We weren’t far.
Half a mile.
Maybe less.
I opened my eyes. “Gigi.”
She looked at me. There were tears in her eyes — but precious little hope. “Yeah?”
“I know which way we have to go,” I told her, trying to sound confident even though, inside, I was anything but. “It isn’t far. But if you can’t stay quiet, you have to stay here and wait for me. Can you stay quiet?”
She hesitated a beat, then gave a small nod.
“Okay.” I swallowed hard. “Then let’s go.”
I led the way. Georgia, true to her word, stopped screaming Rory’s name. We crossed a marshy stretch of swamp, shoes squelching in the muck. Socks was up to his chest in it, his black fur caked brown by the time we hit dry ground on the other side.
The trees here were thinner than those in Salem Woods. Not towering maples or willows, but skinny silver-barked pines and twisted sycamores. Foxtail reeds and salt marsh grasses lined the banks of the estuary. I heard the croak of toads in the algae-blooming shallows and the warbling call of blue herons hunting prey.
Socks shook himself dry, sending sandy water droplets flying in all directions. He seemed no worse for wear, despite his filthy state. Both Gigi and I were shivering, but we kept going. There was no turning back.
Not now.
We were getting close. There, on the bank, was the rusted-out car, mostly hidden by overgrown bushes. There, just beyond, the dirt path through the trees.
Trading a glance, we followed it, not daring to speak, hardly daring to breathe. The narrow way curved to the left, we came around the bend, and?—
There.
A clearing.
And, smack in the middle of it…
A cabin.
Almost a shack, in fact. Tiny, ramshackle, and in a state of total disrepair. Its wood was rotting away. One strong gust of wind might reduce it to timber. The entire dwelling canted to one side. There were visible holes in the roof. What remained of the front porch had crumbled, either from the constant barrage of time or the crashing waves of coastal storms.
Perhaps at one point, it had been a nice place to live. A quaint cottage by the sea, perfect for fishing in the marshes and soaking in the splendors of nature.
That time was long gone.
It looked uninhabited. A place for ghosts and spiders and — I had to admit — evil witches in a children’s tale.
I gulped in a bracing breath as we stared it down.
Maybe Florence wasn’t so far off when she mentioned the axe-wielding hillbillies…
Georgia and I moved toward it, side by side, Socks tromping along below. Our feet trailed wet splotches on the ground. I’d never been one for physical violence, but I found myself grappling with the strangest urge to arm myself as we closed the distance to the front porch.
I wanted a gun.
Or a taser.
That, or a really, really thick stick.
Gigi’s foot hit the bottom step. It creaked ominously under her weight. In the quiet of the clearing, the noise echoed like a gunshot, rebounding off the tree line.
Shit.