Page 22 of The House Beyond the Dunes

“So, there’s no ...”

“No,” she says quietly. “All taken care of.”

Kyle’s head cracks, blood sprays my face, and pain rakes over my body. He’s so still, and his vacant eyes stare toward the ceiling. I reach for him, and my fingers brush warm skin that still feels alive. He doesn’t move, and his chest is not rising and falling. I can barely breathe through the pain. I want to call for help, but I can’t move as his warm blood oozes toward my face.

The blood is gone. I can do this. “The entry code numbers are still 674510, correct?” I suspect the property management company doesn’t give that number out easily.

“That’s correct. I’ll change it after you leave.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure. You take care.”

In my car, I start the engine and turn up the radio. My gas gauge registers a little less than half a tank. That should cover the trip, assuming I don’t get lost. Once I find my purse and credit cards, I can fill up before the return trip.

I follow the signs around the beltway and then south toward the Nags Head exit.

“Demons chasing you back from the underworld, Lane?”

I blink, break my lingering gaze on the rolling dunes beyond the cottage. “No, monsters.”

Kyle tosses me a grin, and I catch my startled expression in the reflection of his sunglasses. “Where did you go?”

Nowhere. “I was thinking about you.”

He chuckles as he runs his hand over my shoulder and traces the underside of my chin. “Liar.”

Yes, but I stick to my story. “It’s true. You’re my dream come true.”

His hand moves to my breast. “I can’t wait to get you to the cottage.”

I really like Kyle, but it’s been a long time since I was in bed with a man, and I don’t want to disappoint him. The fact that I’m willing to sleep with him says something about him, but it also makes a bolder statement about me. I’m ready for a normal life. I’m tired of being alone.

I downshift and take the exit toward 168 South. Within an hour, I reach the Wright Memorial Bridge and cross over the gray-green Currituck Sound dotted with whitecaps. A gust of wind catches my car, forcing me to grip the wheel tighter.

The sky is gray and thick with rain as I take a left onto Route 12 and drive north past closed shops and restaurants. It feels as if I’m the only one crazy enough to be here now. When the brick Curritucklighthouse comes into view on my left, I pull off and drive toward the air-down station.

Air gauge in hand, I get out of the car, then glance up at the gray overcast sky. The weather app is calling for wind and rain. As a way of a greeting, an icy wind whips among the live oak trees bent and twisted by the constant sea winds.

I quickly kneel by the driver’s-side front tire and press the metal edge of the gauge into the air valve. Air hisses out as an ocean breeze swirls around me. The airing-down process takes ten minutes, and by the time I get into the car, my skin is ice-cold and my teeth are chattering. I crank the heater and glance at the gas gauge. One-quarter of a tank. Not a lot to spare, but enough.

Back on Route 12, I drive to the end of the paved road to a set of cattle guards. Pausing, I switch to four-wheel drive, and then I roll over the rails onto the sand. The engine strains, and the back end of the car fishtails slightly as I hit a moist patch of sand. Gripping the steering wheel, I’m tempted to slow or stop, but as Kyle did, I press the accelerator and power toward the waves.

The water is churning today, and the foamy waves are crashing higher up on the beach. Ahead, hardened tree stumps jut up from the sand, forcing me to arrow the Jeep toward the dunes. The wheels catch in the thicker sand, slow, and the engine strains. Most of the blackened stumps are tall and easy to see, but there are several that are short and nestled close to the sand. A few are marked with reflectors, but several could be missed. If I hit one, I’m liable to tear into the underside of the Jeep. I glance in my rearview mirror, catching the barren beach behind me.

The houses on the other side of the dunes are dark. I have no phone and a dwindling gas gauge, and rain is looming. This trip suddenly doesn’t make a lot of sense. It’s cold and wet, and if I get stuck, it could be hours before I can walk out and find someone to tow me.

“What the hell was I thinking?” I mutter as I lean toward the steering wheel.

When I finally notice the wire fence dividing North Carolina from Virginia in the distance, I remember my turn is up ahead. Finally, I spot fading tire tracks cutting over the path between the dunes. I gear down and nose the car west over the dunes.

Again, the temptation is to go slow over the rising mound of sand, but I press the accelerator like Kyle did. The Jeep fishtails, and the wheels slow to a crawl as the engine strains through wet, thick sand. I jam the accelerator to the floor, and after seconds of spinning in place, the vehicle lurches through the squishy wet sand and up over the dune.

My heart jackhammers against my chest as I descend toward the hard-packed sand road. I’ve left the modern world and entered no-man’s-land.

I notice a street sign that readsSANDFIDDLERROAD, and I’m oddly relieved. No-man’s-land surely doesn’t require street signs.

After a right turn, the Jeep’s wheels roll north past dark and deserted cottages. The house numbers tick down. Finally, I spot 123. It’s the last in line and closest to the thick woods to the north.

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