by Amy Cross
Even though I know I'll probably look back on this and curse myself for over-reacting, I hurry over to the other side of the town square and then along one of the streets, following the map on the leaflet. If I don't go and see for myself that there's nothing in the cottage, a seed of doubt will linger in the back my mind forever. And I might end up like Luke, believing in the impossible.
Once I reach the edge of the forest, I pull out my phone and switch it on, figuring that I should be able to find a better map. There are a couple more missed calls from Craig to dismiss, but I quickly pull up a map that marks the cottage's location, so I make my way along a path that leads between the trees. It's not until I've been walking for a few minutes that I realize I've come without any means of defending myself, but deep down I still feel that this is just a wild goose chase. I'm not out here because I expect to stumble upon the home of some kind of monster; I'm out here because I need to prove to myself that the whole Chanciechaunie myth is really just a lot of hot air.
So I keep going, stumbling between the tall, thin pines, passing every few feet between patches of moonlight and dark pools of shadow, and I keep my eyes fixed on my phone's screen as I edge closer and closer to the spot where this cottage is supposed to be located.
Every couple of minutes, I hear a faint rustling sound nearby in the forest. I turn and look, but I don't see anything. In the pit of my belly, I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched, but I quickly tell myself that I'm simply overreacting to an unusual situation. Besides, if anyone is watching me, it's just some dumb local who thinks it's hilarious to pull this kind of stunt. I hope they're enjoying themselves, because I'm freezing out here and my ankle is already throbbing again.
Finally I see the cottage up ahead, with moonlight glinting against the low roof.
I slow a little, worried in case there might be anyone around, but so far the place looks completely deserted. As cottages go, this is definitely a very twee and old-fashioned little building, with a leaning chimney stack above a thatched roof. The whole thing seems almost Disney-like, as if it's been ripped from the screen of some animated movie, and I can't help thinking that the locals must have built it as part of their misguided attempt to create a tourist trap. I'm sure real, old stone cottages never looked quite so cozy.
When I reach the cottage, I place a hand on the wall, half expecting to find that the place is made out of candy and marshmallow. I feel cold stone, however, so at least they made an effort.
I pause for a moment, but all I hear is the silence of the forest all around.
The house itself is bathed in blue moonlight as I make my way toward the front door. I can't shake the feeling that I'm somehow intruding, but at the same time I keep trying to remind myself that there really can't be anyone here. I'm starting to feel more and more certain that the supposed figure I saw in the town square was just a figment of my imagination, just some kind of random vision that got burped up from the depths of my addled, sleep-deprived mind.
Still, I have to be certain.
Glancing over my shoulder, I look across the clearing. Dead-looking trees are all around, and the place seems eerily quiet, as if all the local wildlife has decided to give the cottage a wide berth. I guess I can't blame them, although the effect is pretty creepy. Over at the far side of the clearing, I spot a smudge of darkness that seems to be part of neither the tree-line or the ground, and I stop for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what I'm seeing.
Suddenly something bumps against my foot from below, seemingly poking up through the soil. I look down and take a step back, but all I see is the soil churning for a few seconds before it fall still.
I look around, but now the smudge is gone.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “Now the place is starting to play tricks with my head.”
When I reach the cottage's front door, I try the handle and find that it's unlocked. I push the door open, and of course it creaks loudly as it swings inward to reveal nothing ahead but darkness. I'm sure someone spent a long time making sure it would creak like that.
Tapping my phone, I bring up the torch app and step forward into the cold interior of the house. All I can see ahead is the stone floor, although a moment later I spot an old wooden chair. Tilting the phone, I start to make out more of the furniture. There are chairs and tables on one side of the room, and cabinets with heaving shelves. Cobwebs hang low from the ceiling, glistening in the phone's light, and I have to duck several times as I make my way cautiously toward the room's far side. All in all, this place seems less like someone's actual house and more like some kind of tourist attraction.
I mean... Cobwebs? Seriously?
“Hello?” I call out, although I immediately feel like an idiot. “Is anyone here?”
Reaching the window, I look out and see the forest spreading far into the dark night. The air around me is freezing, and I can see my breath against the window-pane.
Turning, I shine the flashlight app back across the room, but all I see is more ramshackle furniture all over the place.
And a book.
On one of the tables, there's what looks like an old, leather-bound book, large and thick with yellowed pages. I step closer, still clinging to the belief that this is either a hoax or some kind of tourist attraction, but this part of the house seems a little too dirty and disorganized. I glance around again, before reaching down and opening the book to its first page, which turns out to be full of scrawled, spidery handwriting in black ink.
I lean closer, but the writing makes no sense to me at all. I can make out a few letters, even a word or two, but for the most part the whole thing looks very old.
Turning to the next page, I'm surprised to find a sketch of a little girl's face. There's more text on the page too, but the only part that makes sense is a date.
