The Invited (ARC)

by Jennifer McMahon

  Then she got down on her knees and began to dig. She didn’t have a shovel or trowel, so she used her fingers to rip away the grass and peat. She kept the flashlight on the ground beside her, the beam flooding the area where she was digging.

  Maybe it wasn’t the treasure, but a small piece of the treasure. A little taste. Proof that it was real.

  She hadn’t gone down far when her fingers touched something hard. Something flat. Something metal.

  The top of a box maybe?

  A treasure chest?

  Heart pounding, Olive scraped at the mud faster, more frantically. Her fingers were getting torn up, but she dug and scraped until she was able to find the edge of the metal object and pull it out into the light.

  An old ax head, pitted with rust.

  “Nice,” she said sarcastically. Then she turned, looked out at the bog, and shouted, “Thanks a lot, Hattie. Just what I always wanted!”

  She threw it into her backpack, went back home, exhausted and discouraged, her jeans and sneakers soaked through, angry with Hattie for getting her hopes up and giving her nothing but a rusty old ax head.

  She changed out of her wet things into a dry T-shirt and pair of sweatpants and lay back down on the couch.

  She dreamed of the ax.

  That it was cleaned up, sharpened, and she was using it to chop wood.

  But then it wasn’t wood she was chopping.

  She was hacking her mother up into chunks and throwing them into the bog.

  She woke up screaming.

  Daddy came flying into the living room, flipping on lights.

  He reached out and took her hand, looked at the filthy, bloody fingertips.

  “Jesus, girl,” he said. “What’s going on with you?”

  She started to cry. He took her in his arms and rocked her like she was a little girl again. “Shh,” he said. “It’s all right.”

  But it wasn’t all right.

  Maybe her father had been right. Maybe she was sick. Sick in the head. Or maybe it was something worse than that.

  Maybe, somehow, Hattie had gotten inside her.

  CHAPTER 31

  Helen

  S SEPTEMBER 10, 2015

  Helen opened her eyes. She’d been dreaming of Nate’s white deer. It had been speaking to her in Hattie’s ground-glass voice.

  Wake up, Helen, the deer told her. Wake up!

  Helen blinked out at the open doorway to the bedroom, half expecting to see Nate’s deer there—that the creature might have somehow followed her out of her dream. But there was nothing.

  Helen’s head ached. Her thoughts felt slow. Foggy.

  She wanted to lay her head back down and sleep, but something was wrong.

  Very wrong.

  “Nate.” She shoved at him hard. “Get up!”

  “What?” he mumbled sleepily.

  “Gas,” she said, the panic starting to rouse her. “Propane! I smell propane.”

  He sat up. “Jesus,” he said, coughing. “Come on.” He grabbed Helen’s hand, pulled her out of bed and into the hall.

  The smell was overpowering, the air thick with propane.

  “Don’t turn on any lights,” he warned, “the spark . . .” His hand was wrapped firmly around hers as they hurried through the trailer in the dark and out the front door, into the cool night air.

  Nate ran to the side of the trailer where the big white tank was and switched the gas off.

  “Should we call the fire department?” Helen asked.

  “I think it’ll be okay,” Nate said. “The front door’s open. Let’s let it dissipate a bit, then we can open all the windows.” He looked at Helen. “How do you feel?”

  “I have a headache and I’m a little dizzy, but okay,” she said.

  “Me, too. We got lucky. Good thing you woke up when you did.”

  Good thing Hattie woke me, she thought.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Must be a leak somewhere,” he said.

  They sat outside, holding hands, taking deep breaths.

  In a few minutes, they went in and started cranking open all the louvered windows.

  “Nate,” she said, “when I went to bed, all these were open.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I could hear the frogs.”

  Soon, Nate deemed it safe enough to turn on a light. “Helen?” he called. He was standing in front of the stove.

  “Yeah?”

  “Come take a look at this.” He was pointing at the stove. “The gas is wide open, every burner turned on but not lit.”

  “It wasn’t a leak,” Helen said, her whole body tensing.

  “You didn’t leave the stove on, did you?” Nate asked.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t use the stove at all tonight. And why the hell would I turn on all four burners? When I got home I hung out here on the computer for a while.”

  And I saw your fucked-up nature journal full of the elusive white doe.

  “I’m sure I would have noticed if the gas was on then—I was, like, five feet from the stove.”

  “Are you sure?” Nate asked.

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  “Then what . . .”

  “Someone came into the trailer,” Helen said, the panic returning, replacing the relief. “After we went to sleep—someone came in here, turned on the gas, and closed the windows.”

  “But how . . . who . . . ?” His voice trailed off, then he jumped up. “The cameras would have caught them! We’ll see who it is! Have evidence.”

  He went over to his laptop and blinked at it miserably. “The cameras have all been disconnected,” he said. He tapped the keys. “The recordings from tonight are all gone. There’s nothing here. It’s been wiped clean.”

  “We need to call the police,” Helen said. She was already dialing 911.

  . . .

