A brightly coloured bird flitted out of the bushes and hopped across the rocks. Sam kept her hand moving, but held her breath as she watched the bird. It either hadn’t seen her or didn’t mind the company as it foraged for insects among the fallen leaves. Then something startled it—Sam couldn’t tell if she was guilty or not—and the bird dashed away with a shrill cry.
Sam sighed and glanced at her art book. Shock hit her like a cold slap. In the centre of the paper, surrounded by scribbled plants and indistinct shapes, was a drawing of the man.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sam couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The pencil fell from her grip and hit the forest floor with a dull tk, but she barely noticed. The face was looser and messier, but clearly recognisable.
I can’t believe I drew that.
Sam closed the art book with a snap, simultaneously creeped out and ashamed. She didn’t want to dwell on the image, where she knew the face from, or why her subconscious was bringing it up all of a sudden. The calm, happy mood she’d developed during the hike had dissipated as thoroughly as if someone had thrown water over her.
She packed up her equipment and turned back to the trail. Going left would lead her downhill, towards the cabin, but the path also continued to her right, weaving into the thickening forest. Sam hesitated then turned right. Now that I’m here, I may as well see where it leads.
The path took her up the steep incline, zig-zagging through the trees so erratically that Sam started to regret her decision to follow it. Just when she was about to give it up as a futile exercise, the path opened onto a proper hiking trail.
Sam stopped in the middle of the cleared area and took a deep breath, glad to be out of the claustrophobically tight vegetation. She couldn’t see any nearby signs, so she turned right and followed the new trail across the length of the mountain.
Occasionally, the path opened onto a lookout with a view of the lake. The cabin was no longer visible, but Sam caught glimpses of hillsides that the curve of the mountains had previously hidden. She followed the trail for a little more than twenty minutes before encountering a blockade. A chain crossed the path, tethered at each end to a metal pole. A placard—facing away from her—hung from its centre.
Sam climbed over the chain to read the sign and frowned.
Trail Closed—Unsafe
The path she’d followed had been wide and well-maintained. What’s unsafe about it?
A little way ahead of her, the dirt road melted into a clearing. Several other trails split off from it, and a large sign displaying a map stood in the clearing’s centre. Sam approached the map and let her eyes rove over the maze of trails circling the lake and surrounding mountains before she spotted a little red marker reading You Are Here.
She traced the paths leading out from her location and found only one that went near Uncle Peter’s cabin: the closed one.
Well, at least that means I’ll have some privacy.
She thought of the man kneeling on the dock, and shivers crawled down her spine. It was too late to visit any of the other trails, so she turned back to the chained-off path. She had one leg over the barricade when a voice made her jump.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to stop.”
Sam nearly tripped over the chain, but managed to right herself in time to see the uniformed ranger jogging out of one of the side paths.
“That’s a restricted area.”
Colour rose across Sam’s face. “Sorry—I know—I’m, uh…”
He came to a stop in front of her, breathing deeply but not quite panting. His ranger’s uniform, dark green with gold highlights, was well-pressed and clean. Sam felt as though she were being scrutinised, but it was hard to tell thanks to the dark sunglasses he wore under his cap.
“Where’re you coming from, ma’am?” His voice was clipped, but not accusatory, and Sam managed to form a coherent answer through her embarrassment and shock. “Sorry—I came from that path. I didn’t know it was restricted. I’m staying in the cabin by the lake.”
The ranger cocked his head to one side. “Not Peter Mahoney’s place?”
“That’s it, yeah. I’m his niece.”
“Well then.” A grin grew across the ranger’s sharp jaw, and he took off his glasses. He had bright-blue eyes, which sparkled with faint amusement. “I suppose an apology is in order. I know Pete. He’s a good guy. He helped out during the burn-offs last year. I didn’t know the cabin was occupied, that’s all.”
“I’m only staying a week.” Sam glanced at the trail behind her. “Is it okay for me to go back that way?”
