The Children on the Hill(25)

He passed me the registration form and the sheet with the campground map and rules and the Wi-Fi login info. The password was CRANELAKE. Of course.

“Your first time on the island?”

It’s not an island at all, I wanted to argue, but instead, I smiled and nodded. “My first time in Vermont.” The lie came out easily. And it wasn’t a lie—not really. This was Lizzy Shelley’s first time in Vermont.

“Fantastic! Welcome. If I can answer any questions, make any recommendations, please let me know. I’m the owner, Steve. We’ve got activities going on every day; schedule’s on the back side of the map. Tonight, s’mores and campfire sing-along starting at seven.” He beamed a pleased how can you go wrong with s’mores and singing? smile.

I smiled back. “Thanks. I’m looking forward to taking it easy. Having the time to decompress, you know?”

“You’re in the perfect place for that. Give a shout if you need anything. We’ve got kayaks and canoes to rent if you want to get out on the water. Nothing more relaxing than that.”

I thanked him, hopped back into my van, and headed for Site 23, which turned out to be perfect. No close neighbors, all the way at the end of the campground, up against the woods. I backed the van in, pleased at the shade and cover the surrounding trees gave me. The front of the site was open and sunny enough for my solar panels.

First order of business: making a cup of coffee. Then I sat down at the picnic table outside with my laptop to try to log on to the Wi-Fi. I wanted to quickly finish and upload my podcast about the Honey Island swamp monster. I’d decided to leave the Where’s Lizzy now? field on my website set to Louisiana for the time being. I checked the most recent comments and posts in the forums—strange lights in Utah, shadowy figures with red eyes in Oregon, a large cat that walked upright in Tennessee—nothing that couldn’t wait.

I was finishing the final edits to the Honey Island podcast when I heard a small engine coming my way, and looked up to see a four-wheeler pulling up right in front of my site. A teenage kid was driving it, dressed in khaki shorts and a green Chickering Island Campground T-shirt. The back of the four-wheeler had a trash barrel strapped to it and a collection of tools: rake, hoe, shovel. I slipped off my headphones and waved at him.

“No way!” the guy said, hopping off the four-wheeler and practically skipping over to me with a goofy grin. “Lizzy Shelley! I knew it had to be you. I mean, how many Lizzy Shelleys with Ford Transit conversions can there be, right? I saw it on the registration form and just about flipped!”

I sighed. So much for keeping a low profile. I should have used a fake name.

This had been happening more and more often since the season of Monsters Among Us had aired. I’d always been recognized and fawned over at conventions and conferences, but outside of that, before the TV show, most people hadn’t had a clue who I was or what I did, which was exactly how I liked it. Now I had total strangers approaching me, running up to me in grocery stores and gas stations, feeling like they actually knew me, asking to take selfies with me. It was unsettling.

The kid walked closer. “I’m a huge fan! I’ve been following you since the early days—way before the TV show, before the podcast even, when you just had the blog. When I was a little kid, I formed this monster club, totally inspired by you! We went out in the woods looking for bigfoot and stuff. You’re, like… amazing!”

I smiled gratefully, but I hoped not too warmly. “Thank you.”

Thought: Now, be a good boy and go away.

“God, I can’t believe you’re here!” He moved closer, looked down at my computer. “Are you working on a podcast right now?”

“Finishing one up,” I said, snapping the laptop closed.

“Louisiana, right?” he asked.

I nodded.

“The Honey Island swamp monster,” he went on. “Did you see it?”

I shook my head. “No, but I think I heard it.”

“Did you get a recording?”

“Unfortunately not.”

He shrugged. “Next time,” he said as he rocked back on his heels, smiling at me. Skinny, red-haired, and freckled. I guessed he was seventeen or eighteen, tops. “You’re here about Rattling Jane, right?”

I smiled. “You guessed it.”

“Wanna know what I know?” he asked hopefully. “Interview me? I’ve got time right now.”

“I’d love to.” Though the last thing I wanted to do was encourage this kid, I figured it couldn’t hurt to get a local teen’s take on Rattling Jane. In a place this small, chances were that he knew the girl who’d gone missing.

“Don’t you need your recorder or something?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. I got up and went to the van for the digital recorder and mics, bringing everything out to the picnic table, where I plugged in the mics and set them up on stands for each of us. I flipped everything on and did a little test to check the levels.

When I was satisfied, I gave him the thumbs-up and said, “This is Lizzy Shelley. It’s the twentieth of August. I’m here on Chickering Island with…” I looked at the campground worker.

“Dave. Dave Gibbs, but people here on the island call me Skink.”

“Skink?”

“Yeah, I’m, like, this big reptile guy. I’ve got over twenty lizards.” He was beaming with pride.