The Children on the Hill(9)
I picked my way along the edge of the swamp, sweeping my headlamp back and forth carefully so as not to surprise a gator, until I got to Cyrus’s metal boat, moored at a rickety wooden dock. I climbed aboard, made myself comfortable in the captain’s seat, and waited, listening, searching the darkness for shadows. At last the sun started to come up, making the sky glow a fiery orange. The monster hadn’t made another sound. But I imagined him out there, watching and waiting. Finally I headed back to the van.
The van was my home away from home and had cost a ridiculous amount of money but had been totally worth it. It was a high-ceilinged Ford Transit that I’d paid a custom-van-build company to turn into the ultimate monster-hunting machine. I had a raised loft bed with lots of storage space underneath for clothing and gear and a small chemical toilet. Along the driver’s-side wall was my tiny kitchen: a twelve-volt fridge, a sink with a foot pump that pulled water from a six-gallon water container and drained into a bucket, and a one-burner butane stove for cooking. I carried one coffee mug, one titanium spork, one bowl, one plate, a kitchen knife, a can opener, a corkscrew, and a one-quart saucepan. My meals on the road were simple: instant oatmeal every morning and canned soup, chili, or beans for lunch and dinner. I supplemented with fresh fruit and vegetables and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when I didn’t feel up to cooking.
On the passenger side of the van was a work zone, a small desk set up with my laptop, beneath it a file cabinet and space to store my recording equipment. There were two solar panels on the roof, two more in a suitcase that I set up outside, and a portable power station with a built-in battery and inverter on the right side of the desk. I carried a small Honda generator and gas can to cover me for the days when the sun didn’t generate enough power to keep things up and running. With both Wi-Fi and cell phone boosters, I could remain connected and self-sufficient for days, even weeks on end, no matter how far off the beaten path monster hunting took me.
“You live like a woman on the run,” Eric (Charlie!) had told me not long ago. “You’re never home more than a few days at a time, always on the move.” I’d just smiled, bit my lip to keep from saying, And you, little brother, live like a man stuck in quicksand.
I set the recording equipment and headlamp on the desk and turned to the stove to heat water for coffee, which I made with instant powder from a jar. Once I’d downed the first gulp of thick, sludgy coffee, I turned around again, pulled out the stool under my desk, and flipped open my laptop. I figured I’d spend a little time getting the eyewitness interviews and swamp sounds imported from the digital recorder onto the laptop and start editing. Then I’d need to record my introduction, talking about the history of the monster, my own experiences in the swamp. I’d tell my audience about the groan that had woken me from sleep, about how I’d gone out to search and startled a gator. I was good at this: telling stories, building suspense.
My computer booted up and I took another sip of coffee, then clicked over to check my email before starting to work on the podcast.
First I heard the blood thrumming in my ears.
All the hairs on my body stood up as if lightning had struck close by.
An alert had come in.
I clicked through and scanned the article.
Green Mountain Free Press
August 18, 2019
Girl Missing from Chickering Island
Police are searching for 13-year-old Lauren Schumacher, who was last seen at her family’s summer cottage on Chickering Island on the afternoon of August 15. Her family believes she may have run away. She reportedly told friends she’d met the Island’s legendary ghost, Rattling Jane, just before her disappearance.
Schumacher was wearing cutoff denim shorts, a black hooded sweatshirt, and black Converse sneakers. She is 5'3", weighs 100 pounds, and has brown eyes and blond hair with dyed purple tips. Anyone with information is asked to call the Vermont State Police.
I read the article, then reread it. I searched for any other news about the case, but only came up with the same information.
I opened the calendar to double-check.
Yes.
The little tingle at the back of my neck turned into a buzz.
August 15 had been the full moon.
The girls always went missing on a full moon.
How many girls had it been now?
I didn’t need to check my notes: nine. Lauren Schumacher from Chickering Island would make ten. Always in a different part of the country. Always on a full moon. Always from a town with its very own monster. And always, just before disappearing, the missing girl had told someone she’d had an encounter with the local legend.
And always, it was a girl who didn’t raise big alarms. A girl from a troubled family; a girl who hung out with the wrong crowd; a girl who skipped school and smoked cigarettes; a girl everyone assumed would come to no good; a girl who had every reason to run away.
A coincidence, some would say: the girls, the monsters, the full moons.
But it was no coincidence.
I was sure that this was the work of one very clever, crafty, shapeshifting monster.
The most dangerous monster of all, the one I’d been chasing my whole life, who always managed to elude me. Except in dreams. She always came back in dreams. In real life, I’d gotten close a time or two. But only because the monster had let me. It was a game we played. Cat and mouse. Hide-and-seek. Just like we had when we were kids.