They’ll find the phones. Later.
As he enters the outer maze, he hears the girl’s voice again, muddled by the rasping stalks inside the maze. As the sound disappears, he hears another voice. Lower, but not by much. A boy, this time.
He listens intently as he moves along the outer maze in the general direction of the calls, pausing while he waits for the sound to come again. Marco.
Head cocked, he peers down the long corridor of the outer maze. The wind swells, and when it dies he hears a shriek from the opposite direction. Then nothing.
It’s getting late. Almost 9:00 now, by the position of the Big Dipper.
He considers this, then walks toward the eastern edge of the maze.
Despite the size of the maze, it only takes ten minutes to get from one edge to another—when you have the convenience of a straight shot through the outer maze anyway.
When he reaches the east corner, he can just see the bales of hay at the maze entrance, where a spotlight blazes at the edges of the dark, buzzing plaza.
The old guard is still there. He’s still sitting down in the hay. It’s impossible to make out the expression on his face, at this distance. But from the way he is stooped over his knees, he’s either tired or bored. Probably both.
Satisfied, he turns back the way he came. As he walks, he listens, but he doesn’t hear the boy or the girl calling anymore. Just the usual drifting screams as the wind cuts then rises.
When he sees the dark, narrow roof of the old mill in the distance, rising above the waving stalks, he feels the pull toward the secrets it contains. The pent-up, frenetic energy inside that makes him eager to get back.
Three. There’s no need to force the numbers.
As he starts to walk back toward the mill, he hears a sudden peal of laughter.
It can’t be more than a few yards away.
So he stops. Listens. And carefully makes his way toward the sound.
He’s rewarded with a wet, slurping sound.
Kissing.
He feels inside his coat for the knife and touches the stickiness on the handle with the latex of his index finger.
Five.
CHAPTER 38
Norah wonders absently if she is going to pass out. But she keeps walking.
People stream past her in blurry waves, their faces featureless in the dark. She hears their shrieks and laughter as if she is floating underwater. Her vision has narrowed to a few pinhole pricks of light in scattered, snowy darkness.
She doesn’t know where she’s going. Just away. Out of the pulsing noise and flashing lights. Out of the crowd of shadowy shapes that brush past her.
Norah stumbles along the plaza wall, feeling the flannel lining of her hoodie catch against the bristly facade of hay. She walks until the strobing lights fade and the music isn’t so loud.
When she can no longer feel the beat of the music pulsing in her ears, she stumbles toward a row of bales near the entrance to the corn maze, nearly missing her mark and tumbling to the side. She knows that people are probably watching her. They probably think she’s high. And she is. But ironically, her high is the only thing keeping her from actually losing it right now.
She forces herself to take a breath. Flex her fingers. Close her eyes. Think about the breath moving in and out through her open mouth in smoky white puffs
It helps to sit down. But as the nausea fades and her breathing slows and steadies, an unexpected wave of grief breaks through the surface, making her gasp.
There had been no sign of Brandon in the cabin.
She’d known he wouldn’t actually be there, of course. But she’d hoped, so deep down that she hadn’t even admitted it to herself, that she might somehow feel him there. That a piece of the puzzle might click into place. That she’d see, somehow, that none of this had been her fault.
Anything. A sudden breath of cold air. A heaviness in the room. A sudden stillness.
She hadn’t felt anything.
It was just a rowdy crowd. Just an old, ugly cabin with peeling bark and garish lighting. Just a small circus held together by security.
He was just gone. And it was absolutely her fault.
As she’d lingered by the doorway, she was jostled onto the trail by the group behind her. They were upset there hadn’t been any blood.
Norah cut back through the trail until she found the exit she’d taken four weeks earlier.
She thought about all the time she had spent here tonight trudging through throngs of screaming, laughing kids and costumed staff. It was all for nothing. And she needed to leave. Right now.
As Norah had walked through the hidden exit pathway in the brush, her breath came faster and her fingertips went numb. The numbness quickly traveled up her arms as her vision began to drift. She wondered if she was having a stroke, or maybe a heart attack.
Surely that wasn’t possible at sixteen.
It didn’t matter.
Norah opens her eyes and takes in her surroundings.
She’s sitting on the edge of the Baby Maze, a small arrangement of hay bales that toddlers and small children can navigate when a “family-friendly” version of the Thicket and plaza is open during the day on weekends in late September and early October. There’s no one here now, of course.
Norah lets her gaze wander over the empty corn pits. Sand buckets and plastic shovels are strewn across the surface of the dried kernels, their white tips glowing faintly in the darkness. A row of plastic tire swings that have been cut and painted to look like rocking horses sway gently in the wind.
To her left, she sees the entrance to the real corn maze. A dim street light of sorts casts a narrow halo over a stooped older man wearing a beige security uniform.
He’s talking to two people.
Norah squints at them for a moment, feeling something twinge in her already volatile stomach. And then, suddenly everything comes into focus.
The boy isn’t familiar. He’s wearing the standard-issue teenage boy uniform. Hoodie. Jeans. But there’s no mistaking the girl. Norah can see the green paint streaked through her hair and across her face. There’s fake blood dribbling down the front of her outfit.
