The last thing Linda Ashley ever saw was the others. They had finally come to eat as well.
Chapter 1
Present Day
“What the hell is that!?” Grace yelled, repulsed.
Over the last twenty miles of highway, she had noticed that many of the trees were coated with a thin, white, threadlike substance.
“I think it’s the gypsy moth,” her husband said, referring to the giant, web-like masses. “It’s like a huge cocoon or something.”
Grace tucked her head back, feigning nausea. She wasn’t a fan of things foreign to her, especially insects. Instinctively, she knew she’d soon be having nightmares of giant, man-sized moths invading her room and spinning webs around her while she slept.
The ride up Interstate 93 was uneventful, and that was a good thing. It was August and children were out of school, but Charlie and Grace were lucky enough to miss most of the vacation traffic. After all, they weren’t headed toward the coast or to an amusement park; they were going camping in the woods. And while the average vacationer might find camping to be less desirable than spending a week in the Caribbean or on a glorious beach somewhere in the Pacific, Charlie and Grace were diehard climbers. No mountain too high, no cliff too sheer.
They were only a couple minutes away from the campground, and Grace had already begun making a mental checklist of things to buy. She had written a few things down on a small pad of paper when a must-have item came to mind. She turned to Charlie.
“Do you think they’ll have ’em?” Grace asked. Charlie looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He said nothing and only returned a sideways grin. She dropped the pad and pencil in her lap and tilted her head. “What?” she asked.
He laughed. “I’m sure the camp store will have your roasting sticks,” he said, only slightly condescending. “And if they don’t,” he waved a hand out the window, “there’s a whole forest full of them!”
She pinched him under the arm as he continued laughing. Grace had only one ritual she stuck to every time they went camping, and that was to roast marshmallows over the fire at night. However, she wasn’t too keen on contracting poison ivy or oak or sumac (or any of the “poisons”), so she had been ecstatic to learn during their last visit five years ago that the camp store sold pre-shaved and sharpened roasting sticks.
After enduring several harsh seconds of one of Grace’s trademark “evil eye” stares, Charlie finally gave in. “I have to stop and get some propane anyway,” Charlie said. “So you can get your precious little sticks then.” He blinked rapidly and offered a placating smile. Grace continued to stare at him with narrowed eyes for a few extra seconds and then returned to her list.
For all the teasing, Grace knew Charlie was very much in love with her, especially with her childlike impulses. Whether it was roasting marshmallows over an open fire, stopping for ice cream on the way home from dinner, or watching old Tom and Jerry cartoons on Saturday mornings, she had taught him not to take life too seriously and to appreciate the simple things.
Charlie had dated many women before Grace—women who seemed to forget that fun sometimes meant acting a little childish. Grace hadn’t forgotten. At thirty-one, she was a child at heart, and Charlie couldn’t help but feel like a kid at times, too.
When the sign for the campground came into view, Charlie slowed the Subaru. The four-and-a-half-hour drive from Connecticut was over; the hustle-and-bustle of big city life behind them. They were now in the woods, in the fresh, mountain air. The smell of pine blowing in the windows was a welcome change from the smog and pollution they had left at home.
As they pulled into camp, they noticed the place hadn’t changed in the five years since they’d last been there. The store was immediately on the right-hand side of the camp road. Behind it, there were trash receptacles of all kinds, fenced in to keep out animals. Charlie pulled into an empty spot in front of the store.
“I’ll meet you by the propane,” Grace said as she exited the car. “I’m going to use the bathroom first.”
Charlie was still getting out of the car as Grace walked into the store. He took a look around as he stretched his arms over his head. There were no people around. Must be on the mountain, he thought as he bent and flexed his surgically repaired knee. Most people came here to conquer the big mountain. Known for its incredibly rough terrain and unpredictable weather, Mt. George was also the tallest mountain in the northeast, a trait that attracted climbers of all experience levels. For Charlie, it was also “the one that got away.”