“Sure thing. Just be careful. There’ve been some accidents along that path lately. Don’t stray into the forest, and watch out for falling rocks, okay?”
Sam nodded. She couldn’t imagine how the flat, orderly trail could be any more dangerous than the others criss-crossing the mountains—but then, maybe the problem section came farther along, past where she turned off into the smaller path leading to the cabin.
An idea struck her, and she glanced back at the ranger. “Uh, if you don’t mind me asking—”
“Go right ahead, ma’am.” He’d relaxed and was watching her with evident amusement.
Sam wondered if she looked as sweaty and dishevelled as she felt. She tried to stand a little taller, hoping he wouldn’t notice her embarrassed flush. “Are there any properties on the lake? Other than Peter’s, I mean.”
His eyebrows rose. “Now that’s an odd question. Not as far as I know. From what I heard, Peter was friendly with a couple of the councilmen, which is how he got permission to build there. Otherwise, the whole area is government owned. But then, I’m only in charge of the northern region of the forest. The lake itself is a state issue.”
“Right.” Sam turned towards the path, but the ranger stopped her.
“Why the question, ma’am?”
She hesitated, wondering how much to tell him. “It’s just—a man was hanging around the dock in front of the property last night. I wasn’t sure if he lived in the area or was a hiker, but, uh…” She trailed off and waved a hand towards the chain’s sign.
The ranger’s face was unreadable, but the business-like clip had returned to his voice. “Well, I can’t discount that someone climbed over the chain. I try to keep an eye on it, but there’s only so much time I can spend around this area.”
“Right. Of course.”
“You haven’t seen anyone since then, have you?”
Sam thought of the dark shape barely visible through the swirling fog that morning. “No.”
“Hmm.” The ranger watched her for a moment, a slight frown hovering over his blue eyes, then he unclipped a black box from his belt. “Better safe than sorry. Take my walkie-talkie; it’s the only thing that can be used to communicate around here unless you have a two-way radio. This’ll get you direct communication with the ranger’s station, though, and there’s almost always someone there if you need help.”
“Oh!” Sam took the black box and smiled at it. “Hey, thanks.”
“No problem. Drop it off at the office when you leave, okay? My boss would kill me if I lost it.”
“Sure, I’ll do that.”
The ranger flashed her another smile as he tipped his hat. “You have a nice day, ma’am.”
He watched her as she climbed over the fence, and didn’t turn away until the curve of the path hid her from sight.
CHAPTER SIX
The walk up to the clearing had taken three hours. The hike back down seemed to take twice as long. By the time she stepped onto the lakeshore, Sam was exhausted and famished. She felt incredibly stupid for walking so far with only a bottle of water.
The sun was already passing behind the high mountains when she stumbled into the cabin and tugged off her boots. She massaged the blister that had formed on her right foot, then, grumbling to herself, she snatched up the more comfortable sneakers.
The cabin had retained a lot of the heat from the now-dead fire, but she
knew the warmth wouldn’t last long as night set in. She toyed with the idea of going straight to bed without bothering to rekindle the fire, but she knew she would regret it when she had to get up in the freezing morning. Besides, I could really go for some hot soup right now.
That meant she would need kindling. Sam sighed and tied the sneakers, tossed her satchel onto the table, and left the comfort of the cabin. She turned towards the forest, aiming for the closest crop of trees, but a flash of motion in her peripheral vision stopped her. She turned so quickly that she nearly slipped in the gritty sand, but there was nothing to see: just the empty dock and the glassy water.
Sam approached the pier, keeping her senses on high alert. She could have sworn she’d seen something move on it. The man came back, her mind insisted. But the dock was empty, and there was nowhere for a person to hide—without jumping into the lake, which was impossible. The water was still.
The sensation of no longer being alone, the same one she’d felt when she’d arrived, washed over her. Sam hesitated at the base of the dock, scanning the shore, the still water, the gently swaying trees, and the clear patch surrounding the cabin.
