He bashes his hand against the rock above him. Bashes again and again until there’s ripped-back skin and blood.
Red smears across his knuckles, a sharp thread of pain pulling through him that he tries to hold on to, to distract him, but it doesn’t work.
The truth is still shouting.
He left her. He left her. He ran.
Ollie puts his head between his legs and takes a long, shuddery breath.
Minutes pass, but no one comes. It’s getting late, he can tell. The last of the sun is almost gone, the sand in front of him now in shadow.
He’ll wait a little longer, he decides, then he’ll try going back to camp. As time ticks by, Ollie half convinces himself that it was a joke, a prank Thea got roped into by the boys. He clutches at the thought: he’ll get back to camp and she’ll be there, laughing at him for running away like a kid.
A few minutes later, he drags himself from under the overhang. Straightening up, he glances carefully around him, but the beach is deserted; there’s nobody there.
As he runs back through the forest, he’s still clinging to the thought: It’s a joke. Thea is fine. But as soon as he enters the clearing, he knows. The dark trail from before is now a stream of blood forming a winding downhill path.
Ollie tries to look at her, but he can’t bring himself to see past her white Keds, now perfectly still and streaked with red.
It isn’t real. Not Thea. She can’t be . . .
He turns away, bile rising in the back of his throat.
It’s then that he notices something on the ground, sitting on top of the dusty leaf litter.
A large stone, about twelve inches long. The surface is mostly weathered, with tiny scuffs and dimples where it’s been battered by the waves and sand, but it’s also smooth in places, the outline softly contoured.
Crouching low, Ollie picks it up. It feels warm, gritty against his palm. Something about it is familiar, he thinks, slowly turning it between his fingers.
It hits him, and he holds the stone still.
Tipping his head, he glances up at the rock on the cliff face behind, then looks back at his hand.
Ollie looks from one to another until his eyes blur.
He realizes that what he’s holding isn’t just a stone.
The subtle curves and contours resemble the rock above him.
Reaper’s Rock.
THURSDAY, 10:00 A.M., 2021
@explorewildwithjo
“So here’s the update as promised . . . we’re at the beach waiting for a boat to take us to the retreat, but what I didn’t realize is quite how remote Cary Island actually is . . . I reckon it’s a twenty-minute boat ride from the mainland at least.” Jo flips the phone’s view from her face to show the sea, a glimpse of the island visible in the distance.
“I’ve had loads of people asking about LUMEN, so I’ll explain the vibe. LUMEN’s a luxury retreat on the gorgeous island you’ve just seen, off the South Devon coast. The architect was inspired by Mexican legend Luis Barragán, so we’re talking luxe, candy-colored villas nestled in woodland with views out to sea. There’s some pretty special stuff: an outdoor yoga pavilion, a glass-bottomed pool, and this crazy rope swing stretching out over the water . . . you can drop straight off into the sea. One of the most spectacular features is an amazing villa on a private islet—that’s for all you honeymooners. I couldn’t get my mitts on that one as it’s already booked, but it looks stunning.
“I’ll be taking you out on the kayaks with me later today, but to give you an idea of the wellness activities on offer, they’ve got paddleboarding, meditation, kayaking, hydrofoil surfing, and loads more.” She pauses. “Now for the creepy bit: I love the backstory to this place. The rocky outcrop on the side of the island, you can just about see it from here, it gives the island its nickname: Reaper’s Rock. Spooky, right? And according to a lot of the locals, the island is cursed. Apparently”—she lowers her voice to a hushed whisper—“the rock is said to be a manifestation of the Grim Reaper. During the plague, people were quarantined here and then left to die. So the story goes, their souls are still wandering and will only be at peace when the Reaper takes a new victim. Stay too long and you’ll be next . . .”
Jo flips the camera again to show her mock-terrified face. “Eerie, isn’t it? But that’s not the only thing. There was an old school on the island that burned down back in the day. Abandoned until it was used by the local council as an Outward Bound center in the late nineties. All fine and dandy until a group of teenagers were murdered at the hand of the island caretaker, Larson Creacher, in 2003.” She lowers her voice again. “Is it wrong to say all the spooky stuff kind of adds to the appeal?”