Page 35 of Buried in the Woods Below

It’s just us, and the rusty carousel squealing in the background.

He takes a pull from his pipe and studies me, his yellow eyes squinting against the smoke. His face is round, his skin waxy. I’m suddenly acutely aware that I’m wearing nothing but black yoga pants and an orange sports bra.

“Yep, there ain’t too many of us on the island, ya know.” His words carry an old rural Minnesota accent, like in the movie Fargo. He extends a calloused hand and offers a stained-tooth smile. “I’m Russ. It’s a pleasure to meetchya.”

Hearing the name “Russ” chills my blood. I extend my hand and shake his, keeping my knees bent in case I need to run. “I’m Charlotte.”

His eyes squint, and I think he hears the quake in my voice, because he walks around me, giving me a wide berth, and watches the carousel spinning its morose turns.

“Never seen you around here. First time on the island?”

I consider running, but then I ask myself, what would Olivia do in this situation? She’d investigate. No fear. Find out whether he left the note. If he killed Heathcliff. “Yes. I’m here on vacation. It’s beautiful. I take it you live here?” I ask, playing dumb.

He grunts and takes three deep puffs from his pipe. “You staying with the Parkers?”

I say nothing, but my silence gives me away.

“Bet they didn’t tell you my family’s been here since the 1800s. Before that amusement park even existed, ya know,” he says, gesturing toward the carousel with the pipe, still looking away from me. I notice the deep grooves in the stem from a lifetime of smoking and gnawing.

“That’s a long time. You must love the place.” Another grunt and a plume of smoke around his head like fog. I screw up my courage. “Is that why you left that note on the Parkers’ front door?”

He hangs his head and chuckles to himself. “Note? I wouldn’t know anything about no note.” The carousel issues a shrill squeak, as if calling out his lie.

“Then I’m guessing you wouldn’t know anything about any dead dogs either, huh?”

He drops the pipe to his side and lurches toward me, a sharp eyebrow raised high on his forehead. “What? You say dogs?”

His eyes twitch, and sharp breaths rush from his nose. I wonder if I’ve overstepped. I backpedal. “Never mind. It was nice meeting you. I’ve got to get going.”

He runs a meaty hand over his slick, thin, receding gray hair. “Enjoy the island. Beautiful place. Watch out for ghosts.”

The words hang in the air like the smoke from his pipe, and I laugh a little too loudly as I backpedal.

His eyes follow me. “Oh, it’s no joke. You see that hunk of junk over there?” He points at a large, curved piece of metal leaned up against a tree in the distance. “Used to be a Ferris wheel. Back in 1908, a little girl fell off that Ferris wheel and died.”

My breath catches, and I stop in my tracks. I think of Olivia.

He blows more smoke from his pipe. “Yep, she’s been haunting this place ever since. I’ve seen her myself.”

I turn and start walking. Regardless of what he means, I have no desire to spend another minute alone in the woods with this man. “Ghosts, got it. Yeah, I’ll be sure to watch out for them. Thanks.”

“Wrote a poem about the ghosts once,” he says, his voice following me as I retreat. Another twitch. “Want to hear it?”

“Maybe another time,” I call over my shoulder, picking up my pace.

As I jog away, his raspy voice recites the words, each syllable echoing through the trees. I realize I have no idea where I am. A shiver runs through me with every word.

“Shadows on the wall,

Noises down the hall,

Life doesn’t frighten me at all…”

I break into a sprint.

“Bad dogs barking loud,

Big ghosts in a cloud,