It’s Taylor Bennett.
Norah leans forward on her knees a little, studying the boy’s profile. She thinks he might be one of Aaron’s friends. His expression looks pained, even from here. Maybe a little embarrassed.
Without really meaning to, Norah slowly stands and walks through the Baby Maze and along the wall of hay until she is standing within earshot of Taylor, the boy, and the guard.
“And you got separated, how again?” the older man asks, raising his eyebrows knowingly and shuffling between one foot and the other like his heels hurt him.
Taylor makes an irritated noise in her throat and crosses her arms tighter against her coat. They’ve clearly been at this for a while. Norah notices that up close, Taylor’s makeup is smeared all over her face—mostly in the mouth area. “We just did. Everyone was doing their own thing, and—”
“Doing their own thing, huh?” The guard chuckles and then sighs, his mouth turning hangdog again. “Honey, we’ve been over this. What you mean is, they’re kissing in the corn somewhere, and they ain’t texted you back. They’ll come out when they’re good and ready.”
The boy in the hoodie clears his throat and glances between the guard and Taylor. “We heard, uh, some screams though. She thinks it was her friend.” He nods at Taylor.
Although Norah can only see one side of the guard’s face, there’s no mistaking that he’s rolling his eyes. As if on cue, a loud volley of screams rises above the melee in the dark, churning plaza behind them. “I bet you did, honey. I’m telling you though, this happens all the time. You’re supposed to get lost in the maze. And people are supposed to be screaming. You’re at a haunted house.”
Norah watches, transfixed.
Taylor crosses her arms against her sides, hugging the torn sweatshirt and coat. She glances at the boy, but he shrugs. None of
them have noticed Norah yet. “I told you, though. She’s not answering her texts. Which isn’t like Maren at all. And the scream sounded … different. I know it’s a haunted house. I’m not stupid.”
Norah suddenly remembers a birthday party she went to in middle school, at Taylor’s house. Her dad had made the cake. It wasn’t anything like the fondant unicorns she’d seen at the other girls’ parties. He had tried to use whipped cream for frosting, and the whole thing had melted in the backyard sun. Maren had tried to make a joke about it. Taylor had ignored it. But she’d crossed her arms just like that.
As Norah glances between Taylor’s ruined makeup and the guard—who is shaking his head at her again—she feels something shift in her alliance.
It’s something about the guard’s expression and the boy’s painful awkwardness. Or maybe it’s the sight of Taylor standing with her head down and arms crossed, insisting that something is wrong.
With nobody believing her.
Norah thinks of her call to Officer Willis earlier and feels her cheeks flush warm. She turns to walk away, back into the dark plaza.
Then spins on her heel instead.
Fuck it.
“What exactly is your job here,” Norah asks before she’s sure the guard on the hay bale can actually hear her. She gestures at the empty Baby Maze, the corn pit, and the dimly visible tire swings sarcastically. “I must be missing something. Aren’t you a security guard? They’re asking for your help. And you’re just going to sit here?”
The man shuffles his feet to stand and face her, turning his back on the boy, who sidesteps to keep a clear view of whatever is going to happen next. Taylor is staring too, her mouth a tiny O of surprise. Norah draws her own mouth taut in a tight line, waiting for the guard’s response.
She should have walked away.
The guard studies her for a moment then scoffs. “Do you know how many times this happens every night? The corn maze is like one big backseat in a Chevy. The only ones who ever go in it, after dark anyway, are the ones who want to get busy. And then I hear ‘I can’t find Jenny,’ from their baby sister when she gets cold. Just cool it,” he growls. “And stop wasting my time. It’s not even haunted. There’s a whole lot of corn out there. And then some more corn. The ‘missing kids’ come out like clockwork after about an hour. If I leave my post for half an hour to go looking for all of them, that’s a problem for everyone.”
Norah bites down on her cheek before she responds. She’s going to tell him who she is. Why she has every right to ask him to do his job, even if it is the goddam corn maze.
But she doesn’t. Because even though she can feel the patronizing disdain coming off him, she won’t trade it for pity.
“I’m making a complaint when I leave,” she states evenly, forcing herself not to break eye contact as she says it. “Come on.” She gestures to the dark mouth of the maze, wondering what she is doing even as she nudges Taylor forward in front of her.
“Knock yourselves out,” the guard says, waving them on. “Enjoy.”
Taylor looks stricken at first, tripping over an ear of corn sticking out of the partially frozen ground. She looks back at the boy, who hesitantly steps past the guard as well.
Norah’s heart crashes against her ribcage. And with each step she takes as she walks a little further into the dark maze, the regret hits harder. She’s still slightly high. But not nearly high enough for this.
“Uh, thanks so much,” Taylor says, still glancing back at the guard as they reach the first fork in the maze. He’s leaning back against the stacked hay, shaking his head and smiling.
Norah doesn’t reply. Because she doesn’t feel like being gracious. And because she’s self-aware enough to understand that she’s not doing this to be kind or generous or even to help Taylor. She’s doing it because she needed to tell someone to go to hell.
