“She speaks!” one of the men said, as if reading Olive’s mind.
“Hattie, speak to us!” a woman said. “Tell us your secrets. Tell us what it is we must know. Tell us what it is we must do.”
These people sounded ridiculous, hokey, but even though it sounded like something from a cartoon, they seemed serious, and it scared the hell out of Olive.
The group moved closer to the deer-headed woman (Mama!), encircling her, listening.
But Olive didn’t hear a thing, only the hum of the group, the sound of her mother’s feet shuffling across the floor in the fairy-tale slippers.
And a whisper. Just the faintest hint of a whisper.
She had to get closer.
The possibility of hearing her mother’s voice pulled on her like a superpowered magnet, luring her out of her hiding place.
Olive spotted a small, tattered red loveseat just ahead of her and started to crawl for it, sure that the group was too fixated on Mama in the mask. And the room was dark. She could move through the shadows.
“Guide us, Hattie,” a man said. “Show us the way.”
Olive scuttled forward on all fours, moving fast—too fast. Her right foot struck a ladder-back chair she hadn’t even seen in the dim space. It tipped backward, balanced for a second, and then crashed to the floor just behind her.
The humming stopped, the circle opened, everyone turned to look her way.
And there was Olive.
Caught on her hands and knees, like a large and foul bug in the center of the room. And she felt as vulnerable as an insect, something that could easily be squashed and put out of its misery.
“Who the hell is that?” asked the man with the mouse voice.
Her mother leaned forward, the eyes on the deer mask gleaming, flickering in the candlelight. The group circled her more tightly, protectively.
Dicky put his hand on the gun in his holster. Olive didn’t wait to see what might happen next: she sprang to her feet and bolted for the door.
“Come back here!” Dicky shouted, and there was the sound of footsteps behind her, like hoofbeats, but she didn’t slow, didn’t dare to turn around, just yanked the heavy wooden door open and ran through it, flying down the carpeted hallway, past the closed doors of long-abandoned guest rooms, taking the stairs three at a time, landing in the front hall, speeding by the front desk and out the door into the night.
She jumped off the porch, the dressed-up mannequins watching like frozen sentries, unable to stop her. The front door banged open again behind her, Dicky shouting, “Stop right there!” There were other voices behind him, shouting, desperate.
“Don’t let her get away!”
“Lori’s kid! I can’t believe it!”
“Stop her!”
Heart jack-hammering inside her chest, she tore off around the corner of the building, searching for the shadows, for darkness, running up the hill, staying off the road, cutting through backyards and toward the woods. They were following her still—she could hear their footsteps, their gasping breaths. But she was faster, younger, nimbler; she moved like a jackrabbit through the night, her eyes on the woods in front of her at the top of the hill.
Was her mother behind her, part of the group chasing her now? She wanted to look, to turn around and see if she could catch a glimpse of the white deer mask, but didn’t dare.
She sprinted the last of the way up the hill, pushing herself harder than ever before, leg muscles screaming, lungs gasping. Finally she reached the safety of the trees, smelled the rich, loamy forest scent. She zigzagged expertly through the trees, jumping over rocks and roots, her eyes fully adjusted to the dark.
She ran on, heard Dicky somewhere behind her, far off now. “Goddamn it, we lost her!”
A female voice (her mother’s maybe?) said something faint, but Olive was sure she could make out the words: “For the best.”
CHAPTER 41
Helen
S SEPTEMBER 13, 2015
Helen stood in the kitchen, stunned. Nate had seen Hattie. She’d brought him to her house. Helen had a worried, sick feeling in her stomach: What had Hattie done to him there? Was this going to be like those stories in old folktales about a woman so mesmerizing, the poor man couldn’t resist and went to her, kissed her, had some kind of supernatural sex with her?
“Did she speak?” Helen asked. “Did you? What happened?”
What did she do to you?
She held her breath, waiting.
“I took her picture,” he said.
“You . . . photographed her?”
He nodded. “And as soon as I did, it was all gone—the house, the woman, the deer. I was standing alone at the other end of the bog. It was like I’d imagined the whole thing. But it seemed so goddamned real.”
“What does the picture look like?” Helen asked, though she knew how he would answer.
“Like nothing. Like pure light was shining through the lens. Just one overexposed blur.” He looked down at Helen’s notebook again. He had it open to the passage where she talked about seeing Hattie for the first time in the kitchen. “Do you think it was her?” Nate asked.
“I do.”
“And these other women you’ve written about, Hattie’s daughter, her granddaughter—you’ve really seen them, too?”
Helen nodded.
Nate looked down at Helen’s notebook, touched it. “It’s because of the objects in the house? That’s why they come?”
“I think that’s part of it. I think the objects help them to come, but I think they come for other reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“I think they want to be together again. And . . . and I think they want something from me. From us, Nate. From our house.”
“Our house?” He gave her a helpless, perplexed look.
She nodded, paused. “I think they want these objects in our house so that it can be a gathering place, a safe space for them all to come back to. Somewhere between our world and theirs. An in-between place.”
