The Woods Are Always Watching

by Stephanie Perkins

  Neena stood, and the rope dropped away from her feet. Still clutching the knife, she grabbed Lyman’s rifle and slung it over her shoulder.

  Scanning for Josie, the whites of Willie’s eyes flashed at her through the chaos. A hulking paw was pressed into his back. The bear was winning.

  “Shoot it,” he said, struggling and huffing. A mutilated grimace tweaked his lips. His riven flesh was missing in chunks and hung in shining red peels.

  “What about Morgan?” Josie asked. She was steadying herself against a nearby tree, berserk with fear. “We can’t just leave her here.”

  “We aren’t,” Neena reassured her. “We’ll tell everybody where to find her.”

  The bear growled and snorted with heavy, inspecting snuffs. It prodded the Willie-heap with its snout. Hot gore spilled out from punctured holes.

  “Shoot it,” Willie gasped, furious with desperation. His tortured limbs grasped uselessly for enough leverage to push the bear off his back.

  Neena’s arms wrapped around Josie.

  The bear straddled Willie. His prone body was shredded and lacerated. The bear’s colossal teeth ripped and thrashed. The ursine musk clung to the girls’ nostrils, dominating over the iron-rich scent of blood—blood from the men who had believed themselves to be the most dangerous predators in these woods.

  The beast roared, guttural and deafening. The entire forest shook.

  Neither girl looked back.

  THE GIRLS HOBBLED through the forest to their escape. Behind them, the slashing tears and shaking thuds indicated that Willie was about to die. The sounds were reassuring.

  “A bear,” Neena said.

  “I know,” Josie said. “A fucking bear.”

  The girls exchanged a look, a silent pause to acknowledge the irony. But where had the bear come from? And why had it charged Willie and not them? Or Lyman?

  The animal had seemed huge, but maybe it was actually starving because the berries had yet to ripen, and it wasn’t getting enough food. Maybe it was a mother with cubs nearby. Maybe it had been attracted to the smell of Willie’s urine. Or maybe it had even stumbled across Willie’s scent trail and tracked him through the woods after Josie had smashed him with the mason jar. This last notion was the most satisfying. Though the girls knew it was incorrect to think of the bear as an ally—it could just as easily have attacked them—the bear was a force of nature, and nature had chosen to let them live tonight.

  The clash grew fainter. Their ears rang numbly.

  The girls traversed back the way they had arrived, retracing the worn pathway Lyman had led them down, praying the bear remained occupied. To conserve energy, they didn’t speak. It was still dark, but they had managed to hang on to both of their headlamps, and, as they approached Frazier Mountain and stepped back onto the Wade Harte, they could feel how close they were to dawn. The nearness of the sun thrummed. The daytime insects had yet to awaken, but the nighttime insects were quieting. Birds chirped lethargically as the mist transformed into dew.

  Their passage remained slow, the descent perilous. Loose rocks shifted underfoot, and smooth boulders were scattered with slippery grit. They fell many times. They had adrenaline, though, and they had each other.

  They also had fear.

  They could still feel the ferocity of the bear as it snarled and thrashed. They could still hear Willie as he grunted, bashing its muzzle with his fist. They passed the deer’s rotting corpse. Although they couldn’t see it, the fumes were harrowing. These smells and sounds of death resonated throughout their bones long after they left them behind.

  Were the men actually dead? It seemed possible that Willie and Lyman might be supporting each other, teetering down this mountain, too. For the rest of their lives, the girls would have to keep looking over their shoulders. It was the reason why slain villains in horror movies popped back up, still alive—because there would always be another man waiting to cause harm. It would never end. The girls would never truly be safe.

  Their bodies continued to deteriorate. From the exertion of assisting Josie, Neena’s condition grew increasingly dire, but the car keys dug sharply into her ass, spurring her on. She wished that she could set down the rifle. It weighed too much.

  She did not set down the rifle.

  They labored in the correct direction but waited anxiously for landmarks to prove that they were close. These final extreme hours were like struggling through a time loop. Were they traveling backward? Was this even the right mountain? A stream tumbled over rocks, and Neena imagined her body gliding smoothly down the slope with the current.

  Dawn broke, at last. The first pink rays shimmered with soft warmth, and the water illuminated. Directly ahead, the girls’ cairn was revealed in the light of the stream.

