Stranger in the Woods: A tense psychological thriller

by Anni Taylor

  “It’s okay. Really.” I tried looking up a weather report on my phone, but the internet reception was completely down.

  Rory eyed my dead phone, looking edgy, which made me worry even more.

  After seven tense minutes, I spotted the low, greyish buildings of the town.

  Rory, who’d been quiet for those minutes, muttered something I didn’t catch under his breath.

  The café was closed and shuttered now, but the pub was thankfully open. Rory parked outside. We ran for it, heads down against the battering wind and snow.

  The interior of the pub was baking hot. A complete contrast to the world outside. A scattering of people sat at the bars and tables, looking at us with interest. I tidied my hair and clothing. Rory took my coat from me and hung it on a hook. The people here probably thought we were a couple. For the first time today, I considered the fact that I’d spent the day with someone else’s husband. Camille probably wouldn’t be happy about that, despite the fact that she’d apparently cheated on Rory.

  “Are you hungry?” Rory asked. “Think I might grab a pie.”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t feel like anything.” The church had taken away any appetite I might have had.

  Following Rory over to the bar, I sat on a stool, elbows on the bench top. Rory spoke to the woman at the counter, ordering his pie and asking about a room.

  He sighed as he looked back at me. “There’s just one room. She says it’s ours if we want it. I don’t think it’ll come to that, but if it does, I’ll take the couch.”

  I couldn’t help but grin at his awkward expression. “We’ll figure it out.”

  The pub smelled of woodfire and stale beer. A large fireplace close to us radiated the heat we’d felt as soon as we’d walked in. The pub felt solid and safe after being in a car out in the storm. Still, I hated the sound as the windows rattled with the wind. I wondered how they didn’t shatter.

  An elderly man at the bar noticed my unease and winked at me. “It’s a fair dreich out there, I’ll give ye that. But don’t you worry, hen. It’s not near as shite as it gits. I used ta drive aboot in much worse dreich an’ that. You know, it’s a green yule what makes a fat churchyard.”

  I glanced quizzically at Rory, hoping for a translation.

  Rory looked up from a text he’d received on his phone, seeming a bit distracted. “Dreich means foul weather. As for the rest of it, he’s talking about an old myth that says a Christmas without snow brings death. Basically, he’s telling you we’re all going to be all right.”

  I smiled at the old man. “Thank you. I’m not used to this kind of weather.”

  Rory ordered us a couple of drinks—both beers. I wasn’t a fan of beer, but Rory insisted I needed to try a good Scottish beer while in Scotland. I sipped at it. He’d chosen a heavy, malty beer that had a touch of coffee. It was good. Maybe exactly what I needed right now.

  His phone rang then, and he turned aside to answer it.

  The old man on the other side of me began chatting to me enthusiastically now that he’d learned I wasn’t Scottish. But with his strong accent and turn-of-phrase, I only picked up half of what he said.

  I caught snatches of Rory’s conversation, even though his back was to me. I’m doing exactly what I said I’d do. It’s not what I would have wanted. But I’ve got no choice. You’ve given me no choice. You—

  He stopped talking suddenly. I guessed his phone reception had dropped out.

  His movements growing agitated, Rory unwrapped his scarf and tugged at the collar of his shirt.

  A woman served his pie at the counter. Rory twisted around to take it, nodding at her and putting his phone away. I caught a quick glimpse of the bare skin on his lower neck before he adjusted his scarf.

  I saw something that made my breath stop.

  He had a tattoo. Of a cross. With a rose in the middle.

  My blood iced.

  It was the same cross I’d seen on the man in my dream. The exact same. In the exact same place.

  I glanced away quickly.

  Lots of people had tattoos of crosses. It was common.

  But was it common right there above the left collarbone? And like the one that I remembered?

  Breath slowed in my lungs.

  It can’t be Rory who hurt me. It can’t be.

  If it was Rory, why would he insist on taking me to the place where it happened? Why would he risk bringing my memory back?

  Or did he just want to test me, to find out if I’d remember or not?

  Think.

  Rory had advised me not to tell anyone about my trip to the church. Was that because he didn’t want anyone to know where I was?

  Was the storm even that bad that we couldn’t keep travelling? The old man didn’t seem to think so. Had Rory stopped here for another reason?

  I’d trusted Rory without giving it much thought. He was a local teacher. He’d seemed so earnest, so determined to find out what happened to Elodie. But even with that, his behaviour had seemed quite unusual, the way he’d gone through Elodie’s things in her bedroom. Even the way he’d attached himself to me and made us a team—maybe that had been odd, too.

  There’s no way out, now. How can I get away?

  My legs trembled. My head was a scattered mess.

  “Just going to find a bathroom.” I managed a smile at Rory.

  “You okay?” he said.

  I nodded.

  The bathroom was across the room. The entire room felt as if it had tilted as I walked through the tables and chairs.

  Stay calm. You’re safe. There are people here.

  When I reached the bathroom, I barely made it to the sink before I vomited.

