Somewhere nearby, one of the neighbors is grilling hot dogs. The sweet, charred smell mingles with something earthy and overripe from the garden a few feet away. In the newly crimson hedges that form a line in front of the old wood fence, the first crickets are already singing. The crickets’ chirps stall and start as Jamie’s high, fast voice cuts through the stillness of the cool evening air. “He’s totally not as cute as he thinks he is either,” she’s saying. “Annie said she saw him in, like, a Speedo in middle school, and …”
Taylor lets her mind drift, wondering how cold it’s going to get tonight. It’s not even really jacket weather yet—not during the day, anyway. “Indian summer,” her dad keeps repeating, peering through the kitchen window at the garden boxes still loaded with red and green tomatoes. Still, the air has a familiar bite to it, and Taylor has a feeling that she, Maren, and Jamie will be piled on Jamie’s living room floor by morning. Like always.
Opening her eyes a slit, Taylor can just see a swath of neon light blinking from inside the house. In the living room, Jamie’s mom is a dark silhouette on the worn corduroy loveseat, glued to the TV. Snatches of indistinguishable rapid-fire banter between anchors drift through the open screen door a few yards away.
To Taylor’s right, Maren burrows deeper into her nest of sleeping bags and lumped-up pillows. When Jamie doesn’t even pause in her rant, Maren sighs loudly and pulls a blanket up over her face, leaving just a shock of short blond hair visible at the top of her purple pillow. Taylor stifles a laugh. Maren has been itching to interrupt Jamie, who has been ticking off an exhaustive list of Russ Nielsen’s flaws for at least fifteen minutes.
There’s an unspoken understanding that Jamie actually wants Russ to ask her to homecoming.
“He wears the same shirt every three days. And he bugs me for a pen in pre-calc like, every single day. Like, how is he going through that many pens? And why is he using a freakin’ pen to do math anyway? You’re supposed to use a pencil.”
The trampoline bows, then bucks, as Jamie throws her hands out in front of her in exasperation. She snatches at a long lock of ginger hair and begins picking at the strands.
Taylor closes her eyes and smiles.
Maren sighs heavily again, louder this time. “The shirt thing is normal. Boys do that. My dad still does that. And maybe he’s writing you a note. A really long note. To … ask you to homecoming.”
Jamie huffs, her voice rising another octave. “The dance is in like, two weeks. Two weeks. If he wanted to ask me, he should have done it by now. Everything is already picked over. I’ll have to shop at, like, the Dress Barn.”
Maren moans underneath the blanket, and Taylor can almost feel the eye roll. “Well, shit. Jamie might have to shop at Dress Barn. Do you guys still want to order pizza? I’m starving. Taylor? Please don’t tell me you’re asleep already over there.”
Taylor opens her eyes and smiles, sitting up a little in the sleeping bag and pulling the blanket off Maren’s face. “I definitely want pizza. James, how about you?”
Jamie frowns and flops onto her stomach, burying her head into a mound of blankets. Her hair cascades around her in a way that makes Taylor think of The Little Mermaid and consider dying her own hair that shade of red. “I don’t even care.”
Maren shoots Taylor a look that says, It’s your turn to save this sleepover.
Taylor considers her options. Then she bounces once and gently flings herself on top of Jamie, who lets out a squeak. “Come on, James. Your neighbor is over there grilling like, 500 hot dogs. There is actual drool on my pillow. I ate dinner at 4:30, which means it basically counted as a second lunch. I’m starving.”
She bounces a little more, and Jamie starts to laugh, the sound pealing through the backyard like bell chimes. “Okay, fine, fine, stop.” She pushes herself upright. “You’re going to make me pee my freakin’ pants. Screw Russ. Let’s go order pizza.”
As they troop back to the house, Taylor hears voices rising above the drone of the TV. Jamie’s dad must have gotten home.
“Well, I signed the petition,” Jamie’s mom is saying, her voice strained. “What happened was just an accident waiting to happen, if you ask me. And it could happen again. I don’t understand what’s so crazy about taking precautions.”
