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“Of course she’s gone, dummy, she’s a ghost! Dey go away in da mornin’.” The boy next to her pushes to his feet, too, peering in alongside her.

I slap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing, still keeping flat to the wall. All three of them must be no more than eight, or nine, years old. Of course, I’m terrible with ages.

And kids, for that matter.

“Did you see her underpants? Dey had pineapples on dem!”

The girl slaps the boy on the arm. “You don’ look at a girl’s underpants, stupid. It’s rude.”

“Guys, do you think the boogeyman got her?” The third child, a blond boy who’s kept quiet this whole time, finally pushes to his feet. “I heard … it was TonTon Macoute. Mamere said he whacked that family up wit’ a knife.”

The smile on my face fades for an unbidden memory.

The woods. Blood. Clacking of bones. The lemon floral scent.

“Dat’s gross. Maybe she’s dat ‘tite fille. Daddy says she ran away to da woods. Never came back. He said her name is Letiche, and she roams da woods lookin’ for kids to play wit’.”

It’s telling which families on this island still speak Valir, in the differing accents their children speak. It’s strong in some, weak in others.

“Well, my momma said she got kil’t ‘long with da rest. Chopped her up into tiny pieces and ate her brains. Dat’s what the boogeyman likes best. The brains and eyeballs ‘cause they’re squishiest. Like eating gummies, but with the juice inside.”

“Ewwww!” the other two say in unison.

I can’t listen to this anymore.

In the brief quiet that follows, I jump out in front of the window and growl. “Get out of here!”

Loud, throaty screams of terror fly out of all three, as they spin on their heels and run off toward a pile of fallen bikes across the yard.

Damn kids.

The hell kind of movies do they watch these days that they can talk about eating brains and eyeballs like gummies?

With a shake of my head, I yank on my pants and boots, and head out toward the campground I searched on Marcelle’s phone. It’s a ten-minute drive up the road, and I park my car alongside a perimeter fence off the main dirt road, beneath a stretch of trees. Gathering up my bag and toiletries feels a little too familiar to me, and I think back to the first time Russ brought me to one of these places. I was twelve. Rattled and shaken. Nervous to have been driven miles away from my home, with a man I didn’t know. Had never met. One who had a more abrasive edge than what little I could remember of my own father. I took off inside that park and sought out an old couple, begging them to help me.

Russ found me, of course. He managed to convince the couple not to call the police. Told them I wasn’t right in the head. Lucky for them, sending me off with him was the right thing, because all throughout the years that followed, as many times as I tried to run, Russ always found me and brought me back.

And after a while, it began to feel like he was bringing me home each time.

Bag in hand, I hop out of the truck and jog toward the chain-link fence. After a furtive glance in either direction, where the road on both sides of me stands desolate and empty, like one of those post-apocalyptic zombie movies, I toss my bag to the other side and climb over.

“And just like that, I’m an official member of the Thousand Oak RV Resort,” I mutter, making my way toward the restroom with my chin cocked a little too arrogantly.

* * *

I pull the brown and white, floral print dress over my head, and adjust the ruffled lace along the edge of the deep V-neck. Hands stuffed into the pockets of it, I twist just enough to see the back isn’t tucked into my panties. Probably the girliest thing I own, courtesy of Tammy’s daughter. I fluff the damp curls that already saturate the fabric over my shoulders, and lean into the mirror to add a small bit of lip gloss and mascara. The only makeup I own, really.

These fancy bathrooms are nothing like the sucky places where Russ and I snuck showers. Each stall has its own toilet, sink, mirror, and a little charging station for devices. No towels, so I had to snatch one hanging out to dry on a line in one of the camps. But it’s like my own personal vanity room. The scent of mint and lavender fills my nose when I sniff my skin, before applying deodorant, and I run my fingers over my freshly-shaven and lotioned legs, before tugging on my camo hunting boots that look like an absolute eyesore with the dainty dress.

Bedroom Eyes was right.

They’re horrible.

Once finished, I gather up my belongings, unplug my camera from the outlet, and exit the stall, to find an older woman, in her sixties maybe, smiling back at me.

“Mornin’.” Her gaze trails down to my boots and back, and her smile widens. “Well, you have a nice day.”

Before she enters one of the stalls, I twist around. “Any idea where I can buy some flowers?”