  I wiped my mouth, cleaned out the sink and stepped over to the window. The window looked out on a paddock. There was really nothing else around here, in every direction. The pub was the only place open.

  What if the handful of people who were here all went home soon? The pub might shut up at a certain time. There might be no one else staying in the small motel section. This wasn’t the touristy time of year. And this town wasn’t in a particularly touristy spot.

  If I stayed, I could end up alone with Rory.

  This was a crazy situation.

  Angling my head, I eyed the road. Two vehicles passed. People were still driving out in the storm.

  A truck stopped outside and the driver brought a large box into the pub.

  I took my phone out of my pocket. There was no reception. Maybe the pub would let me borrow their landline phone. But who would I call? No one could come and get me. Not Greer and not a taxi. No one was going to come out in this.

  The driver jumped back into his truck. I stared out the window. Could I get a ride with him? A big truck should be good enough to withstand the storm.

  But as I watched, he pulled the truck back onto the road and drove away.

  My chance was gone.

  35

  ISLA

  I had to make a decision, one way or another. Doing nothing was a decision as much as any other.

  Touching my fingertips to the icy panes of glass, I watched another car pass by on the road. There was sporadic traffic out there.

  It might be possible to flag someone down. The thought of that chilled me. I’d never hitchhiked in my life. Hitchhiking had always struck me as dangerous, even without my mother’s dire warnings.

  It was freezing in this bathroom. It was going to be many times colder out there. And I no longer had my coat. Unless I walked back through the pub and got it. But I could hardly walk across the floor in front of Rory, grab the coat and just run out of here.

  I was aware of blood pumping through my veins. I made my decision. I was going to head out to the road and flag someone down.

  My knuckles were cold and stiff as I unlocked the window and shoved at the aged timber.

  Snow blustered in through the opening. I wound my scarf up high, over my nose. I knew nothing about walking out into this kind of temperature. I
hoped someone would come along soon—a family in some big, stable SUV maybe. Someone safe.

  The wind seemed to blow straight through my flesh and into my bones. The storm was so loud, I could barely think.

  I trudged through the snow drifts, walking away from the pub and towards Greenmire. My leg hurt. I hoped I wouldn’t get the stitches wet—if snow got in through the tops of my boots, it could happen.

  Stinging tears wet my eyes. I kept walking, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do this for long. Any minute, the cold was going to force me back to the pub. And Rory was going to know I’d been out here. I was certain my face was already stung red.

  Twin lights shone yellow through the swirls of snow in the air.

  The piercing sound of a horn made me jump. I turned to see a small truck. It passed me and then pulled over.

  I ran to catch up with it.

  The man that leaned across to open the door for me was middle-aged, his black eyebrows bushier than his hair. “What’s up, love?”

  “My car broke down,” I shouted above the wind. “I need to get to Greenmire.”

  “Greenmire? Might be a while before you can get back to get your car. Tomorrow-like. Storm’s not going to let up.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Is it okay? Is this man really okay? He looked okay. So had Rory. But this driver might be my only option right now.

  “You’d better get in, then. Greenmire’s on my route.”

  “Thank you.” My heart raced as I climbed up into the seat. With difficulty, I pulled my sore leg in and closed the door behind me.

  “What’s up with your foot?” he said.

  “I was in a car accident a few days ago.” At least I was telling the truth now.

  “A car accident? You’re not having much luck, are you? What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Isla.”

  “I’m Ted. Big Ted.” He laughed. “Are you here for a holiday?”

  “I wish. I’m here working. Photography assignment.”

  “Well, I hope you didn’t just get here. We’ve had a good stretch for the past couple of weeks. Not a huge amount of rain.”

  “I’ve been here about that amount of time. It’s been lovely.” In Sydney, even in winter, the weather of the past fortnight would have been seen as dismal. But it wasn’t dismal, not when the landscape was beautiful and not when you dressed warmly. The only dismal spots were the things that had happened that I couldn’t explain.

  God. Rory. Why had I even agreed to him driving me to the church?

  Snow and wind pummelled the windscreen. I didn’t know how the driver could even see well enough to drive in this, but he seemed confident.

  Half an hour along the highway, the storm either began to ease or it hadn’t been as severe closer to Greenmire.

  We neared the main street of the town. I noticed the small police station that stood beside an aged willow tree. I’d passed by it a few times now.

  “Actually, could you stop here?” I asked.

  “Here? It’ll be a bit of a hike into town.” He looked out through the passenger side window. “Oh, it’s the police station you’re wanting?” He eyed me keenly as he parked the truck. “You’re in a wee spot of trouble, are you?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Thanks so much for helping me. I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

  “Ach, that’s why you were out there on the side of the road? You should have said something. I would have radioed the police.”

  “I couldn’t get my head together. But I do now.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  I thanked him profusely and told him I was fine when he offered to help me out. He pulled the truck away as I made my way through the wind and into the police station.

  The interior was tiny—a small counter with a single office behind it. A young man with short, white-blonde hair looked up at me expectantly.