Many years prior, Charlie and Grace had set a goal to summit the tallest peak in each of the fifty states. Five years ago, they had attempted to climb this mountain during what turned out to be the worst storm of that year. Because they were unable to predict such weather, Charlie and Grace decided to prepare for the elements and take what they got. Charlie got an overnight stay at the county hospital and Grace got to sleep by his side. A torn ACL and some bruised ribs later, he was off his feet for weeks. It wasn’t too long, however—just several months of rehab—before he was back on the trails, good as new. A long ride in the car still caused his knee to stiffen up, but it was nothing some calisthenics couldn’t help loosen.
After a few minutes of limbering up, he went into the store. It was built like a small log cabin on the outside, complete with a brick chimney and a swing on the front porch. On the inside, Charlie was greeted by the delightful smell of cedar and pipe tobacco. There were a few racks of clothing: shirts and jackets with “New Hampshire” printed on the front. There were two aisles with everything from food and water to bug repellent and ponchos. Grace was already perusing the snack aisle to his right.
“Did you find your sticks?” he asked. She excitedly held up two roasting sticks above the store fixtures so he could see. “Awesome. Let’s get some propane and get our site.”
They brought their items to the counter and were met by an older man, probably in his fifties. He was slightly overweight, but reasonably so for a man of his age. His red flannel shirt, draped with a pair of suspenders, was tucked into brown corduroy pants, just below a stomach that protruded a few inches past his belt. The nametag pinned to the left suspender read “Roy.” Roy had a thick, bushy beard that looked less like a beard and more like someone had hung a Christmas wreath on his face. The pipe in his mouth barely moved when he spoke.
“That’ll be all?” he asked, a puff of smoke escaping from the middle of the wreath.
“Yes,” Charlie said. “And we’re here to check in.”
Charlie produced his license. Roy accepted it with a hand that showed the wear and tear of both age and a life of manual labor. He moved easily to the opposite end of the counter to look up some information on a computer. After a few taps on the keyboard, he told them they would be at site number seventy-nine.
“You folks climbers?” he asked as he walked back. His uninterested tone and the fact that he didn’t even look up clearly said, I don’t care. This is only small talk. Charlie decided to try the kill-him-with-kindness method.
“Yes,” Charlie said, slightly puffing out his chest. “We’re here for the big guy.” He pointed over Roy’s shoulder toward a picture of the mountain hanging on the wall.
“Of course you are,” Roy said, unimpressed.
Grace was immediately put off by the remark, but she attempted not to show it. “Is there something wrong with that?” she asked, forcing a smile.
Roy stopped across from them and rested his hands on the counter. “Now take it easy, lady.” His voice was calm. “Everybody who comes here wants to climb the mountain, and that’s wonderful. I’ve done it myself. It’s a helluva climb.” Grace was afraid she and Charlie were about to get a lesson on climbing. “But I should warn you—there was a death yesterday.”
Charlie’s jaw slackened. “Oh my God, where?” he asked. “What trail?”
“About five miles up,” Roy said. “On Arrowhead. A man just lost it.”
Grace stared at him. “What
do you mean, he ‘lost it’?” she asked. “Was he hiking alone?”
“No, ma’am. He was with his wife. She said he started acting all delusional, said he started seeing things.”
“How were conditions yesterday?” Grace asked.
“Conditions have been shit all week. Fog, rain, sleet, hail, you name it. Anyway, I guess during one of his delusional fits” Roy said, making quotation marks with his fingers, “he was walking backward, opposite the direction of the trail. His foot caught some loose rock and he just went over the cliff. Three-hundred-foot drop until—well, more rock.”
“Jesus,” Charlie said, wincing. “Were they able to find him?”
“Oh sure,” Roy said. “Rescue teams found the body and hauled him out pretty quick. Poor wife was a mess though.”
“I can imagine,” Grace said, still in shock. But Roy put his hand up as if to stop her from saying any more.
