“Next time. Let’s talk after, though.”
She shrugs and disappears inside the trailer. A few stragglers hurry in behind her. After that I’m alone again. I step off the walkway and head toward the hedge wall, looking over my shoulder, formulating a plan. Where are the most likely places for cell service? Rebecca’s office, if she has one? Her bedroom? The staff must use computers or phones for guest reservations; maybe they confine their technology use to designated areas.
A lightbulb flickers. I pick up my pace, walking along the hedge until I reach the door with the STAFF ONLY sign. I try the handle again. This time it turns.
I push open the door and step through.
* * *
? ? ?
HUNDREDS OF SPRUCE trees surround me. Between the trees is a narrow, soft path, carpeted with pine needles and slush. I follow it. The forest is quiet. A few birds chirp in the distance, but I don’t hear any signs of human life. No rustling or breathing or footsteps. I’m alone. After a minute of winding around lanky evergreens, the path forks. I take the path on the right.
Once I’m thirty feet from the hedge, I unzip my jacket, reach down my T-shirt, and pull my phone out of my bra, then hold down the button to turn it on. I tap my foot, glancing between my phone and the woods around me. They keep still. The silence begins to feel unnatural. I want someone by my side. No, I want to get out of here.
Finally the home screen loads: “No Service.”
I swear under my breath. If I walk deeper into the forest, surely I’ll find a building out here for the staff. They aren’t taking breaks in the middle of the woods. I put my phone in my pocket and keep walking, lungs aching from the cold.
A minute later the path tapers off. I could squeeze between a few clusters of trees, but none of the ground appears more well-trodden than the rest. I choose a cluster and walk for a while until the forest becomes too dense for me to continue. I retrace my steps, worried I’ll lose my sense of direction and forget where I started. I choose a new cluster to squirm through. I spot something white ahead, a stark contrast to all the greens and browns. I approach the thing cautiously, choke back a gasp when I see what it is.
A skull.
It’s a bird’s, or was once. The beak is long like a pelican’s, eye sockets empty. I wonder how the bird ended up here, where the rest of its body is. All color and life rotted away a long time ago, but I can’t make myself step around it.
I turn back, picking up the pace, checking my watch. I’ve been gone for only twenty minutes, but it feels like hours. I begin to jog.
What if the path doesn’t lead anywhere? What if it’s a bunch of dead ends? This could be part of some weird trust exercise that classes go through. I picture Gordon bringing a bunch of blindfolded students out here, leaving them to find their way back. I would have screamed.
Nearby something snaps.
I freeze. My chest thrashes. Slowly I turn around.
Gordon isn’t there. No one is. I glance down. A broken twig lies under my right foot. I’m not being followed. I rub my forehead, considering whether to return to the hedge door. I don’t know my way around Wisewood. What kinds of animals live on islands in Maine? What if I get lost and no one can find me? The island seemed pretty big when we were ferrying in.
I walk for another minute, then stop short. Ahead is an old building covered with wooden shingles. It looks like it hasn’t been used in decades. In the movies there would be a grizzly man waiting inside with a hatchet across his lap, his entire family bleeding out on the floor at his feet. Every cell in my body tells me not to go any closer.
I creep down the path, stop in front of the building, and put my hand on the doorknob.
It’s locked.
I exhale, flooded with relief, and begin to circle the building, searching for a window. On the left side I find one. I cup my hands around my eyes. No one’s inside.
It’s an old schoolhouse. Along one wall are short bookshelves filled with dusty tomes. In the center of the room I count three rows of four wooden desks. On some of them lie open textbooks. At the head of the classroom is the teacher’s desk, a blue globe atop it. The chalkboard is filled with frenzied scribblings I can’t read. Above the board is a sepia-toned map of the United States. A broom leans in the corner. The room has a Little House on the Prairie vibe, a feeling that the teacher and pupils will be back any minute.
My insides curdle, pushing me to get away from this place, out of the forest. I pull my phone from my pocket and watch the signal status change from “No Service” to “Searching.” I tap my foot. Back to “No Service.” I check the Wi-Fi options. Nothing. The battery is down to thirteen percent.