  “Is it possible for me to see Officer Bradley? Tash Bradley?” She was the officer who’d been there when we found Stella. At least she seemed a bit familiar.

  “‘Fraid not,” he said. “She’s out at the moment. I’m Officer Flanagan. Can I help you?”

  “Kirk Flanagan, by any chance?” I remembered Greer saying that the people who owned the property directly behind the McGregors—the Flanagans—had a police officer son named Kirk.

  “Guilty as charged.” He smiled at his own joke. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  I exhaled, gathering strength. “I think I might have something to report.”

  “Right.” He surveyed me. “You think you might?”

  “No, I—I do.”

  “Okay, what’s your name?”

  “Isla Wilson.”

  Taking out a notepad, he wrote my name down. “Hey, weren’t you the one who informed police about the location of Stella Keenan recently? You’re staying there at Braithnoch at the moment?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Is this related to Stella?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Go ahead, then.”

  “This is difficult. I was in Scotland years ago. I suffered an incident that I don’t fully remember. I kept remembering…a place. I found that place today. It’s about an hour up the highway, towards Inverness. It’s a small church—a church that hasn’t been used in a long time. Like I said, I can’t completely remember, but I suspect that I was drugged and taken there. I remember being hurt by someone.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “That’s…quite a thing that you’re telling me.”

  “I know.”

  “When did you say this happened?”

  “I’m not sure of the exact day, or exact week. It was two years ago.”

  “You don’t have an exact month?”

  “I can get that for you.” My mother should be able to tell me that. It had to be just before she came to Scotland to get me.

  “Okay,” he said. “Do you have the exact location of the church?”

  “Yes. I could point it out on a map.”

  “Good. I’ll get that from you in a minute. You say you went there today?”

  “Yes, this morning. I went with a school teacher from Greenmire. Rory Kavanagh.”

  “Rory? Okay.”

  “You know him?”

  “Very well. Small town and all.”

  I immediately felt uncomfortable.

  “So, you went to this church today?” he asked. “Can you tell me the purpose of your visit?”

  “Yes. I went there to try to jog my memory. To see if it really was the place that I’d been remembering.”

  “You entered the church?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t locked.”

  He frowned, scribbling on the notepad. “Go on.”

  I closed my eyes. “It was the same place that I remembered. And it had a piano, just like the one I’d heard before. And in one of the rooms…there was an old mattress. It’s got blood all over it. It’s my blood.”

  He blew out a long, surprised breath. “Well, that’s not good. You said someone hurt you at this church What happened?”

  “I can’t tell you precisely what happened. I remember…a lot of pain.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “Just one thing. The man who carried me out of the church had a tattoo. Just below his neck.”

  “Can you describe the tattoo? Better still, can you draw it?” He pushed the notepad and pen towards me.

  I made a quick sketch of the cross tattoo.

  The officer glanced from me to the sketch and back again. “Are you certain that was the tattoo?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “Hmmm. There are a few people around town with this design.”

  “There are?” The possibility of more people here with the same tattoo hadn’t entered my mind.

  “So,” he said, “you think someone who has this tattoo hurt you?”

  “I have a memory of it.”

  “What do you remember them doing to you?”

 
“I don’t know. I just…know this person was there at the time.”

  “Where’s Rory now?” he asked.

  “At a pub somewhere between Inverness and Greenmire. I left him behind.”

  “Wait, was it Rory you were worried about?”

  I couldn’t be at all sure of that now. If the cross tattoo was a common tattoo around here, then I could no longer say that it was Rory who’d hurt me.

  “Look, I…I need some time. Can I get back to you?”

  He studied my face for a moment, his pale blue eyes fixed on me. “Okay, well, sounds like a good plan. I’ll need an approximate date that the alleged incident occurred. And some more details, when you have them. Otherwise, I’m going to have difficulty making a start with this.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  He glanced past me, to the snowstorm outside. “How are you getting back to Braithnoch?”

  “I’m not sure. A cab or something.”

  “Won’t be able to get a cab, I’m afraid. Seems like you’ve had a rough day. I’ll drop you there.”

  There was something odd in his manner. Ever since I’d drawn the tattoo for him, his tone had changed and become more focused. But he was a police officer—I could trust him, couldn’t I?

  36

  ELODIE

  Greenmire, Scottish Highlands, December 2015

  Elodie tried to push the dark, confusing thoughts away and think about good things. But it was a struggle. It was exhausting her just to think.

  She tried thinking about Christmas.

  But immediately, she felt anxious. Because she was supposed to be spending Christmas with the new baby and she couldn’t do that if she was stuck here in the hospital. The larch cones she’d started painting were all still in the cottage. She’d been doing them with Stella. Did Mum know to put them up around the lounge room as decorations? They were supposed to be for the baby, to celebrate her first Christmas. And they were for Mum, too, to make her feel happier. Elodie hadn’t had a chance to paint all of them yet, but she would when she got out of here.

  How long would she be here in this hospital bed? No one was telling her that. She wanted to go home. She wanted to play soccer again and paint and play pretend house in the ruins up on the hill.