“No, you don’t get it. When I say she was a mess, I mean, she was babbling on and on about how her husband had been up the whole night before, talking about ‘the people in the woods.’” Charlie and Grace exchanged a curious glance. “When paramedics helped her off the mountain,” Roy continued, “she said he was singing the same tune, even as he went over the cliff.”
“What exactly was he saying?” Charlie asked.
Roy leaned in a bit closer.
“Something about how the people in the woods were waiting for them...for him.”
Grace felt a cold chill in the small of her back. “Waiting for them?” she asked. “What does that mean?”
Roy stepped back from the counter.
“Heck, lady, I don’t know what the hell she meant by that. Clearly she had some issues of her own, don’t you think?”
After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, Charlie removed his wallet from his back pocket to pay for the site and the supplies. He inhaled and cleared his throat loudly. It was about time to wrap up story hour.
“Well, I guess we ought to go get set up since it’ll be dark soon,” he said.
“Probably a good idea,” Roy agreed. He punched some numbers into the register. “It’ll be four dollars, twenty-three cents. You can pay for the site when you leave.”
Charlie handed him the cash, and he and Grace left the store. They stopped on the porch, just outside the door. From the corner of his eye, Charlie could tell Grace was a little shaken.
“Well, that’s some scary shit, huh?”
It was a reflexive comment, but Grace could tell he was underplaying the whole story. It was Charlie’s attempt to not dwell on it, and Grace decided she was fine with that. She didn’t want to ponder the horrors of what they’d just heard now that it was getting dark.
“Probably just a couple inexperienced climbers,” she said, more to herself than to Charlie. “Not to mention, I wouldn’t doubt that Roy here tells that story to most of the people who come into the store.”
Charlie nodded in agreement and forced a smile. Grace smiled back, squinting as the rays of the low-lying sun pierced through the trees and into her eyes.
As they walked back to the car, Charlie couldn’t help but notice the thick layer of clouds moving in overhead. It had been clear all day, but then, this was typical New England weather. Growing up, Charlie’s father used to say about the New England climate, “If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.”
“What’s so funny?” Grace asked. Charlie hadn’t noticed he’d laughed to himself.
“Oh, nothing. Just remembered something my dad used to say.” He looked again at the clouds moving through the sky. “We might be in for a wet night,” Charlie said, and they drove off toward site seventy-nine.
Chapter 2
A cold front moved in shortly after the sun dipped below the cloudy horizon, and Charlie and Grace had traded their T-shirts and shorts for hoodies and sweats. By nightfall, the temperature had fallen below fifty degrees, far from the eighties they had enjoyed during the day.
Camp setup had gone quickly. After all, this wasn’t their first rodeo, and it was only the two of them, so the tent, chairs, and rain canopy were up in less than half an hour. After dinner, they sipped a couple beers as they huddled together in front of a small flame; it was all that was left of the fire Charlie had managed to build.
“That’s, uh, quite the raging inferno there, don’t you think?” she teased. She watched him squint at her through the corners of his eyes. “Someone might call the fire marshall if we’re not careful.”
“You’re such an ass,” he said. She laughed and snuggled against his shoulder. He chuckled and slowly shook his head.
Charlie, the youngest of three brothers, hadn’t been taught many “manly” skills as a young adult. His parents divorced when he was seven years old, and he was raised in large part by his mother. She had taught him kindness, loyalty, and forgiveness—all of which had served him well into adulthood, but he always felt insecure when it came to hands-on tasks like changing the oil in his car, fixing a clogged drain, and, especially, building a fire. He was no handyman, but not for lack of trying—only lack of experience. Every time they went camping, Grace knew not to interfere, but only to “assist” in ways that would make Charlie feel like he had accomplished something on his own.
“It was hot enough to cook your dinner,” he said. “And I didn’t hear you complaining then.”
She laughed and took another sip of her beer. “You know I only tease you because I love you.”
