And he was assisted in his efforts by his young protégé （and rumored lover）， Dr. Helen Hildreth.
Eugenics is indeed a dark part of our history, but it is far from the darkest part of the story I was soon to discover.
Lizzy
August 20, 2019
AFTER LEAVING THE kids at the pier, I hopped into my van and followed East Main out past the winery to a collection of five brightly painted mailboxes with a sign above them: WILDFLOWER COTTAGES.
I slowed down but couldn’t see the buildings themselves, just a long dirt driveway.
I pulled in.
It was nearly the end of the season. Most of the summer people would head home after Labor Day weekend. I wondered if the other cottages were occupied—if another family had moved into Bluebell for the remainder of the summer.
I passed a turnoff on the left with a little sign for Daisy Cottage. It wasn’t visible; I could only see the narrow, twisting driveway that led to it, thickly wooded on both sides. I passed the turnoffs for Peony, Hyacinth, Buttercup, and finally spotted the one for Bluebell.
Turning right, I followed the gravel drive about twenty feet down toward the water. The cottage was painted a vivid blue, tucked along the shore amid the pine trees. There were no cars parked out front. No towels or swimsuits on the clothesline. No sign of life.
I got out to look around.
A slight breeze rippled my loose T-shirt. I smelled the pines and the lake: musty, tinged with decaying vegetation and algae.
I heard the far-off drone of a motorboat out on the lake, a small animal skittering around in the woods nearby.
Climbing up onto the porch, I leaned over the white-painted wicker furniture to peer into the windows: a kitchen and living room, a bathroom and bedroom downstairs. A loft with what looked like two more bedrooms.
Out back was another deck with a charcoal grill. A couple of canoes were turned upside down, paddles and life jackets tucked under them. And there was a Honda generator and two five-gallon gas cans.
A dock led out to the water and a swimming float a little farther out, the wood on top bleached from the sun, the sides covered with algae.
Thick stands of trees came right up to both sides of the yard, making the cottage feel very secluded, totally cut off from the rest of the world. You couldn’t see the other cottages from here.
There were no power lines.
No phone or cable.
I pulled out my phone: no service at all.
It would be utter hell for a teenage girl, particularly one who didn’t get along with her parents to begin with. It must have felt like a prison sentence.
Especially after just getting out of a six-week stint in a residential treatment center.
“Poor kid,” I muttered.
I followed the shoreline to the edge of the woods and spotted a path thickly carpeted with brown pine needles. Was it the same path Lauren had taken, night after night, heading out to Loon Cove to call to Rattling Jane the way a lonely child might conjure up an imaginary friend?
One way to find out.
I started walking.
The mosquitoes were bad once I got into the thick shade of the woods, and I felt ill-prepared. Back in the van, I had a small backpack for monster-hunting excursions: first aid kit, water, granola bars, fire starters, a silver emergency blanket, my video camera and digital recorder, and bug spray. Sometimes I’d take my gun too—just in case. But here I was, no bag, nothing in my pockets but keys. An ill-equipped monster hunter if ever there was one.
I thought of turning back to grab the bag, but I’d already been walking for a good ten minutes. Best to press on without it, I decided, at least for a few more minutes.