” He wets his lower lip with his tongue, then goes back to his rat trap.

  I try not to run. Or vomit. Instead I force my footsteps into an easy rhythm until at last I’m shrouded by trees.

  * * *

  • • •

  The setting sun dapples down through the tree canopy. I’ve never seen this before—the way the trees grow so that their leaves don’t quite touch those of their neighbors, as though they each need their own personal space. From underneath, it looks like a negative of a cracked, arid landscape. I’ve read about this phenomenon, though; it’s called crown shyness. It’s something I think about whenever I’m in a crowded room. How I can be surrounded by people, yet completely detached.

  It makes me think about the story Grant told me—about the woods on a moonless night, and how a person might find themselves lost there forever if they stay still a moment too long. I don’t believe it, of course. It’s just more small-town bullshit, like the Mister Jitters thing. But I can’t help wondering if there will be a moon tonight. The knots in the tree trunks around me are like eyes watching, biding their time; the creak of branches swaying in the breeze like preparatory knuckle-cracking.

  What made those jitterbugs rattle in Lorelei’s room earlier? What made the Mister Jitters puppet dance?

  Stop being ridiculous, Lola, Nolan tells me, and I nod once firmly. I’m tired, that’s all. And probably a little off balance after everything that happened with Nolan in the apartment. It’s perfectly natural that my senses might get a little tricksy. That my thoughts might wander to shadowy corners.

  It’s not until the path veers uphill through a thin spread of trees that I know I’m lost. I was supposed to be heading down to the waterfront. My stomach flutters in panic as I slide my phone from my skirt pocket, checking if maybe there’s a sliver of reception here.

  Zero bars. I’ll need to charge it as soon as I get my suitcase back, too. It’s almost dead.

  Should I stick to the path or not? Will it curve back down toward the lake or keep going up to higher ground? I guess it doesn’t matter. Either I’ll find my way to town or search for a signal up on the hillside.

  The trees eventually thin out, and towering metal shapes loom against the spiky shadows of the treetops. I’ve somehow ended up between the fairground and the lakeshore. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be, but at least I know where I am.

  A scream echoes through the trees.

  My heart pounds as I scour the shadows around me.

  “Hello? Is someone there?” I call out. My voice is alien in the dark woods.

  Some birds make screeching sounds, don’t they? I’m almost convinced it was an owl or a hawk when the shriek comes again. Definitely not a bird. But it’s also not quite the terrified scream I thought I heard before. By the time I’ve tracked the source, I’m at the waterfront and the scream has changed to laughter, with more than one voice joining in. Girls. Three or four, I’d guess. I’m so relieved when I recognize one of them.

  Cora.

  I’m close enough to see the light of a small bonfire flickering between the trees when I hear someone say Nolan’s name. It’s not Cora. The tone is too brash to be Faye. It must be Faye’s sister, then. Jess, wasn’t it? She’s talking loudly, her words slurring. I wait and listen, feeling that usual dark thrill of eavesdropping until I hear what they’re saying.

  “Did you see his latest one a couple of months ago? It was called something Cage . . . Cygnet’s Cage? Yeah, that was it. God, it was so gory.”

  I bristle a little at that. Sure, it was one of Nolan’s bloodier films, but he makes horror movies—what does she expect?

  “I thought it was his best one,” replies a voice that is definitely Cora. “Apart from that ending—that was so . . . I dunno, out of sync with the rest of the story. It was just like . . . what was the point? You know?”

  Even though Cygnet’s Cage didn’t do well at the box office, the critics raved about it. It’s the story of this guy trying to make his name as a surrealist painter in twenties London, when the art world was basically exploding with talent. Cygnet hires a struggling actress to model for him, but his frustration sends him to a dark place, and he locks the actress in a cage in his apartment, gradually carving off parts of her body and painting a series of canvases showing her transformation until finally she dies. The movie ends with Cygnet becoming a massive success— obviously—and buying a mansion with its own aviary full of human-sized cages.

  That isn’t how it should’ve ended, though. It was supposed to end with the woman slipping out between the bars, mutilated and slick with blood, and getting her revenge on the artist by murdering him in front of a crowd at his exhibition’s grand opening. I know this because Cygnet was based on something I wrote. Only a short story, but one I thought was good enough for me to leave a copy on Nolan’s desk.

  My story was told from the perspective of the actress, Evangeline, and I poured everything I had into her—I gave her a voice that was witty and sharp, even as the man reshaped her against her will. Evangeline was real to me—alive on the page. I was so excited for Nolan to see her.

  He never mentioned the story to me, though. Over the next few weeks it nearly killed me not to ask if he’d read it. But when I heard he was working on a new project with a weirdly similar plot to my story—my story!—I thought I might explode with happiness. Until I heard about the changes he’d made.

  For the first time in my life, I stormed into Nolan’s study without knocking. I demanded to know why he’d changed it so the story was told from Cygnet’s point of view—and without even telling me first.

  “Oh, was it your story? I thought one of the scouts sent it.” Nolan’s a good liar, so he obviously meant for me to see through it. “As far as the POV goes, I think the world has seen more than enough angry women, don’t you?”

