“No one actually knows,” he says ominously, and overhead something rustles in the trees.
I make myself look as calm and collected as I can, stepping over a muddy puddle in the middle of the trail. “You should probably make up a number, then,” I say. “I mean, if you want this campfire scary story bullshit to be effective, concrete details are important. No Girl Scout ever wet her pants over, ‘And then this guy had … something on his hand. Maybe a hook? Could’ve been a can opener though. Or maybe he had a hand, but was wearing a weird bracelet that looked like a hook.’”
He turns around and fixes me with a glare.
I stop, tucking my hair behind my ears. “I’m just saying, if you wanna be creepy in the woods, I have notes.”
We’re not that far from the house, close enough that if I glance behind me, I can still see one of the chimneys over the trees, but I’m aware of just how quiet it is, how primeval this forest feels.
Still, I’d die before letting Benjamin Franklin McTavish know I’m a little freaked out.
And I must be doing a good job at convincing him I’m unbothered because he stares at me for one more beat before shaking his head. “Camden doesn’t deserve you,” he says.
“Trust me, it’s the other way around,” I reply, and he smirks at that.
“Maybe you’re right.”
More leaves crunch underfoot, the last remnants of the trail slowly merging back into the forest floor, and when I glance to my right, I realize there’s a pretty steep drop-off just a few feet away. If you weren’t paying close attention, it would be easy to slip right off the side of the mountain, especially with everything so wild and overgrown, the trees so thick together.
“So this trail is only, like, a hundred feet long?” I call out to Ben, and he looks over his shoulder at me, his sunglasses dangling from a cord around his neck.
“Ruby had the trails made and maintained,” he tells me. “Or one of her husbands did. Anyway, the money for that kind of thing is Cam’s, so maybe take it up with him.”
I don’t reply, but tuck that information away for later.
We’re quiet for the rest of the walk, the only sound our footsteps and the occasional birdcall. I pull out my phone to check how long we’ve been walking, and see that it’s been only about ten minutes, but the three bars of signal I had at the house have dwindled down to one, and when we take a downward turn on the trail, that one bar turns into an X.
For the first time, I realize just how isolated Ashby House really is. Once you’re just a few hundred feet away, there’s no way to call for help. Even if you could, help would take its time getting up the mountain.
Ben must have seen me check my phone because from just up ahead, he calls out, “I never get why people want to hike up here knowing that if something goes wrong, they’re dead. Even when the trail wasn’t this fucked up. We timed it once, me and Cam. Back when we were in high school. Hiked down to the falls, then I ran back to the house and called 911, saying Cam had fallen.”
I startle, almost tripping again, and Ben is suddenly there at my elbow, steadying me and smelling like expensive body wash and the detergent that clings to all the bedding at Ashby, a slightly sickly mix of sandalwood and vanilla.
“He hadn’t, of course,” Ben continues, his touch cold even through my sweater. “But we wanted to test how long it would take before help came.”
By now, I can hear the distant rumble of the falls. Hikers went missing up here not too long ago, I know. Camden mentioned it to me the other night, after he came back from town. And I know there have been others who have disappeared in these woods. A family from Kansas back in the eighties. A wannabe commune of hippies around 1970. Some college kid back in the fifties, his body never found after a fall from these cliffs.
Ruby herself, lost in these trees all those years ago.
“Forty-nine minutes,” Ben says, his face so close to mine that I can smell the toothpaste still on his breath. “Forty-nine minutes before the ambulance even crested the driveway. Probably at least an hour before it could get all the way out here.”
My breath sounds harsh in my ears, and Ben is still smiling, and Camden is only a short run away, but he might as well be on the moon.
“What are you doing?” I hear myself ask, taking a tentative step backward. But I’m not quick enough, because Ben jerks my arm, pulling me up tight against him.
“I did my part,” he says, his voice low even though there’s no chance of us being overheard. “I got him here. Now, Mrs. McTavish. When are you going to do yours?”