“1798,” I whisper, before turning to find that there's another sketch on the following page, this time showing a boy and with another date scrawled nearby. “1800.”
For the next few minutes, I slowly turn from page to page, marveling at the intricate sketches that show the faces of children. Whoever put this book together, they were clearly a good artist, and the sketches seem to improve a little as I get further through. Very occasionally, I find a drawing that seems to have been completed and then torn, as if the artist was unhappy with his work and preferred to scratch the face until it can no longer be seen. Soon I find images from the mid-nineteenth century, and finally I reach 1900. I start flicking through a little further, skipping pages as I go past 1950, then 2000, and finally I slow again as I get closer and closer to the present day.
And then I see Charlie.
I recognize my son's face immediately. The likeness is so striking, and so unmistakable, I actually take a step back. Scrawled beneath his picture, the spidery handwriting spells out not only the date of his death, but also his name.
My hand is trembling as I turn back to the previous page and realize that I recognize the picture of a little girl whose case file I studied.
This book seems to be filled with sketches of dead children.
Suddenly I hear a faint creaking sound nearby, and I turn to look back across the room. There's a door over in the corner, leading into another part of the house, and a moment later I hear another creak.
“Who are you?” I call out, feeling a rush of anger in my chest as I step around the table. “Why do you have a picture of my son? Are you the -”
I pause for a moment, as I realize that after five years of searching, I might finally have found the man responsible for my son's death. There definitely seems to be someone in the next room, and as I edge closer, I can already feel the rage building. I've waited all this time, and now I have him.
“Let me see you,” I continue, edging closer to the door. “Let me see your face.”
I hear another creak from inside the next room.
“What's wrong?” I ask. “Are you a coward? If you don't come out, I'll come in there after you.
”
Looking around, I try to spot something I can use as a weapon. It's hard to believe that after all this time I'm so woefully under-prepared for this moment, but I guess I'd started to lose hope that I'd ever reach the end of the trail. Still, as I turn and look back toward the dark door, I feel as if nothing can hold me back.
“Okay,” I say firmly, stepping closer. “If you just want to hide in the shadows, I guess I'm going to have to drag you out.”
With that, I step through the doorway, into the pitch-black room beyond. The air is freezing and damp, but I can hear someone breathing nearby, and finally I raise my phone and tilt the screen so I can see his face.
Chapter Fifteen
Bright morning light shines through the window, and birds are chirping outside in the forest.
I blink a couple of times, startled by the light. My phone is still in my right hand, although the flashlight app has been switched off. I tap the screen, but evidently the battery must have run down. Turning, I look around and find that I'm standing in a bare room with nothing much of note other than an empty hearth. A moment ago the house was completely dark, but now when I check my watch I see that it's a little after 9am.
“No!” I stammer, turning and running through to the other room, and then racing outside until I find myself standing alone in a small clearing.
I look around, but there's no sign of anyone.
“Where did you go?” I shout, filled with a growing sense of desperation. “Get back here, you coward!”
I wait, but it's clear that I'm all alone.
I had him.
I was in the same room, I could hear him breathing.
And now he's gone again.
Hurrying back into the house, my mind races as I look around for any hint as to where the man might have gone. It's obvious now that he emptied my mind again, and I guess I stood like a complete idiot in that room while he made his escape. I must have been frozen there for hours with a blank head, with all my thoughts disrupted and scattered. Now, when I look over at the table by the window, I see that the book of sketches is still open at the page with Charlie's face.
Instinctively, I tap at my phone, hoping to call someone for help. Remembering that the battery is dead, however, I take a step back before realizing that the house itself is proof.
Now that I've found where this man lives, I can prove to the world that he exists. Luke was right all along, and I should have listened when he tried to tell me that Chanciechaunie is real. I've been so frantic to find an explanation for all of this, yet I ignore the truth when it was staring me in the face.
Grabbing the book from the table, I turn and run out into the forest.
***
By the time I get back to town, and back to the hotel, I've already come up with a plan. If I go straight to the nearest police station and tell them what I found, they'll think I'm completely insane. Instead, I need to take a more measured approach, and I need to go through all the documents in my car and build a proper case. That approach might take a day or two longer, but at least it'll work. They have to believe me now.
“Miss Carter!” the man at the hotel's front desk says with a smile, as I hurry past. “Breakfast is served until ten, but there are two -”
“I'm not hungry!”
Rushing up the stairs, I almost trip as I hurry to my room. Pushing the door open, I make my way to the desk and set the book down, and then I start flicking once again through the pages. As I look at each of the sketches, I realize that this book will tell me which child deaths are linked to the case, in which case I can update my map and get a much better idea of any patterns that might emerge. The book goes back centuries, and now I know not only where this man lives, but also exactly what he's been doing.
I need to spend a few more days here. I need to stay in this room and spread all my research out, and I need to figure out the truth. Then I can go to the police, and I can get other people involved, and I can show them incontrovertible proof that this whole crazy story is true.