“In-between place?” he echoed in the dull monotone of someone in shock, someone who was dealing with more than he could handle. But she had to go on, to tell him the rest.
“But there’s more than that. I think they want us to help them.”
“Help them, how?” Nate asked.
“There’s someone they want me to find. A living descendant of Hattie’s.”
“Who?”
“I’m not sure, but whoever it is, I think she’s in danger.”
He stared at her, not knowing how to respond, doing his best to process what she was saying, to take it all in.
Helen reached out, put her hand on his arm. “We’ve got to help her, Nate. That’s what Hattie wants. What all this has been for.”
CHAPTER 42
Olive
S SEPTEMBER 13, 2015
She ran home, cutting through the woods and people’s backyards, staying off the streets because she didn’t want to risk being seen if Dicky and his friends had gotten in their cars to look for her. The moon was nearly full and she had good light to navigate by. Once she was back in her yard, she went straight into the workshop—an old, leaning eight-by-ten wooden shed that stood on the other side of the driveway from the house. Heart thumping, skin prickling with cold sweat, she grabbed the old twelve-gauge Winchester her daddy used for duck hunting. All of their other guns were locked up in the gun safe in the dining room. But Daddy had been cleaning the twelve gauge, so it was in the shop, on the workbench.
She didn’t know if Dicky and his gang of wackos would come after her, but she wanted to be ready if they did.
She felt around on the workbench until she found the flashlight her dad kept out there and flicked it on. The batteries were low and the light it cast was dim.
She found her father’s waxed canvas duck hunting bag
and opened it up, grabbing a box of ammo.
Then she started to search the shed for this diary she’d heard them talk about tonight. Hattie’s diary, maybe?
She checked the shelves, the toolboxes, the old apple crates full of junk. No diary. She found old batteries, taps and buckets for sugaring, spools of wire, boxes of nails, old tire rims, but nothing resembling a diary. She spotted the giant pink tackle box her mother had used for her brief foray into beading. A few years back, Mama had decided it would be fun to make beaded jewelry and sell it at craft fairs and the farmers’ market. She spent a small fortune on supplies, then made only a few of pieces of jewelry (which she kept herself or gave to Riley—she didn’t sell any) before losing interest. Mama was fickle like that. Things held her interest only so long, then she was chasing after something new.
Olive reached up and lifted the tackle box down from the shelf, set it on the worktable and opened it up. The top drawers were full of tiny compartments of beads all sorted by color and size. There were spools of nylon cord for stringing the beads and clasp, closures, and hooks. At the bottom of the main compartment were her tools: a small hammer, tweezers, pliers of all sorts. And underneath these, a leather-bound book.
Olive pulled it out, flipped through it, recognizing her mother’s tiny, sloped letters, her careful penmanship.
It was her mother’s diary! Not Hattie’s, but Mama’s.
Olive had had no idea that Mama had kept a diary. The first entry was dated January 1, 2013.
Olive flipped through the pages. There was something so wonderful and comforting about seeing her mother’s writing, touching the pages her mother had touched, reading her thoughts.
Many of the early entries were boring everyday stuff: hours she’d worked at the market, how annoyed she was with her boss, a funny story a customer told her.
Then things took a turn for the interesting. She was writing about Hattie, about the treasure. Mama was clearly searching for it.
Mama wrote about a month before she disappeared:
I feel Hattie leading me to it, bringing me closer all the time.
In another entry, she wrote:
If I can find the necklace, I’ll find the treasure. The necklace is the key.
On June 12 of last year, she wrote:
I hate lying to Ollie about all this, but I’m doing what has to be done. It’s the only way to keep her safe. I see that now. I’ve seen how desperate the others are, the lengths they’ll go to to find the treasure. “There is no treasure,” I tell my girl. “There never was. It’s just a silly story people tell.” I wonder if she believes me. My Ollie Girl, she’s my bright shining star, and something tells me she sees right through my lies.
On June 14, she wrote:
I’ve got it! I’ve got the necklace. It took a huge chunk of my savings, but money is no object now. If this works the way I believe it will, we’ll soon be rich beyond our wildest dreams!
Then another entry, the second to the last, dated June 28 of last summer, the day before she disappeared.
I have found the treasure! I left it in the ground where it was for safekeeping for the time being. I have made a map and hidden it well so that I won’t forget its exact location. But I no longer believe I am safe. I must move carefully. I must get Olive, dig up the treasure, and go quickly.
Then, the following day, the final entry of the diary, written in fast, sloppy letters, the ink badly smudged:
Dustin is watching my every step. He keeps asking me what I’ve been up to, what I’ve been so secretive about. “Nothing,” I tell him. The other day, when we were arguing, he grabbed my arm and twisted it hard, leaving a ring of bruises. He said if I’m not careful, I’ll end up with a lot worse than a hurt arm. “Sometimes people disappear,” he told me. “People who keep secrets.” My heart jolted. I’ve never been so frightened.
Olive’s hands were shaking. Her mouth was dry and sour.
What had her father done?
Outside, a car pulled into the driveway, the headlights spilling over the shed. Olive flipped off her flashlight, stood in the dark, listening. A car door opened and closed. Footsteps, then the front door of the house banging open and shut.
