The Children on the Hill(66)

“Yeah, he told me he’d had a monster club when he was younger.”

“Sure did. He’d lead all the kids on monster hunts. Some of them would go home in tears, all freaked out because David had led them into the woods and convinced them there were actual monsters out there. Man, did I get some phone calls from upset parents!”

I smiled. “I think kids especially are drawn to this stuff… the unexplained.”

Pete put down his fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You’re about the same age as me,” he said. “Remember that old show that used to be on TV, In Search Of…? With Leonard Nimoy? Mr. Spock?”

“Of course!” I said.

“Bigfoot, the Bermuda Triangle, ancient aliens… I loved all that stuff when I was a kid.”

“But not anymore?” I asked.

He laughed. “Guess not.”

“You grew out of it? Came to your senses?” I teased.

“You said it, not me,” he said, grinning.

“I guess I never did,” I said. “Grow out of it, I mean. All my life, I’ve been drawn to those same unanswered questions that fascinated me when I was young.” I took a long sip of black coffee, tried to picture him when he was a kid, sitting on a couch watching In Search Of… and believing monsters were real.

“And have you found any answers?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Just more questions.”

I thought again of what I’d found. I longed to go back to the campground, get a good look at the doll, flip through the book, try to figure out what it all meant. Had the monster left it for me as a clue? Just to taunt me, to remind me that I was always one step behind?

Was I already too late? Was that what the doll meant—that there was no saving Lauren?

I suppressed a shiver, wrapped my hands tightly around my coffee mug.

“Where’d you grow up, Lizzy?” Pete asked.

The most normal of questions. And one I’d been asked over and over throughout my life. But still, each time someone asked it, my body stiffened.

“Pennsylvania,” I said, a lie so practiced that it almost felt real. I could imagine a life there, in a cozy little house in a suburban enclave, at the end of a cul-de-sac, two parents who loved me very much, a brother and a sister. “A little town called Yardley, not far from Philly.”

He was quiet, nodding. And there it was again, that funny little frown: a look that told me he knew I was lying.

But I was being silly. Paranoid.

How could he know?

The guy’s a cop, I reminded myself. It was his business to go digging, to find things no one else bothered to unearth.

If he’d gone to the trouble of Googling me, listening to podcasts and watching videos, maybe he’d taken it further, called in a favor, dug deeper. Maybe he knew who I truly was and was just toying with me.

I finished my last bite of pie, looked at my watch, and stretched. “This was great, thank you so much for the coffee and pie. But honestly, it’s been a long day and I’m beat. I should really get back.”

He smiled at me. “Of course. Thanks for joining me.” He stood up and put money down on the table. “Let’s get you back to the campground.”

He looked at me across the table, his smile faltering, and a new thought occurred to me: that it was no coincidence that Pete had found me in the tower tonight—he’d followed me there.

I was a suspect.





Vi

July 24, 1978




VI AND IRIS were in the clubhouse looking through The Book of Monsters, not really talking. They’d come here so they could talk, because it was the only really safe place where they could say anything, anything at all, but here they were, saying nothing. Just sitting. The God of Silence was standing guard, pressing down over them, heavy as a thick wool blanket. Vi closed her eyes, did her best to will him away. Iris was flipping through the pages of their book, staring down at it, studying each drawing, reading each entry. Vi knew she should speak, but she was waiting for Iris to talk first, to break the terrible spell.

The past few days had been so strange. Iris had been avoiding her, not even looking her in the eye. Vi tried to imagine what it must be like for Iris and couldn’t. She just couldn’t.

Mostly, she’d been trying to figure out what they were going to do next. Should they run away? But where would they go, two thirteen-year-old girls out on their own with no money, no family or friends, only each other? They’d told no one what they’d learned from the files. Not even Eric.

Should they go to the police? The police would never believe them, even if they brought the notes as proof. Gran was a well-respected member of the community—a famous doctor who people came from all over the country to learn from. The police would call Gran, and they’d all have a good laugh about the crazy ideas of kids with wild imaginations. Then she and Iris would end up locked away in the basement of the Inn, forever maybe. Or maybe Gran would drug them and poke at their brains until they forgot everything and were just walking vegetables. Vi had seen people like that: drooling, nonverbal, shuffling like sleepwalkers or pushed around in wheelchairs, seemingly unaware of their surroundings. No thank you.

Vi had been avoiding Gran whenever she could—if she saw Gran coming, she ducked and turned the other way. She could barely look Gran in the eye, knowing what she had done to Iris. How could Gran—the same Gran who had taught her to read and sew and bake cookies and name every part of the body—how could that woman have this whole evil, secret life?