  A state trooper pulled into their driveway twenty minutes later. He was an older man in his early sixties, with a ruddy complexion, and introduced himself as Trooper Bouchier. He listened to their story. Helen let Nate do most of the talking, fearing that her voice would tremble. The trooper looked at the front door, the windows, and the gas stove. He watched patiently while Nate showed him his computer with feed from the outdoor cameras.

  “See,” Nate said. “All the footage from tonight has been wiped clean.”

  Trooper Bouchier nodded. “And why do you have all these cameras, exactly?”

  “For wildlife,” Nate said.

  “Wildlife?” the trooper echoed.

  Nate nodded. “Deer, coyotes, owls. That kind of thing.”

  “I see,” Bouchier said in a tone that suggested he didn’t see at all. Then he turned to Helen and asked, “And you’re sure you didn’t use the stove at all before you went to bed?”

  “I’m positive. And I’m sure all the windows were open.”

  “And what time was this?”

  “Late,” Helen said. “Near one.”

  The trooper nodded. “And you’d been out with a friend before this?”

  “She and her friend Riley had a girls’ night,” Nate explained. He turned to Helen. “Where’d you go anyway?”

  “Oh, you know,” Helen said, wondering how much trouble you got in for deliberately lying to the police in a situation like this. “Just out for a bite to eat and drinks.”

  “So you’d been drinking?” the trooper asked.

  “No,” she said. “I mean, yes, I, uh, had one glass of wine.”

  He nodded.

  “Any drugs?” he asked. She wondered if her eyes were still red and glossy from the pot.

  “No,” she said.

  The trooper and Nate were both studying her. Now Nate looked like he was doubting her, too. Like maybe she�
�d gotten good and wasted with Riley and then . . . closed all the windows and cranked open all four burners on the stove before passing out?

  “So what now?” Helen asked, trying to hide her irritation. “Are you going to dust for fingerprints or something?”

  “No, ma’am,” Trooper Bouchier said with a small smile. “I’ll write up a report.”

  “A report?” Helen said. “That’s it?”

  “Mrs. Wetherell, Mr. Wetherell—there’s no sign of a break-in, no sign of a crime,” the trooper said.

  “Someone did this!” Helen said, losing all hold on her composure. “Someone came in here and turned on the gas and closed the windows! We could have died!”

  “Mrs. Wetherell,” the trooper said. “It’s just as likely that it was an accident. Maybe you . . . bumped against the stove and didn’t even realize it. It’s a very small kitchen you’ve got here. And the windows—well, you wouldn’t be the first person in the world to do something on autopilot late at night and forget about it later, now would you? One night, after a few beers, I ate all the leftover meatloaf—wasn’t I mad the next morning when I went to make myself a sandwich for lunch? Said to my wife, ‘Where on earth did you—’ ”

  Helen broke in. “Sorry, let me get this straight—you’re not going to do anything because you don’t believe us.”

  “Helen—” Nate began.

  “What?” she snapped. “That’s what he’s doing. Absolutely nothing.”

  “I’ll write up a report,” the trooper repeated, smiling that small, amused smile again. “And of course, if there’s another incident, you be sure to let us know.”

  “We appreciate it,” Nate said.

  “Great,” Helen muttered. “Very helpful.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Olive

  S SEPTEMBER 10, 2015

  Olive rolled over on the couch and opened her eyes. She smelled coffee. And pancakes. Her dad never made breakfast. The only one who did was . . . Mama!

  Olive leapt off the couch and ran to the kitchen.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” Riley said, smiling at her.

  Olive blinked at her aunt, who stood in front of the stove, flipping pancakes on Mama’s big cast-iron griddle. She had on Mama’s pink apron.

  “I thought we could have a nice breakfast, then I could give you a ride to school.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He had to go into work early. They’re starting a big repaving job.”

  Olive helped herself to coffee.

  “Your dad said you had a rough night,” Riley said.

  Olive shrugged. “A couple bad dreams, that’s all. Did Dad call you? Is that why you’re here? Cause I’m fine, really.”

  “He’s worried about you, Ollie.”

  “I just had a nightmare—it’s fine. Everyone has nightmares sometimes, don’t they?”

  “What about?”

  Olive looked down into her milky coffee. “I don’t remember.”

  Riley put pancakes on a plate and set them on the table. Olive sat down and reached for the maple syrup. She wasn’t really hungry, but she dove in with a smile. “These are delicious!” she said.

  Riley sat in the chair across from her. She watched her carefully, frowning. “The truth is, I’m concerned about you, too.” A lump formed in Olive’s throat, making it hard to swallow.

  “But everything’s good,” Olive said, between bites of pancake. “I mean, it’s just the very beginning of the school year, but things are going okay. I actually like my classes so far.”

  “Your friend Mike came to see me,” Riley said.

  “What?” Olive set her fork down, her hands clenched into fists. How could he? She would kill him for this.

  “Now hang on,” Riley said. “Don’t get all mad at him. He did the right thing. He’s worried about you, Olive.”

  “Mike’s always worried about something. He exaggerates and panics and gets all freaked out at the slightest little thing!” Olive said.