  They ground to a halt to take in the miraculous sight. Their stacked stones were still holding strong. Suddenly, Neena understood why she had fought so hard to leave them standing. The decorative cairn was a statue, a symbol, a declaration: she and Josie would always be there for each other. Whatever they had fought about—tormented by the grief of separation and fear of their unknown futures—it no longer mattered. Moving forward was the only way to survive. To live. And even though moving forward meant moving apart, it would be in distance only. Not in spirit or support or love.

  The girls tightened their grips on one another.

  They moved forward.

  Time accelerated. Josie’s foot felt as if it were already detached. The intensity of her pain had become meaningless, but each of Neena’s sucking breaths portended to her last.

  They passed the ancient oak. Two days ago, its singular crooked branch and knobby forefinger had been ominous, pointing them back in the direction they had come. Now it was a guidepost, ushering them safely home. The final stretch of trail was a fog of color and sound. Grassy green, mossy green, leafy green, dying green. Rasping, shuffling, coughing, scraping. They passed the brown national forest sign and noticeboard—and then three feet crunched into the gravel parking lot.

  The sun had fully risen over the vehicles: Neena’s Subaru, the other Subaru, and a pickup truck. The other Subaru seemed harmless and nondescript, but a menacing energy vibrated from the truck. Its chomping metal grill was massive and aggressive, the angle of its mud spatter violent and severe. It was indisputable which belonged to Morgan and her boyfriend and which belonged to Willie and Lyman.

  “Walk me to the truck,” Josie said.

  Neena did.

  Josie glanced between the gun and the knife. She was sick of guns.

  Reading her mind, Neena handed her the knife. Josie jammed it in to its hilt. The back right tire released an exhausted squeak and slowly began to leak. Josie struggled, one-handed, to pull the knife back out. What if the men kept a spare underneath the truck’s locked bed cover? Her plan had been to destroy all four tires, but the rubber had clasped immovably onto the blade.

  Neena placed a trembling hand over Josie’s. Enough.

  Josie let go.

  The girls managed the last few steps to Neena’s car. Neena dug out her keys and swayed, taking Josie with her in a hard lean against the door. She was close to passing out. Every ounce of her remaining fortitude had gone into helping Josie reach this point. A life-threatening asthma attack was well underway.

  This time, Josie moved to support Neena. She aided her to the passenger’s side, unlocked it, and helped her into the seat. Josie hefted the rifle into the back. With her hand anchoring herself against the car, she hopped around to the driver’s side and climbed in.

  “Do you remember how to drive?” Neena asked in a faint gasp.

  “I’ve got this,” Josie said. Because she wasn’t afraid anymore. The road was a blur, but she could see more clearly than she had in years.

  With her left hand, she started the car. It roared instantly into life. Her left hand crossed all the way over her body to
shift into reverse, and her right foot hit the pedal. The car obeyed. She shifted into drive as Neena plugged her phone into the charger. Josie stepped on the gas, and the girls sped away, waiting for a signal.

  Waiting.

  Waiting.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As with everything I write, Kiersten White read more drafts of this novel than anybody else, and, therefore, must be thanked first. If we went into the woods together, I’m sure we could overcome any dangers that crossed our path. But let’s not tempt fate.

  Thank you to my fearless agent, Kate Testerman, who works with a machete strapped to her thigh and pom-poms in her hands.

  Thank you to my brilliant editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, who sawed this story apart and found a smarter way to put it back together. Who does an infinite number of astonishing tasks behind the scenes and makes miracles happen.

  Thank you to my badass publicist Vanessa DeJesús. Thanks to Lindsey Andrews and Sean Freeman for the marvelously eerie cover, and additional heartfelt thanks to Dana Spector and everyone at Penguin, including: James Akinaka, Anna Booth, Christina Colangelo, Rob Farren, Melissa Faulner, Alex Garber, Carmela Iaria, Bri Lockhart, Emily Romero, Janet Robbins Rosenberg, Kim Ryan, Shannon Spann, Felicity Vallence, and Natalie Vielkind.

  Myra McEntire was my daily support team. Thank you for always answering your phone when it rings. Lauren Biehl, Manning Krull, Emily Maesar, Sandhya Menon, Kara Prahler, Heather Young, and Jeff Zentner also helped in tremendous ways with both story and research. Thank you, dear friends and dear sister.