Jamie’s dad snorts. “Accident, my ass. That guy knew exactly what he was doing. Bad things happen, and you can’t stop them by turning the whole world into a padded room. What about the shootings at the post office? Let’s close that down too. That place is an accident waiting to happen.”
Jamie reaches for the screen door and shakes her head slightly, nodding toward the dark hallway that leads to her bedroom. Everyone’s parents and neighbors and PTAs are saying the same thing. Shut it down.
The online petition for a shutdown started circulating the day after the murders, following an interview with Norah’s mother—Brandon’s mother—on KQRZ. The petition has gotten more than 100,000 signatures so far. Not all of them from Southeast Idaho, either.
Taylor has agonized over whether she should reach out to Norah—who hasn’t been at school for a week—over Facebook. But it’s not like they know each other. Not really. Not anymore.
Taylor, Norah, Maren, and Jamie were in the same homeroom in middle school. But freshman year sifted them into different classes, different groups. Taylor, Maren, and Jamie took choir and attended National Honor Society meetings over lunch. Norah started wearing thick black eyeliner and got busted for smoking in the photography room.
“Hey, girls!” Jamie’s mom puts on a smile and pats the empty couch cushion beside her as she notices Jamie. She’s sitting with a glass of water clutched in one hand, the TV remote in the other, staring at the TV screen.
Jamie’s dad, who looks tired and cranky, rubs the week’s worth of stubble on his chin. As Taylor waves awkwardly, he mumbles a hello then retreats through the kitchen toward the garage.
On Channel Two, a woman with a short blond bob cut is standing in front of the ticket trailer at the Thicket, gesturing to a tech in scrubs. The tech is walking away quickly in the other direction, his face obscured by a blue paper mask.
“... Thicket announced that pathologists have completed their initial investigation. Degrading and contaminated evidence from the initial crime scene has created a nightmare situation for investigators and forensic specialists.”
“Hey, Mom,” Jamie says with a sigh and walks toward the couch.
“Hi, Mrs. Edwards,” Maren and Taylor say in unison, hanging back at the kitchen table.
Jamie’s mom looks like she is about to say something lighthearted, her mouth half-turned into a smile. But then the anchor with the blond hair starts talking over B-roll from opening weekend at the Thicket, and everyone leans in to listen. It’s impossible to look away.
“The Thicket is as old as Declo itself. The twenty cabins that dot the infamous wooded trails—along with a bunkhouse, school, mess hall, mill, and laundry facilities—were originally built in 1923 for the families of field hands and factory workers employed by Snake River Sugar Factory.
“After World War II, when most of Snake River’s staff went off to war, the outdated cabins sat empty. In the 70s, an investor purchased the land and wired the buildings for electricity, with the intent of renting them out for family reunions. However, the history of accidental deaths among the field workers who lived in the cabins, along with the remote location, drove him out of business.
B-roll of the original cabins in various states of disrepair flashes across the screen. “The land sat vacant again, a magnet for graffiti, vagrants, and even rumors of occult worship. Then, in the mid-90s, a second investor purchased the wooded portion of the land and turned it into the Thicket we now know, complete with a corn maze leased from Snake River.”
The news anchor smiles as if revealing a particularly important plot twist. “This time, the ancient cabins, graffiti, and rumors of occult worship became assets. The new haunted attraction brought a steady stream of
thrill-seekers to Declo each Halloween to explore the forest trails and enjoy the festivities in the plaza, the site of the original mess hall for Snake River employees.”
The anchor continues. “But the massive attraction that draws thousands from the pacific northwest didn’t come into its own until five years ago, when a prop malfunction resulted in the death of a staff member. That accident nearly closed the operation for good. Traffic dwindled, and an undisclosed settlement was paid to the victim’s family members.
Taylor has actually heard this part of the story before but assumed it was a rumor. She glances sideways at Jamie and Maren, who are now watching the TV in earnest, transfixed. Jamie’s feet are tucked against her mom’s, and Taylor feels a pang of jealousy.