Because the anger, at least, is a spark in the darkness.
However, she is now on a wild goose chase to search for the girls who ditched her after middle school—and were just making fun of her dead brother.
As they walk deeper into the dark maze, Norah tries to form a plan of how they will search. “Check down that way,” she mutters, motioning for the boy to peer down a narrow, chattering causeway that appears to be a dead-end.
All the paths appear to be dead-ends.
She hears Taylor shuffle a little faster beside her and clear her throat. “I—I just wanted to say sorry. About before.”
There is a pause, presumably for Norah to say something about how it’s okay. Or about how she’s not mad.
When Norah keeps walking, Taylor clears her throat again. “About your brother, too. Brandon. I’m really sorry about that too.”
A feeling that’s too far away to deal with right now rolls in her chest. So Norah pretends again that she doesn’t hear Taylor above the rattle of the stalks.
From within the quiet of the maze, they hear a high-pitched wail float over the shifting corn, and Norah grits her teeth.
She’ll look for another fifteen minutes.
And then she’s leaving.
CHAPTER 39
Charlie’s feet hurt like a son-of-a-gun.
He bought a pair of orthotic shoes from a teenager who looked barely qualified to operate the cash register—let alone help him do battle with the forces making his feet feel like hot pokers. That probably should have been his first clue.
Still, he’d been hopeful. The smiling folks in the photos at the orthopedic shoe shop were walking around pain-free with their grandkids. Plus, there was the thirty-day money-back guarantee.
He looks down at the orthopedic shoes, crusted in a thick layer of mud by this point. He grins, imagining himself handing them back to the perky kid behind the counter for a refund. Thirty days, no questions asked.
Thicket management had found him a place to sit this year, at least. Last year this time, he’d had to ice his feet for twenty minutes at the end of every shift. And even then, he looked like a damn hunchback hobbling around on his nights off.
And yet here he is, standing at his post.
It’s been ten minutes since the boy and the girl came out of the maze, saying they couldn’t find their friend.
He’d handled the situation okay at first. Particularly when what he’d wanted to say was, “No kidding, kid? You can’t find your friend in the corn maze?”
But the girl wearing the big sweatpants was something else. She’d looked a little strung out.
Dave would probably chew him out over the whole thing. If the crazy girl who’d come charging out of the Baby Maze actually followed through with her threat, anyway. Still, Dave would understand. He was a decent manager. Not one to hand you your ass over every little thing, especially with the whole circus over the past month.
There had been more crazy than usual running through the Thicket this year, given what had happened—and that was really saying something. When you threw teenagers, sugar, and blood together, you had a legitimate nightmare on your hands under the best of circumstances. Someone was always tearing through something, screaming about something, peeing on something, taking their clothes off, or yelling at him about god-knew-what this time.
The “see something, say something” signs had only made things worse. He’d lost track of the murderers, ghosts, and devil-worshipers someone saw in the corn, or the plaza, or the mini-donut stands. Dave had taken him aside after the first week and told him to take the new security measures with a grain of salt. This was still Declo, Idaho, after all.
Charlie kicks at the hay bale a little, trying to scrape off some of the frozen mud and wondering how many years he even has left at a job like this. Not many. He feels his chest get tighter and stops the line of thought. The jobs he takes throughout the year are crap most of the time. Teenagers are morons, and his body hurts. But at the end of the night, he’s still glad to be working at all. Retirement feels like one foot in the grave.
Grumbling, Charlie shuffles out of the oran
ge light above the hay bales, to peer into the maze.
He can’t hear the kids calling anymore—but with the wind and the general mayhem floating across the plaza, he wouldn’t.
He shakes his head and turns back toward the stacked bales of hay, telling himself that he will rest his feet and enjoy the relative silence of the surrounding kiddie area. Someone else will come screaming out of the maze soon enough. He should sit while he can.
But in the stillness, the expression on the girl’s face presses at the back of his mind. He feels a twinge of guilt. She’d seemed like a nice enough kid. Not hysterical. And not dressed like the cast of Cabaret. He remembers seeing her walk in with a group. They’ve been in the maze a while.
If he had to guess, there are maybe ten people total—including the girl and boy—in the maze right now. Everyone else is waiting in line somewhere for the cabins or the mini donuts. He really isn’t busy.
He listens again, and this time he hears a high, short-lived screech. He thinks it’s from the maze. But it’s not really possible to tell.
Charlie has heard a lot of screams this year. Including, he assumes, the night the kid—and the scarer—were killed. Sometimes he wonders who else heard it happen. If one of the wailing, staccato screams drifting from the trails was one of them.
He’ll never know.
Which will never cease to bother him.
Two girls who entered the maze just a few minutes earlier tromp back through the entrance, smiling at him as they pass by and checking their feet for mud. It’s the usual protocol. Most kids step inside the maze, check it out, get some mud on their shoes, and decide they’ve had enough. The maze is dark and boring and impossible to navigate very well in the dark. The kids who spend the most time in the maze hole up in the furthest corner they can find and paw at somebody else’s costume.
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