“Chanciechaunie,” I whisper, closing the book and looking at its battered cover. “You're real. You're actually -”
“Good morning, Miss Carter.”
Startled, I turn and see that two men are standing in the room with me. I guess they must have been here when I arrived, but I was too frantic to even notice. Before I can say a word, however, I realize that I recognize them. They were at the motel in Hartford, and before that they were following me along a street in Chicago, and I must have spotted them several more times over the past few years.
Craig's men.
They finally found me.
“I don't have time for this,” I stammer, trying not to panic. I never let them get this close before. “I have to make some calls.”
“We've been trying to track you down for a while now,” the older of the two men says, stepping forward with a faint smile. Removing his black leather gloves, he reaches a hand out for me to shake. “Miss Carter, my name is Richard Harrington. Your husband is very worried about you, and he sent me to track you down. My associate here is Doctor Nathan Furlong, and he's from the Riverton Psychiatric -”
“I don't have time!”
Pushing past his outstretched hand, I hurry to my backpack.
“Miss Carter,” Richard continues, sounding a little irritated, “you have to understand that -”
“I found him!” I hiss, pulling several folders from the backpack. “Don't you get that? After all this time, after everyone told me I was insane, I found him!”
“Who did you find, Miss Carter?”
I turn to him. “The man who killed my son.”
“Your son drowned in an accident.”
“My son was murdered!”
Hurrying to the desk, I set the folders down and start frantically searching for the map. I know I must seem crazy right now, but there'll be time to explain properly later. All I can think about at the moment is the fact that I've finally found the proof I need. People will have to believe me.
“Miss Carter -”
“Luke was right,” I whisper, trying to keep my racing thoughts in some kind of order. “Luke was -”
Suddenly I spot one of the leaflets, showing a crude drawing of the Chanciechaunie creature. A moment later, I glance out the window and see the statue down in the town square.
“He's real,” I stammer. “He actually exists, he...”
My voice trails off for a moment, and then slowly I turn to the two men sent by Craig.
“Chanciechaunie,” I continue. “He's real.”
“Chanciechaunie?” The older man raises a skeptical eyebrow as a smile spreads across his lips. “The local celebrity?”
“I can prove it.”
“Oh? How so?”
“I can take you to his house! It's in the forest!”
“I see.” He takes a carefully-folded leaflet from his pocket and looks at it for a moment, before holding it up for me to see. “That would be this house, would it? I'm afraid, Miss Carter, that you seem to have bought into the local craziness just a little too much. Tell me, have you at least been taking your prescribed medication since you absconded?”
“He's real!” I hiss. “I was there last night, I saw him!”
“You saw the make-believe man?”
“He killed my son!” I stammer. “I found where he lives, and now I'm going to prove that he's real! I have to contact Luke, I have to tell him he was right!”
Rushing to my backpack again, I start looking for my phone charger.
“Miss Carter,” the man continues, stepping closer, “are you aware that you were never officially discharged from Riverton Psychiatric Hospital? Your husband had you committed for treatment, but you left four years ago after slipping out through a fire exit that had been improperly propped open. We've been searching for you ever since, but you've proven rather elusive. You must surely have been aware of our efforts, so I can only assume that you've been deliberately trying to avoid us.”
>
“I don't care about that now,” I mutter, setting my phone up to charge. “You don't understand. Nobody understands. Tell Craig I'm fine, tell him to stop worrying and to leave me alone.”
“I'm afraid it doesn't work like that.”
“I don't care how it works!”
I push past him, heading back to the desk.
“Miss Carter,” he continues, “I'm legally obliged to -”
“I don't care!” I shout, still searching for the map. “Can you please just leave me alone? You're distracting me, and I really need to go through all of this and figure out my next step.”
“Nathan,” the man says with a sigh behind me, “I've tried my best. I'm afraid we're going to have to go with the other option.”
“I need to find Luke,” I mutter, finally pulling the map out. “I should have listened to him before, I shouldn't have dismissed everything he said. Chanciechaunie is real and -”
Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder, and a moment later there's a sharp pain in my neck. I try to pull away, but I'm too late, and I turn in horror just as the younger man steps back with a needle in his hand. Reaching up, I touch the side of my neck, but I'm already starting to feel weak and a little dizzy. I remember this sensation, I remember the medication pulsing through my veins and clouding my mind.
“What did you do?” I gasp.
“We have the necessary authorization,” the older man replies calmly. “I'm very sorry you wouldn't come willingly, Miss Carter, but we are obliged by law to transport you back to Riverdale and -”
“No!”
Stumbling forward, I try to go to my backpack. As my knees start to buckle, however, I fall against the bed, and I feel as if I might collapse at any moment. All around me, the hotel room is becoming a little blurred, as if the entire world suddenly came to a crashing halt and then started spinning the wrong way.
