Page 32 of The Woods

Alice puts the crackers next to the charcuterie board, refills her glass of wine, and gives her friend her full attention. “Do tell.”

“See that guy over there?” Libby points to a man sitting down across the room, who appears to be in his late seventies, wearing a navy-blue blazer and an actual ascot.

“You mean Thurston Howell the Third from Gilligan’s Island?” Alice whispers.

Libby laughs. “My God you’re a bitch, but yes, him. He’s lived in this neighborhood for thirty years. Not on this street but one over. His son”—Libby points to a man whom Alice recognizes from the Labor Day barbecue—“lives on this street, and he came with him. Anyway, the old guy told the entire story while looking down my dress.”

“Can you blame him?” Alice asks, glancing down at Libby’s cleavage. Alice has always been slightly envious of Libby’s curves.

“No, I guess not,” Libby says with a satisfied smile. “So, the old guy said that even before the Gordon murders, the house had a reputation. One of the daughters of the family who originally owned the whole lot apparently went nuts. Her husband and daughter moved out and she started performing animal sacrifices or something. Then she disappeared. And get this.” Libby puts a hand on Alice’s arm and leans in close. “Some kids playing in the woods one day said they saw her. Word got around and then people started calling her the witch in the woods.” She widens her eyes with excitement. “Alice! We were just talking about being witches in the woods!”

Alice doesn’t like this story one bit. In fact, it floods her with a sense of dread, the same kind she felt when they found all those dead animals. She can feel the dread start to mix with that low-level anxiety, never not thrumming through her body like swirls of paint, slowly rolling into each other to create a new color that will coat Alice’s mood for the rest of the night and beyond.

Is there a crazy old woman living in the woods? A witch who long ago carved symbols in her daughter’s floor?

“Oh my God, you don’t actually believe it, do you?” Libby asks, picking up on what’s happening inside of Alice. She can’t hide much from her friend. “It’s just an urban legend.” Libby rubs Alice’s arm. “I mean, a witch in the woods, it sounds like a fairy tale. Right?”

Alice nods and forces herself to laugh, though inside she wants to cry. “Right. I know. It’s just that rumors like that can be tough on the kids. You know how shitty teenagers can be to each other. I want Quinn and Polly to love this place, see it as a fresh start.”

Libby keeps rubbing Alice’s arm. “Who knows, nowadays kids think this kind of stuff is cool. Look how many true-crime TV shows there are, and podcasts and creepy TikTok trends.”

“How do you know about TikTok trends?” Alice asks.

“I got on there to see what Olivia was consuming every second of every day.” She shrugs. “Don’t tell anyone but I’m fully addicted to the damn thing now.”

Libby has only one daughter, Olivia, who is Quinn’s age. They used to play together when they were little, before their differing genitalia made them suddenly act like strangers.

“I hope you’re right about creepy being cool.” Alice takes a sip of wine, glancing around the room at her guests laying waste to the expensive charcuterie board and throwing back the martinis. Her eyes land on Geoff, who in the last few minutes seems even drunker than before.

Geoff

He can feel Alice’s eyes burning right through him from across the room. It doesn’t matter that Beverley’s on her best behavior. That Quinn’s new friend Jason is here playing videogames with him in his room while his parents enjoy the party. That Polly has come out of her room and is actually being social. Or that the guests all seem to be having a good time. Alice needs something to be annoyed at, and if all else fails, she can always find reason with him.

He’s drunk. Not so drunk that he can’t hold up his end of the conversation with this incredibly boring banker guy, but admittedly drunk. He preferred talking to the guy’s wife, who left to use the bathroom a few minutes ago; at least she reads books. She also had an ass that daily squats built. He’s pathetic. Lusting after some guy’s wife. He knows it, but it’s not like he’s being a creep about it. He’s keeping it on the inside.

He lifts his glass to his lips and realizes there’s only ice left. Giving the boring banker a pat on the shoulder, he excuses himself to get another drink. The bottle of bourbon in the bar cart is empty and because he doesn’t think he should mix drinks this late in the game—he learned his lesson last time—he’ll have to go out to his writing studio to get one of the bottles in there.

He considers asking if Ralph wants to escape with him, but he seems engrossed in a conversation with some guy who Geoff can’t remember if he met already. Ralph is also driving home from the party so has to stay sober, and Alice has accused him more than once of being a bad influence on her friend’s husband. As if Geoff pours alcohol down Ralph’s throat whenever they’re together.

Alice appears to be once again safely ensconced in a conversation with Libby, which means she won’t be coming up for air anytime soon to tell him he doesn’t need any more drinks. He takes his chance and ducks out the back door. To his delight, the boring banker guy’s wife is standing on her own on the back deck enjoying a cigarette.

“Oh,” she says when she sees it’s him. “You caught me enjoying my dirty little habit.”

He saunters over to her, enjoying the contrast between the bite of the late-September air and the warm, slow feeling he has inside, making him feel drunker. “It’ll be our secret, I promise.” He moves right up beside her and holds out his hand for the cigarette. “As long as you share.”

She laughs and bumps him with her hip, which as far as he’s concerned is flirting. “I didn’t take you for a smoker,” she says, passing him the cigarette. “You come across as the go-for-a-run-every-morning, eat-granola-and-lean-protein kind of guy.”

He puts an arm around her lower back, resting his hand on the crest of her very tight ass, planning to gradually let it slide lower, possibly cup it softly before removing his hand. Just harmless flirting, which she started. His drunkenness makes it easy to ignore the gritty feelings of guilt and shame that accompany the urges. He’s still a good-looking man for his age. He notices the glances he gets from women—just not his wife. Why let it go to waste? It only lasts for so long.

“You’re not wrong,” he says before putting his mouth closer to her ear. “I also like to smoke, and drink bourbon with attractive young ladies.” She lets out a low, conspiratorial laugh and he feels movement in his underwear. It doesn’t take much these days. He’s just about to slide his hand down, cup that ass even sooner than he’d planned, when the back door opens.

“Geoff?” Her voice is a nip at the back of his leg, and he drops the cigarette in surprise. The guy’s wife steps a safe distance away from him to extinguish it with the toe of her suede boot.

“Alice,” he responds, working at sounding more annoyed than guilty. She steps out onto the back deck.

“Lovely party,” the guy’s wife says to Alice before skirting back inside.

“What are you doing out here?” Alice asks, her tone suspicious.