  “He told me you found your mother’s necklace in the bog over the summer.”

  Shit! Shit, shit, shit. Should have known that chickenshit traitor would tell.

  She hesitated, wondering what the chances were of Riley believing her if she lied.

  “Is that true, Olive?”

  “Yeah, I found it in the bog. That silver necklace she was wearing all the time before she left.”

  Riley nodded. “I know the one you mean.”

  “Mama called it her I see all necklace.”

  Riley smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Yeah, she did. I remember.”

  “The chain was broken,” Olive said.

  They were both silent for a moment.

  “Where’s the necklace now?” Riley asked.

  Olive felt it there, resting against her chest, tucked safely underneath her T-shirt and hoodie. She thought of pulling it out and showing it to Riley, but was embarrassed. She worried Riley would think it was silly, a little pathetic even, to be wearing her mother’s necklace.

  “I hid it. Someplace safe.”

  Riley looked at her and Olive had this idea then that her aunt had X-ray eyes, could see just where the necklace was. It seemed to give a warm pulse against her skin, a pulse that her aunt might be able to somehow detect. But that was impossible.

  “Mike also says you went to see Dicky Barns because you heard your mom might have been going to his spirit circles?”

  “Yeah, I went to the hotel and it was way creepy. I heard Mama might have gone there, but Dicky said she never came to any of his séances or whatever they are. That the only time he ever saw her was at the store when Mama was working.”

  Riley looked at Olive across the table. “You believe him?”

  Olive thought about what she’d heard Dicky say on the phone, her plans to go back there on Sunday. She couldn’t tell Riley. No way would Riley let her go.

  “Yeah, I believe him,” Olive said, shrugging. “And being in there, talking to Dicky, I’ve gotta say I can’t imagine Mama ever being part of that place. She and Daddy always made fun of Dicky. I think she was looking for the treasure, and trying to find out about Hattie, but no way was she going to Dicky Barns and his ghost club for clues.”

  Riley nodded. “Yeah, I agree. Your mom doesn’t think much of Dicky. I can’t really imagine her going there either.”

  Olive picked up her fork and went back to her pancakes.

  “Have you shown the necklace to anyone else?” Riley asked.

  “No.”

  “So your dad doesn’t know you found it?”

  “Uh-uh,” Olive said around a mouthful of pancakes. She swallowed, had a glug of coffee. “Mike thought I should show him—Mike also thought maybe I should take it to the police. Like it might be a clue or something. But like I said, he tends to get all panicky and overexaggerate stuff.”

  Riley was quiet a minute.

  “Do you think I should bring it to the police?” Olive asked, setting her fork down again. “Just to see what they think? I mean, it’s not like my dad ever filed a missing person’s report or anything like that.”

  “I think . . .” Riley paused a second. “I think that we should wait. See what we can figure out on our own first. Bringing the police in, having them asking questions, bringing up all the boyfriend stuff—think what that would do to your dad.”

  “Riley, what if Mama didn’t run off with some guy? What if something else happened to her?”

  “Sweetie,” Riley said, giving Olive that familiar look of pity she so hated. “I think there’s still a good chance that your mom really did run off with a boyfriend. Sometimes the simplest, most obvious explanation is the right one.”

  Olive frowned. “I just have a bad feeling. And I keep having these stupid bad dreams.”

  Riley nodded, reached across the ta
ble, and put her hand on top of Olive’s. “What are the dreams about, Ollie?”

  “They’re about Hattie mostly. But sometimes they’re about Mama too. About something bad happening to her.”

  “Tell me about them,” Riley said.

  Olive got a chill, shook her head. “I don’t really remember,” she said. No way was she going to tell her the gory details. Riley would take Olive to the nearest shrink.

  Riley was quiet again. She gave Olive’s hand a squeeze, then pulled her own hand away. “Do you remember the last time you saw your mom?” she said, her voice low.

  “I’ve been driving myself nuts thinking about it, trying to remember every detail. I know she hadn’t been around a lot. She was working, or hanging out with friends or something. So I don’t remember exactly the last time I saw her. But I remember the last time I heard her.”

  Riley looked at Olive, puzzled. “Heard her? Did she call you?”

  “No. But I heard her and Daddy arguing. It was the middle of the night. Mama hadn’t been home when I’d gone to bed, so I think she was just coming in. I was up in bed, but I woke up because they were right here in the kitchen, right below my room. And they were yelling.”

  “About what?”

  “I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Daddy was really mad. I think he even threw something. There was a crash. Then the door banged open. Mama must have left. When I got up in the morning, Mama was gone. Daddy was sitting at the table drinking coffee like it was any other morning. Mama didn’t come home again after that.”

  Olive looked right at Riley. And what she saw freaked her out completely.

  Riley looked scared. But then she seemed to try to pull herself together, to look more normal. Olive could still see worry in her eyes.

  “Ollie, how about you come back to my place after school today. Stay there with me a few days while we try to figure out what to do, okay?”

  Olive thought about it. Thought about leaving her dad alone in the house.

  “No,” she said. “Dad needs me.”

  “But Ollie, if you—”