“Despite the financial blow—and the tragedy itself—the incident is widely considered to be the cause of the Thicket’s massive growth and success. In 2012, the TV series Ghost Hunters featured the Thicket in an episode, using so-called ‘spirit boxes,’ and heat sensors to capture paranormal activity. The crew spent a night in the old mill to ‘commune’ with the staff member who had died in the accident.
“When the episode aired, Ghost Hunters purported that the Thicket was indeed haunted by the spirits of numerous factory workers, including the spirit of the staff member. The episode effectively put Declo, Idaho, on the map for every Halloween enthusiast in the Pacific Northwest. Since then, the Thicket has completed a massive renovation and expansion of the plaza, added concession stands, a DJ, and increasingly elaborate props and effects, earning it the honor of “Top 10 haunted houses in the US” every year since.
A new image appears on screen, an old map of the Thicket with a thin black X drawn over a section near the top of the map. The anchor says, “In response to public outcry and widespread petitions after the prop malfunction death, ten acres of the original Thicket, including the old mill, were closed to the public. Now, five years later, the Thicket once again finds itself in the crosshairs of public outcry and calls for a shutdown on the heels of the most recent tragedy. Still, some thrill-seekers have once again countered the petitions for a shutdown with petitions to keep the Thicket open.”
At the mention of the counter-petitions, Taylor feels Maren shift a little beside her. Jamie’s mom frowns, and for a second Taylor is afraid she’s going to ask about the petitions.
Taking the cue to leave, Jamie stands up and motions toward the bedroom again. “We’re going to order pizza, okay, Mom?”
Most of the counter-petitions have been started by students at local middle and high schools. Maren has started the one at Centennial—but nobody is supposed to know that. Especially not Jamie’s mom, who is gathering signatures for the shut-it-down side.
For the past two weeks, the Thicket’s fate has remained uncertain, the entire operation surrounded by caution tape, police cars, white vans, and a thick sea of onlookers from the county highway. Taylor reluctantly signed Maren’s petition after Maren swore up and down that the only people who would ever see it would be management at the Thicket. No teachers—and god forbid not Norah or her family.
Jamie’s mom lifts the remote and changes the channel as Jamie retreats. An elderly woman with a tight gray bun appears on screen, holding up one corner of a red-and-pink patchwork quilt to the camera.
“Sorry, girls. I know hearing about this awful situation nonstop must be so stressful for you. It’s giving me nightmares, but I can’t stop watching it.”
Maren and Taylor exchange glances. “It’s okay. You can turn it back on,” Maren says. “I heard they’re doing a feature about the creepy mask he was wearing later; you should keep watching.”
Jamie’s mom blinks. “What do you mean?”
Jamie, who has almost disappeared down the hallway to her bedroom, turns around. She shoots Maren an exasperated look. Shut up, she mouths. Then she calls, “Nothing, Mom,” and disappears down the hall.
Maren pauses, tucking a few wispy strands of blond hair behind her ears. “So, someone found the exact same mask that guy wore, and started selling them on eBay—”
Jamie sighs as she reappears from the hallway. “It’s just another story, Mom. Like, don’t even watch it. Nobody at Centennial has one of those masks.” From behind the wall, where her mom can’t see it, Jamie flips her middle finger at Maren.
Maren grins wickedly.
The masks were officially banned from the high school grounds that afternoon. And Taylor knows of at least two kids in her homeroom who have purchased one online. But details.
Jamie’s mom purses her lips and frowns at the woman on the TV, who is pointing at the quilt’s piping. “I can’t help it. All of this just hits so close to home. Those poor parents. I just can’t even imagine what they’re going through. Why would anyone want one of those masks?”
Jamie motions for Taylor and Maren to follow her down the hallway. “You should stick with PBS for a while, Mom,“ she calls again, turning back around and heading for her bedroom. “Take a break.”
Jamie’s mom sighs and turns back to the TV, watching the woman with the quilt for a few moments before flipping back to the news as she settles into the loveseat.
CHAPTER 11
His mind wanders through the segment about the Thicket’s history and a jarring commercial break.
But when the footage changes to an aerial view of the Thicket, he moves closer to the TV.