You’re alone, she told herself, trying to convince her frantic, galloping heart. There’s no one for miles.
An exhale, so faint that she could barely hear it over the drum of her pulse, seemed to rush through her. It sounded raw and raspy, as though the air had been pulled through a damaged throat.
You imagined it. There’s nothing. Nothing except the wind in the trees and your stupid imagination going wild—
She could feel eyes on her, watching her, quietly delighted to see while not being seen.
Stop it, stop it, stop it—
Then an owl, tired of waiting for the sun to finish its descent behind the mountains, screeched. Sam jumped. She was shocked to find she’d been holding her breath, and she drew in a lungful of oxygen with a deep shudder. The lake was still. The shore was empty. It was getting dark, and she had a fire to start.
Shaky and a little embarrassed, Sam hurried towards the forest. An abundance of small, dry sticks lay amongst the fallen leaves, and Sam gathered an armful before returning to the cabin. There was still plenty of wood in the bracket beside the fireplace, so Sam locked the cabin’s door and settled down for the night as the last of the sunlight disappeared over the ridge.
* * *
The soup—two tins of chicken and vegetables heated over the fire—was delicious. Sam sipped at it as she rubbed her aching feet over the plush fireside rug. She wished she’d brought a novel. While packing for the trip, she’d imagined herself consumed with creative inspiration and painting late into the night, but she was starting to realise how unrealistic that was. After her day of hiking, she couldn’t tolerate even the idea of trying to work. All she wanted was to lounge in front of the fire and watch a movie or lose herself in a good book.
She’d searched the cupboards in the vague hope that Peter would have brought a book on one of his weekend trips, but all she’d come up with was a technical manual for lacquering techniques, a pack of cards, and the radio he’d mentioned in his letter.
The radio was better than nothing, so Sam filled it with batteries and turned it on. It caught only one station, but she supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. She was so far out from civilisation that she was lucky to have even that. It seemed to be a variety station that ran interviews, programs it had obviously bought from larger stations, songs she’d never heard before, and even the sequelised reading of a novel.
Sam put the empty pot on the floor beside her chair and relaxed into the cushions. She closed her eyes as she listened to the presenter—a man with an old, crackly voice, who called himself Uncle Earnest—read that evening’s news.
It was the standard fare: politicians bickering over a new bill, a natural disaster threatening a country on the other side of the globe, and an update on the Green Energy project. Sam let the words drift over her, feeling strangely detached from the events affecting the rest of the world.
“And now for some local news,” Uncle Earnest said. There was a pause as he rustled through his papers.
Sam felt her eyes start to drift closed as she watched the fire spit up sparks.
“For those fine souls in Spring Valley, you’ll be happy to know the dam has been successfully repaired, and your homes are once again safe. We’ve had another report of a giant panther sighting, this time in Clearview. And for any of you good folk living near Harob Lake—”
Sam’s eyes snapped open.
“Police have called off the search for Ian McKeller nearly two weeks after his disappearance. He’s the fifth this year, so take care if you plan to visit the lake. Up next, we have some local talent, Jamie and the Spitfires, performing a song of their own creation, ‘Dreaming of Hills’. Enjoy!”
The country ballad was completely uninspired and sung by a nasally teenager, but Sam barely noticed. She sat completely still, hands clenched on the chair’s armrests, staring at the radio. Fifth this year… does he mean it’s the fifth disappearance? Was Ian a tourist, or did he live near here? And what part of Harob Lake? Remembering the chain across the trail, Sam shivered. She felt in her pockets for her mobile to call Uncle Peter, then remembered it didn’t have any reception.
The cabin felt simultaneously too small and too large. The fire brightened and warmed the area immediately in front it, but leaping shadows dominated the rest of the room. Sam went to the kitchen, felt in the drawer for the candles she’d seen there the previous day, and lit five of them, placing them on plates in strategic locations around the room. They helped a little, but not enough to keep her from shivering as she returned to the fire.
