Finally exhausted, I took a shower. When I wasn’t thinking about my article, Nikki from the bookstore kept popping into my head. Of course, I encountered women I found attractive all the time, but few of them lingered in my mind the way she did. I was sure there was some chemistry there. I had only spoiled it by revealing I was a journalist. Maybe I should go back and see her . . .
I was lost in reverie for so long that the water began to run cold. When I got out of the shower I found that steam had drifted from my en suite into the bedroom, filling the room and fogging the windows. I dried myself and put my robe on. The windows were still steamed up and I absent-mindedly went over to wipe at them with the palm of my hand, revealing the glass beneath.
A face stared in at me.
I jumped back, then quickly went to the window again, peering out.
There was no one there. Had I imagined it? Seen my own reflection? It had definitely seemed real: a face a few feet from the window, looking right at me. Except – and I shuddered to think of it – there had been something wrong with it. Like it wasn’t human. It was as white as milk with large, black eyes, and there had been something protruding from its head.
The horned god.
I tried to laugh, to tell myself it was ridiculous. I remembered Tamara in the cabin opposite telling me about the couple who were convinced their cabin was haunted. I was as bad as them. I guess I must have been unsettled by what Frankie had said too, about our cabin seeming different.
I looked out again and convinced myself it must have been my own mirror image, distorted by condensation. Or maybe light reflecting off the rental car parked outside.
I closed the blinds.
And heard a scream.
Frankie.
I sprinted through the door and ran straight to her room.
She was standing in front of her bed, in her pyjamas, frantically brushing at them. She was making distressed sounds, almost as if she were still sleeping, trapped in a nightmare. I immediately looked over at the window, expecting to see it open, signs that an intruder had been in the room.
‘Frankie?’
She stared at me, wide-eyed. I took hold of her shoulders.
‘Sweetheart.’
She blinked and came back to life. Pulled away from me.
‘What happened?’
Frankie pointed at the bed. The duvet was pulled back, the pillows on the floor.
‘Just look,’ she said.
I turned the light on and saw what had freaked her out.
There were ants in her bed, crawling across the sheets, caught in the folds at the end of the duvet. These weren’t the tiny black ants you get in England. They were a brownish-red colour and about half an inch long. And there were dozens of them, darting in all directions on the bed.
I turned back to Frankie. She was scratching herself and trembling. ‘It itches. I think they bit me. Oh God, they could be in my pyjamas.’ She was on the verge of sobbing, plucking at the fabric of her pyjama trousers and jogging on the spot, her knees pistoning up and down.
‘I think they’re carpenter ants,’ I said. I’ve always been a fan of nature documentaries. ‘It’s okay, they’re not poisonous.’
‘But it itches. I need a shower.’ She let out a shuddering breath. ‘I can feel them on me.’
‘Okay. Go and get in the shower. I’ll call maintenance.’
She ran from the room. Was I really going to call maintenance now? It was almost midnight. I decided the call could wait until morning.
I heard the shower come on, followed by a cry of dismay. ‘There’s no hot water.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I called through the bathroom door. ‘You’ll have to wait.’
But the water came back on and I guessed she’d decided to go ahead anyway, so desperate was she to wash away the sensation of the ants.
I went back to Frankie’s bedroom, bundled up the sheets and duvet and took them outside, dumping them on the deck. I went back inside. There were still a few ants on the floor of her room, scuttling towards the corners. I watched them vanish into the shadows.
Frankie came out in her robe, a towel wrapped around her hair. She was shivering, her teeth chattering.
I wished she was still little so I could help her, but I felt useless.
‘I hate it here,’ she said. ‘I wish we’d gone to New York.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I do,’ she said between teeth chatters.
‘I thought you were . . .’ I stopped. This wasn’t the best time. She’d just been bitten by a load of ants in her bed. Of course she hated Hollow Falls right now. ‘Go on, go and get dry. Do you want me to make you a hot chocolate? I bought some earlier.’