The camera in the helicopter zooms in on the dusky gray horizon beyond the corn maze, showing the black outline of a rooftop beyond the endless sea of waving stalks.
As the camera pans across the black rooftop, bringing the building into better focus, the blond anchor—Caroline—sums up the story of the old gallows malfunction. The incident happened five years earlier in the old mill. It nearly closed the entire operation down.
Unconsciously, he lifts a finger to his mouth and tastes the faint, metallic tang of blood.
He can still remember the feel of the lumpy sawdust beneath his feet in the old mill. And the heft of the rope in his hands. Coarse, thick, substantial, and unyielding.
He can still hear the onlookers’ incredulous gasps as the trapdoor above the corn sifter released with a hollow-sounding thunk, sending the redheaded boy swinging through the opening below, screaming and struggling as the rope appeared to pull taut against his neck.
The gallows illusion had been brilliant, hinging on a strand of razor-thin piano wire that snapped and hummed as it went taut, catching the boy safely as he fell. The piano wire was invisible to the audience, who saw a hanged man sway limply back and forth from the visible but impotent rope.
The gallows trick was an audience favorite.
Tim was the star of the show.
Until that night.
The story was all over the news five years ago. The death had quickly been ruled an accident, but the old mill and gallows act were no longer included in the Thicket. That section of trail had been permanently closed.
He remembers how the policewoman touched his arm lightly while he told her what had happened, tears pooling in his eyes and snot running down his nose. “The wire just … it just snapped, I guess. I really thought it was all part of the act. Just like everyone else. We’d done it hundreds of times before. Tim was such a good actor. I had no idea. By the time I realized…”
He’d been asked to work Concessions in the plaza for the rest of that season, scooping an endless stream of donuts out of hot, amber grease.
“We want you to know that we don’t blame you for what happened,” his supervisor, a woman with short, brown hair and wide hazel eyes, said. “Our lawyers actually advised us to let you go. But we felt that was excessive. This is our compromise.”
He hadn’t been hired back for the following season. Or the season after that.
It had been a disappointment at the time. But he didn’t mind anymore.
Things had a way of working out.
CHAPTER 12
“We’ve got almost 500 signatures,” Maren whispe
rs as Jamie shuts the door to her bedroom and locks it.
Taylor grins and flops down on the bed. From what her dad said, none of the petitions had any real legal clout to shut the Thicket down. The families would have to file an official suit against the haunted attraction, which could take months if not years. In other words, the petitions were mostly useless, and nobody at Centennial High School had a real say in the outcome.
Taylor figures her dad is right. He is an attorney. But still.
“How many more signatures are you trying to get? Jamie asks. Then, without waiting for an answer, she whispers, “You guys, Russ’s friend totally got one.”
“A petition?” Maren asks, confused. “I’m already—”
“No, one of those masks.” Jamie giggles. “He had it in his backpack today. He’s going to wear it to Maisie’s party.”
Taylor wraps her arms around her stomach and sits next to Maren on the daybed. Through the wall to the living room, she can hear the sound of the news anchors talking again. “Yeah. Maisie Barrett got one too. She put it on while Mrs. Jackman went to the bathroom during first period. Did . . . did you see the news story yesterday? With uh, Mrs. Lewis?” When Maren looks confused Taylor adds, “You know. Norah’s mom.”
Jamie looks up from her phone and wrinkles her nose. “No. What did she say?”
Maren pulls a pillow to her chest and unlocks her phone with a quiet click. “I saw part of it. It was super sad. They asked her about the masks—and the petitions—and she just freaking lost it. Total mental breakdown on camera. Ugly crying, and everything.” Maren scrolls through the photos in her iPhone and holds it out so Taylor can see. “Oh! And have you seen this shit? It’s so messed up. My sister sent it—”
Taylor squeezes her eyes shut as her stomach rolls. “No! I … I accidentally saw those photos a few days ago. I can’t look at them again.”
Brandon Lewis had texted three images the night he was murdered. He sent them to the three boys who were supposed to go with him to the Thicket. A bloody cow eye, a woman with an ax in her back—and a corpse in a bathtub filled with blood.
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