  I ignored that—had to, if I didn’t want him to laugh and call me hysterical. “But why did you change the ending?” I insisted, ignoring the warning look on his face. “Cygnet wasn’t supposed to get away with it!”

  Nolan laughed at me. “Get real, Lola. The ending you gave it was cliché—weak. Just another Carrie rip-off.”

  Of course he was right. He’s always right.

  “My Cygnet shows that great art trumps morality,” Nolan said, and then he winked. Winking is such a strange thing: It brings you in on the joke, even when you are the joke. I hate winking. “Honestly, Lola, don’t be upset. You should be pleased that you played a small part in making such a great film. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted—to be a part of my work?”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be angry at him for twisting my words, or grateful that he’d shaped them into something better. Something that was ours . . . But I guess in the end it was really his.

  That was the last story I wrote. The letdown was more than I could bear a second time.

  I feel a little vindicated, maybe, as I listen to Cora’s comments about the movie’s ending. But that vindication brings with it a wash of guilt. Nolan is a genius. I shouldn’t be listening to some random teenagers criticizing his choices.

  “What’s his daughter like?” the girl who must be Jess asks. I don’t know why I care what the answer is, but I do.

  “Lola?” Cora pauses before continuing, like she’s really giving it some thought. “You know, I like her. She seems like someone who’d be interesting to kn
ow.”

  “Yeah, interesting,” Faye adds, but her tone says that’s not the good thing Cora seems to think it is. “She was dressed up to look just like her mom.”

  I want to go over there and correct her. I’m not dressed like Lorelei—I’m dressed like Little Bird. There’s a difference. For one thing, Nolan would never understand me wanting to look like my mother. But an homage to Little Bird? He’d get that.

  I stay where I am, though. Hidden.

  “I think she’s just trying to fit in,” Cora says. “She doesn’t know fitting in around here is a bad thing.”

  Her friends don’t laugh or contradict her. I’m starting to think maybe Cora’s right about there being something wrong with this town.

  Did Nolan see that when he came here to make Nightjar? Is that what made this place so appealing to him? Or did he dismiss the whispers of monsters, woods that can claim a person, and “something bad in the water” as pure superstitious nonsense?

  Because that’s exactly what he would call it: pure superstitious nonsense. But what about the tightness I feel in my gut? The prickle creeping over my skin, urging me even now to look behind me and check there’s nothing—no one—lurking in these woods?

  “Harrow Lake brings out the worst in people—like my mom,” Cora says. “Like everyone in this damn town. Sooner or later, the bad comes out. That’s why I’m getting the hell out of here first chance I get. I’ll be gone before the bad gets its claws in too deep.”

  “There’s bad everywhere, Cora,” Faye says. “Just look at what happened to Lola’s dad. Can you imagine finding one of your folks stabbed like that? I hope you haven’t been telling her all the stories about this place.” There’s a pause. “Jeez, Cora! She must be so freaked out already, especially with her dad in the hospital. What if he dies?”

  What if he dies?

  I can’t listen to any more.

  He’s going to be fine.

  I repeat this over and over as I hurry back through the trees, but it doesn’t silence the whisper at the back of my mind. What if I’m really on my own? What will I do without him? I’ve only been away from him for one night, and already I’m losing my shit.

  I need to speak to Nolan. Now.

  The sycamore trees block out most of the sky, which is turning from blood orange to a deep blue. Phone in hand, I walk from one patch of twilight to the next. No signal. The woods look so different at this time of day than in the nighttime scenes of Nightjar. It all looks familiar, yet not—like an old story I haven’t heard in a long time. But there’s no sign of a house or any other landmark I can use to get my bearings.

  I’m lost.

  The thought slithers through my head, but I kick it out. I’m not lost, I’m just looking for a spot with a signal in this wilderness. There’s still just enough daylight to see.

  I hurry on in the direction my internal compass tells me Grandmother’s house lies, but as the ground starts to even out near the brow of a ridge, I know I’ve gone off course—badly. This must be the rim of the basin Harrow Lake sits in, and that’s nowhere near the house.

  Damn it! What am I supposed to do?

  Nolan?

  Nothing.

  Nolan!

  All I can do is head downhill and hope I see something familiar again. I keep an eye on my phone, but it’s as helpful as a brick right now. That is until I enter a clearing, and the signal finally creeps up to one bar. I let out a yell of triumph.

  I flop down on the knotted roots of a squat, dead-looking oak tree sitting in the middle of the clearing. My phone pings with a bunch of messages, but they’re only junk. Nothing from Nolan, or even Larry. How pathetic is it that I’m disappointed not to have a message from Larry?

  I go to dial Nolan, then realize how pointless that would be. Even Nolan can’t do anything about me being lost in the woods three states away, and I’d only stress him out. Not Optimal. Instead I call Grandmother’s house and lean my head back against the oak tree while it rings, noticing the tiny dead-white acorn-looking things hanging from its branches. It looks like a stern glance would bring them all down. The phone is still ringing. Finally, it cuts out with a long beeeeeep, then goes quiet. I go to dial again and see EMERGENCY CALLS ONLY is back on the screen.

  God, why did I come out here by myself? Why didn’t I just join Cora and her friends?