Should she run?
No. If she ran, she’d never discover what had really happened to her mother.
Olive grabbed the shotgun, loaded it, and started very slowly toward the house.
CHAPTER 43
Helen
S SEPTEMBER 13, 2015
Nate was looking over Helen’s notes from the historical society while she paced the tiny kitchen in the trailer.
“Okay, so this Gloria Gray would be Hattie’s great-granddaughter. You think she’s the one in danger?”
Helen nodded. “I do. But the only record we could find was her birth certificate. I know that after her parents died, she and her brother were sent to live with family. So that’s a list of all the relatives Mary Ann and I could find, people they might have gone to stay with.”
“It’s a long list,” Nate said.
“I know,” Helen admitted. “But I’ve got to try.”
Nate nodded. “Okay. Get your laptop and phone. Let’s start trying to find these people, see if we can track down Gloria.”
. . .
At first it seemed hopeless, trying to find out what might have happened to Gloria Gray. Nate used Helen’s laptop (his was in the corner streaming the feed from the wildlife cameras) and she took notes and made phone calls when they were lucky enough to find a phone number. She left several voice mails. Nate sent emails and Facebook messages, trying to convey how urgent it was to hear back as soon as possible without sounding crazy or desperate.
Helen was overwhelmed, feeling more and more like this was an impossible task. She thought of how it seemed as if she’d been led to find Jane and Ann—why would she hit a dead end now?
“Wait a second,” Nate said. “What’s the date of birth for Gloria’s brother, Jason?”
Helen looked down at her notes. “August 22, 1968.”
“I’ve got an obituary,” he said.
“You’re kidding!”
“He died in 1987, from injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident.”
“Shit,” Helen said, “he was so young.”
“He was living in Keene, New Hampshire. He’d just graduated from high school there the year before. And listen to this: ‘Jason was predeceased by his parents, Samuel Gray and Ann Whitcomb Gray. He is survived by his sister, Gloria Whitcomb. He is also survived by his uncle and aunt, Mark and Sara Whitcomb, and his cousins, Rebecca Whitcomb, Stacy Whitcomb, and Marie Whitcomb.’ ”
“Wait a second,” Helen said, turning the laptop to get a better look. “His sister is listed as Gloria Whitcomb?”
“That’s what it says,” Nate said, pointing out the line in the obituary.
Helen’s mind whirred. “They must have gone to live with their uncle Mark and Gloria changed her last name.”
“But why did she change her name and Jason didn’t?”
“Hell if I know, but let’s do a search for any Gloria Whitcombs in New Hampshire.”
Helen glanced at Nate’s laptop, streaming the live feeds of his cameras: views of their trailer, yard, and new house with a glowing green cast. She was sure she saw movement: a figure leaving the house, moving so fast it seemed to fly across the yard, into the woods, moving down toward the bog.
“Okay, got something,” Nate said.
“What is it?” she asked, moving over to stand behind him, squinting down at the screen while he read.
“Listen to this, it’s a wedding announcement from 1998 in the Keene Sentinel: ‘Gloria Whitcomb, of Keene, New Hampshire, and Dustin Kissner of Hartsboro, Vermont, were united in marriage on June 2 at St. James Episcopal Church in Keene. The bride is the daughter of Mark and Sara Whitcomb of Keene. The groom is
the son of Howard and Margaret Kissner of Hartsboro, Vermont.’ ”
Dustin Kissner.
The name pinged in Helen’s brain.
“That’s Olive’s father,” Helen said.
Nate typed more, brow furrowed. “Yup. Current address is listed as 389 Westmore Road. That’s Olive’s place. So is Gloria Olive’s mother?”
“No, her name is Lori, I’m sure of it.”
“Could Lori be short for Gloria?”
“Oh god, I guess you’re right. But . . . she disappeared last year,” Helen said quietly.
“Disappeared?” Nate asked.
“Rumor has it she ran off with a man, but Riley was telling me that Olive thinks maybe something else happened. Riley seemed a little worried, too. She seemed to think that maybe her leaving had something to do with Dustin. That he’d scared her.”
“What? Like he threatened her in some way?”
“Nate,” she said, “what if he . . . what if Olive’s dad did something to Gloria? Hurt her. Or worse. And what if Olive found out?”
“Helen, you don’t know—”
“Maybe it’s not Gloria I’m supposed to find and save,” she said. “Maybe it’s Olive.”
CHAPTER 44
Olive
S SEPTEMBER 13, 2015
Her father was standing in the kitchen, wearing his town work shirt with his name stitched over the chest pocket. dustin.
Dusty, his friends called him.
But his friends didn’t come around anymore. Not since Mama left. Not since they started their endless renovations. The knocking down of the walls, the piles of dust, the drywall and tape and compound and holes in the ceiling and floors.
“What are you doing with the gun, Olive?”
It was his serious, no-bullshit I’m the dad here voice. He called her Olive only when he was scared or angry or both.
She pulled the diary out of her back pocket, dropped it on the worn kitchen table.
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