These were things the two of us had thought we'd never see again. We'd been isolated so long, had been given over so completely to terror, that the outside world felt fresh and new again. We drove on in silence. Swan Creek State Park disappeared from the rearview and we gunned it back to Ohio. We ended up making the trip in a single go; except for a tank of gas and a handful of convenience store foods, we didn't stop at all.
I couldn't say whether our visit to those woods had resulted in any long-lasting change. It felt arrogant to think that our meddling had put a stop to a deep-seated curse—that our dealings with the witch had finally dissipated the noxious fear her death had infected that land with. I wanted to believe it was so, and that future visitors to the park would never experience what the two of us had gone through.
The woods were vast, though, and there could be no telling whether we'd successfully rooted out the infectious fear that had spread throughout. That fear, I knew, bred in shadow; a thing those woods possessed in staggering abundance. Until every tree, every pocket of that park had been explored, the madness of Ellie Pomeroy was likely to resurface every September.
Twenty-Five
Though we hadn't been gone all that long, home scarcely felt like home to me. We rolled into the driveway and carried our things in, but even as I paced through the rooms I didn't feel connected to the place in the least. This would change, I knew. When the shock of our trip finally wore off, when we allowed ourselves a modicum of relaxation and comfort again, things would gradually return to normal.
Jared dropped his bags in the kitchen and helped himself to a soda. I took a pull from the can and sought out my phone charger. When my phone finally came back on, I found a deluge of texts from Diana, most of them variations on, “Well, how's the trip going? Don't keep me in suspense!”
My answer was a bit curt, but it was honest: “It was INTERESTING...”
Exhausted and hungry, Jared sat down at the kitchen table and nursed his drink. “Want some pizza or something? I'm starved. I can go pick something up, if you like.”
“Sure, sounds good,” I replied. “In the meantime, I want to take a real shower. FYI, I'm going to use all of the hot water.”
Jared grinned. “Would it kill you to save me a bit?”
“Probably.” I planted a kiss on his stubbled cheek. “Lemme know when you get back, OK?”
He set his drink aside and grabbed his keys from the counter. “Will do.”
Retreating to the bathroom, I tossed all of my clothes into the hamper and took a good, hard look at myself in the mirror. To be frank, I looked like a hot mess. Rare were the sections of my body that didn't boast any bruises or cuts. They'd heal in time, of course. The dark bags under my eyes would fade, too. For the meantime, though, I was going to look like hell. I turned on the water and let it get good and hot. At the first sign of steam, I set out a fresh towel and climbed into shower.
I won't bore you with the details of my shower, except to note that I easily ran through half a bottle of shampoo and body wash, and that, second only to my boyfriend, the inventor of the water heater was my life's greatest love. I stewed in the hot water, washing the grime from my hair and face, scrubbing at my nails with a brush.
I'd been in the shower some twenty minutes when I sensed a slight change in the air. Specifically, a change in temperature. Though I'd been immersed in the hot water, I felt a chill run down my spine and sensed, rather suddenly, that there was another presence nearby. This was not a new sensation; I'd spent my entire weekend honing it in the woods. I stared at the shower curtain, cradling myself, and wondered if there wasn't someone waiting for me on the other side. “Jared?” I chanced, shutting off the faucet and standing in the steam. “That you...?”
There was no reply, but the sensation of another presence in the room didn't diminish.
I gave the curtain a little tug and peeked out from behind it, did a quick survey of the bathroom.
The first thing I noticed was that the door was slightly ajar. My heart skipped a beat at this discovery, and I quickly scanned the remainder of the space for signs of the intruder. Waving away the steam, I found there was no one in there with me, however.
You're nothing but a bundle of nerves, I thought, stepping out of the shower and reaching for my towel.
That was when I saw it.
A message had been scrawled across the steamy mirror with a fingertip. I froze, spying movement in the fogged up glass as I tried to read it. My gaze dropped to the sink—to the towel I'd set out for myself. Something rested upon it.
A ring box.
I looked back up to the mirror and read the message there under my breath. “Will you marry me?”
I heard Jared struggling to contain his laughter from the doorway. He was standing just outside it, hands in his pockets. “I, uh... I'd planned to ask you while we were out camping, but... suffice it to say, things got in the way.”
I plucked up the ring box and cracked it open, where I found, not surprisingly, a diamond engagement ring. The band was gold and the rock was large—large enough that I wondered how the hell he'd paid for it. I felt a little woozy as I stared down at it, and I removed it from the box with shaky hands. I slipped it over my ring finger and glanced it over as though I were trying on a pair of shoes. More than once I tried to say something—to comment on its beauty, to make some kind of wisecrack—but I couldn't find my voice.
“Well, what do you say, Penny?” he asked from the door.
Before setting out on our trip, I'd been filled with doubts. Marriage had seemed unnecessary, perhaps even unpleasant in many respects. But after our escape from Newsom's Landing, something had changed. The things we'd faced there—together—were worse than the greatest trials of married life, I figured. And we'd conquered them. If I could get through that nightmare with him by my side and still love him, then the answer was plain.
I turned, red in the face and trying to beat back my smile. “It's a nice ring,” I said, wrapping the towel around me and holding my hand up so that he could see it on my finger.
“Yeah? Think you'd like to wear it awhile?” he asked.
“How long are we talking?”
He scratched at his ear. “Thirty, forty years?”
I stepped out of the bathroom and into his waiting arms. “Yeah, I think I can manage that.”
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About the Author
Once upon a time, a young Ambrose Ibsen discovered a collection of ghost stories on his father's bookshelf. He was never the same again.
Apart from horror fiction, he enjoys good coffee, brewed strong.
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