  It’s fine. I’ll sit here for a moment to calm down, then I’ll chase down that crappy bar of signal and try my grandmother again. Easy. I’m sure she’ll be able to find me. Maybe she’ll send Grant out with a flashlight—even that sounds welcome at this point. I breathe in the smells of the forest: new growth, the crisp promise of night air, and a hint of healthy rot and sunshine. What all good girls are made of, or close enough.

  I jerk upright when I feel the phone slip from my fingers. It clatters somewhere near my feet. I reach down, but it isn’t where I expect it to be. I get up and trace a careful circle among the roots running like veins into the ground. There’s no sign of my phone. But there’s a hole, fist-sized and hidden between two gnarled roots. No.

  I try to visualize putting my hand in there, to imagine it isn’t full of slithering, crawling things. No way.

  I once found a nest of spiders in the yard—we had a yard then, though I can’t remember where—with the spiderlings just starting to hatch. They swarmed out, thousands of tiny black-and-yellow bodies rushing like a wave toward me. I screamed my head off. I don’t know why I didn’t just run away, but a moment later Nolan came racing from the house and stamped the spiders under his feet, yelling at Lorelei for just standing there.

  “Why didn’t you do something?” Nolan snapped. I remember being relieved that he was mad at Lorelei, not me.

  “She needs to learn to not be scared,” she said in her calm, quiet voice.

  I thought Nolan had killed all the spiders, but then later that night, when Lorelei was putting me to bed, she found one of them in my discarded clothes. She held my wrist so I couldn’t wriggle away, and put the spider on my skin. I was afraid—terrified, actually—but more shocked at the firm way she held me. It was so unlike her, so determined.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “If you’re scared of a thing, you give it power over you. And look how tiny this spider is, baby girl. You’re so much bigger and stronger than it. See?”

  I was too petrified to scream, too confused by what she said to do anything but bite the inside of my lip to stop it trembling. I felt the spider’s legs moving over my skin, her tight grip on my wrist turning my hand cold.

  Lorelei swept the spider off me and opened the bedroom window to release it. Still, I didn’t move. Lorelei lifted me into bed, kissed my head, and was about to leave when she noticed my hand lying on the bedspread, skin blazing. The spider had bitten my palm.

  “Good girl,” she said, stroking my hair. “You didn’t make a sound.”

  Lorelei put some strong-smelling ointment on it and made me promise not to mention it to Nolan, but she’d already taught me to keep secrets by then. Keep your secrets safe, Lola. If you don’t, they can hurt you. If you feel like you need to tell someone, write it down instead. But keep it safe. That was what Lorelei told me. After she left my room, I wrote down what had happened on a slip of paper, then taped it to the underside of my sock drawer.

  I didn’t tell Nolan about the spider, but I didn’t have to. The next morning, my entire arm had swelled up like a balloon, the veins bulging red under the skin despite Lorelei’s cream. Nolan was livid. The next place we moved to didn’t have a yard, and Lorelei wasn’t allowed to put me to bed after that.

  I haven’t thought about that spider’s nest in years. Now the memory swarms, a wave of black and yellow. I wish I could scratch it out of my head.

  The screen of my phone lights up from inside the hole. I have a new message. But the bright flash is gone before I can tell how deeply the p
hone has fallen. At least the case seems to have saved it from near-certain death. And—bonus!—it looks like it has found reception. Ha.

  Folding back the sleeve of my dress, I ignore the sweat pricking my skin, take a deep breath, and reach inside.

  “Don’t bite,” I mutter.

  The earth is dry. It leaves a powdery residue, coating my fingers like ash. The hole is probably full of crawling, wriggling things, but I can’t see them, so maybe they aren’t there. I edge my arm in deeper. Where is my damn phone? How far down can it be? I flatten my body to the ground to give myself a little more reach. Then I hear a noise. Rumbling, only less rhythmic than that, and faint. It’s jarring. Like the sound a door makes as it opens late at night, slow and menacing—Are you asleep?—or the chattering of teeth.

  I freeze. It’s just like how the jitterbugs sounded in Lorelei’s room earlier, their hundreds of legs tap-tap-tapping away inside their shells.

  I need to grab my phone and get out of the woods. Out of this creepy-ass town.

  Shoving my shoulder to the ground, I finally feel the smooth edge of the case against my fingertips. I coax it up the side of the hole. But when I wrap my fingers around it, there’s something else there, too—something solid, rough. I shriek, yanking my arm out and stumbling back until I trip over my skirt and land hard on my ass.

  My breath leaves me in sharp stabs. I pick up the phone, hand shaking. There are a few smudges of dirt on the screen, but it’s what lies next to it that makes my lips part in surprise. That rough thing I grabbed was a nutshell—a jitterbug, exactly like the ones in Lorelei’s room.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Up close, this jitterbug is slightly bigger than the rest—almost as big as my palm. But beneath the thin crust of soil, the hand-carved grooves covering the shell are identical. How is that even possible? Where did it come from? It’s so totally out of place, like seeing Jigsaw from Saw wheeling his little tricycle across the set of Love, Simon.

  “Oh, hey there.”