Grace met Charlie shortly after college. As a child, she had lived all over the country with her mother and younger sister, never staying in one place for longer than a few years. As a result of the constant moving, she never grew attached to people out of fear she’d only know them a short time, anyway. But then she met Charlie and her habit of detachment was broken.
Grace had finished her beer, but she didn’t feel like sleeping, not just yet. “What do you think of our friend Roy at the store?” she asked.
Charlie finished a sip. “Not sure. Maybe somebody pissed him off and he’s just taking it out on others.”
Grace was still uncertain. “I’m serious. You’ve got to admit, he seemed pretty sure of himself. That was a very detailed account.”
“Seriously?” Charlie asked. He was still downplaying Roy’s story. But whether it was for her benefit or his own, Grace couldn’t tell. “I don’t buy all that ‘people waiting in the woods’ crap. He’s talking out of his ass. Who knows if that guy really said any of that? Do you feel like people are waiting in the woods for us?”
Grace didn’t like the question. She felt goosebumps rise on her skin. What if there were people in these woods, hiding just out of sight? Spying on them. Stalking them. Hunting them? She tried to erase these thoughts from her mind.
“And like you said earlier,” he continued, “if it really happened, they could have been inexperienced. Maybe it was their first time camping. You know how some people just don’t take to being in the woods.”
She shrugged her shoulders. She wasn’t fully convinced yet, but Charlie made a good point. People unfamiliar with the outdoors often had trouble blocking out the idea that they were exposed and vulnerable to their surroundings.
“You’ll see,” Charlie continued. “Tomorrow night, we’ll be sleeping at the hut with a bunch of other people, and they’ll probably be able to tell us the real story.” He paused. “If it’s even true.”
The plan was to hike to the Silver Lake Hut, which was about a seven-hour trip from camp. The hut earned its name because it sat on the northern shore of its namesake. In the late morning and afternoon, the sun’s light reflected off the surrounding granite mountains, which caused the lake’s surface to appear silver. There, they would spend the night. The following morning, they would begin their final ascent to the summit, a three-hour hike from the hut. In total, it would be a three-day round-trip.
It was possible to hike to the summit in one day, but most people did it in two out of concern for the weather.
The terrain was dangerous enough without having to worry about the ever-changing climate. In fact, a man once wrote a book about his experiences hiking the mountain. He had started at six a.m. with clear, sunny skies. By the time he reached the hut, visibility had been null due to foggy conditions. An hour later, on his way to the summit, thunder and lightning rolled through, and marble-sized hail pelted his fleece coat. Once he reached the summit, there was a whiteout due to a blizzard. On his way back down, he encountered more fog, thunder, and lightning and, once again, sun and blue skies. He vowed never to hike the mountain again, stating, “I’d much rather spend three days in hell, if only I knew the weather was more consistent.”
Fatigue was also a concern. Even the most experienced climbers encountered enervation from time to time. If Charlie and Grace weren’t prepared with enough food and water, chances are they were going to run into problems. Conversely, too many supplies might weigh them down and cause burnout. Hence, most people took minimal supplies, stopped overnight at the hut to eat and recharge, and then continued to the summit in the morning. That was also the plan the last time they attempted to hike the mountain.
Before going to sleep, Charlie double-checked the backpacks to see that they both had enough water and snacks for the seven-hour climb to the hut. He also checked to make sure they had rain gear and medical supplies.
He packed a small handgun too. Though he didn’t admit it to Grace, he was frightened by what Roy had told them. And just in case they encountered any harm, he wanted to be armed.
Chapter 3
The man coming down the trail looked like a hiker. He was wearing a blue North Face shirt that showed about a day’s worth of sweat and khaki shorts that appeared bloodied, perhaps from the wiping of cracked and weather-torn hands. His dark brown boots were caked with mud. The only part that seemed odd was that he wasn’t wearing a backpack and appeared to be carrying no supplies of any kind. He moved with an irregular gait as well, slumped over, with one shoulder lower than the other and feet dragging as he walked.
Dead Summit (Book 1): Dead Summit Page 2