  My mother gifted me with her passion for books, but this one will be too scary for her to read. I’m thanking her anyway. And thank you to my father, who watched all the horror movies with me and popped all the popcorn.

  Finally, to my husband, Jarrod: I’m sorry that I told you so many stories about bear attacks and serial killers before we went camping, but thank you for still dropping everything to go with me. Thank you for so many things. For all the things. There is no person with whom I would rather share a tent or house or planet. I love you the most, always.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW OF MORE CHILLING HORROR BY BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  STEPHANIE PERKINS

  “A heart-pounding page-turner with an outstanding cast of characters, a deliciously creepy setting, and an absolutely merciless body count.”

  —COURTNEY SUMMERS,

  New York Times bestselling author of Sadie and The Project

  FROM

  There’s Someone Inside Your House

  “What’d you say? My connection is going in and out.”

  “So call me from the landline.”

  Haley glanced at the cordless, which was perched on an end table only a few feet away. Too much effort. “It’s fine now,” she lied.

  Brooke circled the conversation back around to her current hardships as stage manager, and Haley allowed herself to drift away. She could only hear a third of Brooke’s ranting, anyway. The rest was static.

  She stared out the windows and finished her sandwich. The sun hung low on the horizon. It shone through the cornfields, making the brittle stalks appear soft and dull. Her father was still out there. Somewhere. This time of year, he didn’t let a single ray go to waste. The world looked abandoned. It was the opposite of the loud, colorful, enthusiastic group of people she’d left behind at school. She should have stuck it out. She hated the quiet isolation that permeated her house. It was exhausting in its own way.

  Haley made sympathetic noises into the phone—though she had no idea what she was sympathizing with—and stood. She walked her plate back to the kitchen, rinsed off the crumbs, and popped open the dishwasher.

  The only thing inside it was a dirty butter knife.

  Haley glanced at the sink, which was empty. A frown appeared between her brows. She put the plate into the dishwasher and shook her head.

  “Even if we can get the sprayer working,” Brooke was saying, their connection suddenly clear, “I’m not sure enough people will even want to sit in the first three rows. I mean, who goes to the theater to wear ponchos and get drenched in blood?”

  Haley sensed that her friend needed vocal reassurance. “It’s Halloween weekend. People will buy the tickets. They’ll think it’s fun.” She took a step toward the stairs—toward her bedroom—and her sneaker connected with a small, hard object. It shot across the floor tiles, skidding and rattling and clattering and clanging, until it smacked into the bottom of the pantry.

  It was the egg timer.

  Haley’s heart stopped. Just for a moment.

  An uneasy prickling grew under her skin as she moved toward the pantry door, which one of her parents had left ajar. She pushed it closed with her fingertips and then picked up the timer, slowly. As if it were heavy. She could have sworn she’d set it on the countertop, but she must have dropped it to the floor along with her backpack.

  “. . . still listening?”

  The voice barely reached her ears. “Sorry?”

  “I asked if you were still listening to me.”

  “Sorry,” Haley said again. She stared at the timer. “I must be more tired than I thought. I think I’m gonna crash until my mom gets home.”

  They hung up, and Haley shoved the phone into the front right pocket of her jeans. She placed the timer back on the countertop. The timer was smooth and white. Innocuous. Haley couldn’t pinpoint why, exactly, but the damn thing unsettled her.

  She trekked upstairs and went directly to bed, collapsing in a weary heap, kicking off her sneakers, too drained to unlace them. The phone jabbed at her hip. She pulled it from her pocket and slung it onto her nightstand. The setting sun pierced through her window at a perfect, irritating angle, and she winced and rolled over.

  She fell asleep instantly.

  * * *

  • • •

  Haley startled awake. Her heart was pounding, and the house was dark.

  She exhaled—a long, unclenching, diaphragm-deep breath. And that was when her brain processed the noise. The noise that had woken her up.

  Ticking.

  Haley’s blood chilled. She rolled over to face the nightstand. Her phone was gone, and in its place, right at eye level, was the egg timer.

  It went off.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STEPHANIE PERKINS is the New York Times bestselling author and anthology editor of multiple books, including There's Someone Inside Your House, Anna and the French Kiss, Lola and the Boy Next Door, and Isla and the Happily Ever After. She has always worked with books--first as a bookseller, then as a librarian, and now as a novelist. Stephanie lives in the mountains of North Carolina with her husband. Every room of their house is painted a different color of the rainbow.

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