Rory.
“Georgia,” I called, voice halting. I dropped to my knees in the mud. “Come here.”
She was at my side in an instant. I heard the sob catch in her throat, but I did not turn to look at her. I was already reaching out to touch the sneaker. Hoping like hell it would trigger something.
I’d never been so relieved to see that telltale violet cloud over my eyes.
The fall lasts forever.
Longer than the slide at the water park the boy tried out last summer. Longer than the hill he and his brother sled down in the wintertime, when it snows.
Down, down, down.
He cannot stop it. It is too steep, too slick. He wonders how he will ever make the climb back up to the top. It will take all night.
When he finally hits the bottom, he jolts to a stop against the unyielding earth. His ankle burns with a fiery pain he’s never felt before. Broken or simply sprained, it doesn’t matter. He can’t put weight on it when he tries to stand. He can’t walk more than a few steps. It is swollen to twice its normal size.
He loosens his shoelaces, then tugs off his sneaker to ease some of the throbbing agony. It does not help much.
Tears track down his cheeks, drip off his chin.
He yells and yells.
For his mother. For his brother. For anyone.
But there is no one around to hear.
Not for a long, long time.
Not until nearly dawn.
When, finally,shecomes.
His scream tapers off abruptly when he sees her limping closer, moving through the trees like a phantom. He does not dare make another sound. He knows what will happen, if he does. He knows the legend by heart.
The witch has come to carry him away.
We weren’t alone out here.
The thought haunted me as I shook off the head-spinning aftereffects of the vision.
I did not tell Georgia what I’d seen. Not all of it. Not the very end. She didn’t need to know about the woman in the woods who’d carried her boy away, into the night.
The Witch of Salem Wood.
Rory’s childlike mind had leapt to the most natural conclusion, conjuring up a terrifying figure out of a familiar ghost story. But nothing I’d seen in his memories suggested anything remotely supernatural. The brief glimpse I’d gotten of her — that limping gait, that wild hair — only confirmed what I’d already suspected.
Whoever she was – whatever she was – Rory’s monster was the same as Annie’s.
If he had been taken, there was every chance he was still out here somewhere. Perhaps even in the same cabin where she’d kept Annie, all those years ago. And if he was… I didn’t think it wise to give ample warning of our arrival by shouting at the top of our lungs.
“Imogen—”
“Give me a minute, Gigi,” I pleaded softly. “I’m trying to remember the way.”
I pressed my eyes closed for a moment, conjuring the vision I’d seen in Annie’s fragmented memories. Playing it over and over, until it was clear in my mind.
Away from the cabin, down a short dirt road. Past a broken down car, red with rust. Through a swampy marsh, her sneakers making slurping sounds. Up a slippery slope, grabbing tree roots to keep from sliding back down…