The dreadful country song finished, and Uncle Earnest introduced a segment on financial planning. Sam threw a fresh log on the fire then coiled in the chair, wrapping her arms around her torso. The next news segment would be in an hour; if she was lucky, Earnest would share more details about Ian McKeller. In the meantime, she could let the trite talk programs and country music distract her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The radio was still playing when Sam woke the next morning. She’d collapsed sideways in the chair, and her neck and back ached from the awkward position. She pulled herself upright with a groan and tried to stretch some of the soreness out.
Light streamed through the cracks in the curtains, splashing long strips of gold across the wooden floor. The fire had reduced to embers, leaving the air brisk, but not as cold as it otherwise would have been.
The radio was playing a morning program that felt a little too chirpy and energetic to match Sam’s emotions, so she fumbled with the contraption until she managed to turn it off. Silence rushed in to take its place. Sam sighed and drew a hand through her hair. She felt greasy and gritty, and desperately needed a shower. She’d meant to have one the previous night, before bed, but nothing about that day had gone according to plan.
Then she glanced about the room and did a double-take. A new painting sat on the easel. Sam’s stagnant heart rate spiked, and shaking off her grogginess, she crossed the room in three paces.
Once again, her own hand had clearly made the brush strokes. The painting depicted a moonlit forest scene. Sick, strangely shaped trees clustered on either side of an overgrown path. Striding down the path, his grim grey eyes staring out from the paint and an axe clasped in his right hand, was the man.
Sam closed her eyes and rubbed her palms across her temples. The memories were hazy and dream-like, but she recalled approaching the easel, squeezing paint onto the pallet, blending, dabbing, and drawing stripes of colour across the canvas. She’d then left the cups on the bench before returning to the fireside chair.
She turned towards the kitchen. Sure enough, two cups stood in front of the sink, their handles pointing at the easel. There were three yesterday. Is that significant, or is it just my dream-self getting lazy?
Sam plucked the painting off the easel, intending to lean it against th
e wall next to its companion, and froze. A second, smaller painting rested behind the first. The image was set underwater, facing the surface. The dark water was swirling and full of bubbles. It was less detailed than the previous images—more rushed, almost as if she’d been frantic when creating it—but the moon, shining through the frenzy, was unmistakable.
“Jeeze,” Sam hissed. Like with the first painting, she turned both of the new ones so that they faced the wall.
What on earth possessed me to create stuff like this? Is it really from stress? Because I’ve had plenty of stress over the last year, and all it’s done is wear down my immune system. Maybe that’s the point, though. Maybe this holiday is letting me reacquaint myself with my feelings, and it’s like opening a floodgate. These could be repressed emotions spilling onto the canvas. Damn. Wish they’d spill in a more cohesive, marketable way.
Sam found the palette in the drawer and rinsed the half-dried paint down the sink. The water, fresh from the tank behind the cabin, was ice cold. I’d probably die if I tried to bathe in this. Sam turned towards the fireplace and scrunched her nose when she saw only two small pieces of wood left in the bracket. Not enough to heat water and cook breakfast.
Sam pulled on her boots and heavy jacket and pushed open the door. It was later than she’d thought; the sun was already above the mountains. The mist had all but disappeared, though it had left the grass damp. The lake was stunning; its smooth water reflected the fluffy white clouds trailing across the sky and the rich-green mountains. The dock was empty, but the water just beyond it rippled, probably from a fish that had become a little too enthusiastic in the morning light.
Sam jogged the dozen paces between the cabin and the small shed and wrenched open its door. The inside was exactly how she’d imagined it: a haven for a mountain man at heart. A workbench ran along one wall, covered with sanders, grinders, circular saws, and goodness knew what else. A canoe rested on a pallet, taking up most of the right side of the shed. Sam ran her hand across the dark wood appreciatively. I’d love to take this out on the lake before the week’s over.
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