I nodded, gave him a polite smile. “Yes.”
He pulled out a paper and peered down at it through the cheater glasses perched on the end of his nose. “Reservation for four nights, no hookups.”
“Right.”
“And just yourself? No pets?” He peered at the van like maybe I had a secret pet hidden away inside.
“Just me.”
“Okay, I just need your credit card and signature, and we’re good to go. I’ve got you in a prime site, nice and private, all the way in the back of the campground. There’s a trail down there that’ll take you into the nature preserve.”
“Sounds perfect. Thanks.”
He passed me the registration form and the sheet with the campground map and rules and the Wi-Fi login info. The password was CRANELAKE. Of course.
“Your first time on the island?”
It’s not an island at all, I wanted to argue, but instead, I smiled and nodded. “My first time in Vermont.” The lie came out easily. And it wasn’t a lie—not really. This was Lizzy Shelley’s first time in Vermont.
“Fantastic! Welcome. If I can answer any questions, make any recommendations, please let me know. I’m the owner, Steve. We’ve got activities going on every day; schedule’s on the back side of the map. Tonight, s’mores and campfire sing-along starting at seven.” He beamed a pleased how can you go wrong with s’mores and singing? smile.
I smiled back. “Thanks. I’m looking forward to taking it easy. Having the time to decompress, you know?”
“You’re in the perfect place for that. Give a shout if you need anything. We’ve got kayaks and canoes to rent if you want to get out on the water. Nothing more relaxing than that.”
I thanked him, hopped back into my van, and headed for Site 23, which turned out to be perfect. No close neighbors, all the way at the end of the campground, up against the woods. I backed the van in, pleased at the shade and cover the surrounding trees gave me. The front of the site was open and sunny enough for my solar panels.
First order of business: making a cup of coffee. Then I sat down at the picnic table outside with my laptop to try to log on to the Wi-Fi. I wanted to quickly finish and upload my podcast about the Honey Island swamp monster. I’d decided to leave the Where’s Lizzy now? field on my website set to Louisiana for the time being. I checked the most recent comments and posts in the forums—strange lights in Utah, shadowy figures with red eyes in Oregon, a large cat that walked upright in Tennessee—nothing that couldn’t wait.
I was finishing the final edits to the Honey Island podcast when I heard a small engine coming my way, and looked up to see a four-wheeler pulling up right in front of my site. A teenage kid was driving it, dressed in khaki shorts and a green Chickering Island Campground T-shirt. The back of the four-wheeler had a trash barrel strapped to it and a collection of tools: rake, hoe, shovel. I slipped off my headphones and waved at him.
“No way!” the guy said, hopping off the four-wheeler and practically skipping over to me with a goofy grin. “Lizzy Shelley! I knew it had to be you. I mean, how many Lizzy Shelleys with Ford Transit conversions can there be, right? I saw it on the registration form and just about flipped!”
I sighed. So much for keeping a low profile. I should have used a fake name.
This had been happening more and more often since the season of Monsters Among Us had aired. I’d always been recognized and fawned over at conventions and conferences, but outside of that, before the TV show, most people hadn’t had a clue who I was or what I did, which was exactly how I liked it. Now I had total strangers approaching me, running up to me in grocery stores and gas stations, feeling like they actually knew me, asking to take selfies with me. It was unsettling.
The kid walked closer. “I’m a huge fan! I’ve been following you since the early days—way before the TV show, before the podcast even, when you just had the blog. When I was a little kid, I formed this monster club, totally inspired by you! We went out in the woods looking for bigfoot and stuff. You’re, like… amazing!”