Page 26 of Coram House

“Enough.”

My voice is stern, like I’m talking to a child with a flair for drama. I’m getting sidetracked. I wander back to the living room, where I survey the organized chaos. The stack of VHS tapes, still waiting for a VCR that’s been delayed yet again. The table is a grid of index cards and sticky notes around my master binder. Background information on Coram House, the children, the staff.

Usually, by now the story has started to take shape. Shadowy and incomplete, but the beginnings of a form clear within a block of solid stone—something I can take my chisel to. But, this time, nothing is clear. The story is there, but the accounts twist back and forth. Children who deal with real monsters are still children, seeing monsters where they don’t exist too. So how am I going to tell the difference? Or maybe all that’s just an excuse. Maybe I thought the act of ghostwriting would free me from my past mistakes. But the past is always there.

My agent called this book my comeback, but it could prove that my nerve is gone. Or, worse, that my sense of story has disappeared. I know I’m not a great writer. I’m a good-enough writer. But my ability to find the story within a mess of historical documents has always been my thing. There have been times in my life where I could actually feel it—that warm seeping sensation as the story takes form. Like the warmth that spreads through your body after that first drink.

The wine tastes crisp and faintly grassy. I press the cool glass to my eyes, which are hot and swollen from crying. Maybe I just need a day off from horror stories to clear my head. Tomorrow, I’ll go for a long run. Somewhere with trees and fresh air. Suddenly, I know exactly where I’m going. Rock Point. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the woods.

8

Even though Iknew it would be cold, the air still knocks the breath out of me. My eyeballs sting and my hands ache as I fumble to lace up my sneakers. Getting my gloves back on feels like an emergency. It’s past six a.m., but the sky is still navy blue. It would be easy to burrow back underneath my fluffy quilt, but my veins throb with nervous energy.

I’d dreamt of Coram House. Not ghosts or anything like that, just the building. The high, arched windows. Dust motes dancing in the light. Wide pine floorboards with knots so dark they looked burned there. In the dream, the building had been silent and empty. But still, I’d felt a sinking sense of horror. Like all those children—in the hallways, cleaning the floors, doing laundry, whispering, eating their meals, locked in the attic—had disappeared without a trace, leaving nothing behind.

Or almost nothing.

On waking, I’d thought of that cupboard, each shelf bearing a neat label.They called us by our numbers.The first thing you learn as a child is how to name things. If someone can take away something as fundamental as your name, it must feel like they have the ultimate authority to do anything they want. God’s authority.

I start my run with lazy loops on quiet streets until my muscles feel elastic. Then I lengthen my strides and head north, past the police station, its lights still glowing red. Past quiet, dark houses and trees that scratch at the sky with bare limbs. It’s early and most people are still in bed. I have the world to myself.

The sign for Rock Point comes sooner than I expect. And it’s a goodthing I see it, tucked into the shadows of the trees, otherwise I would have missed the trail entirely. A few steps into the woods, a large sign shows a map of the area. Rock Point sticks into the water like a thumb, with a three-mile trail looping the peninsula. South of the point is the bay with the harbor and downtown. North is the open waters of Lake Champlain. I lean closer. Coram House isn’t marked, but the graveyard is shaded in gray and, right in the center, someone’s drawn a skull and crossbones. Not far from here—maybe a mile.

My legs are starting to tighten up. I need to move. But the emptiness of the woods makes me uneasy. There are no cars on the street. No one walking their dog. The snow on the trail is fresh and untouched. I could be the last human alive. But I’m not going back to the apartment. The only other choice is to run. So that’s what I do.

The snow squeaks beneath my feet, loose and dry as sand. The sky is blue ombre now, but it still feels like night beneath the trees. The path passes between two lichen-covered boulders and widens into a clearing. Another trail joins along with another set of footprints. They’re small—a woman’s footprints. At least I’m not alone in here.

The trees thicken and the snow gets crisp and hard as if I’m running on a crust of sugar. A sign nailed to a tree promises a viewpoint in half a mile. The trail tilts steeply up and I slow to avoid breaking an ankle on the knobby, buried tree roots. By the time I crest the rise, each breath feels jagged as a shard of glass and I’m hoping this viewpoint will be worth it.

Abruptly, the trees fall away and I’m on top of a rocky cliff, a guardrail all that stands between me and the sweeping expanse of ice and water below. This must be the tip of Rock Point, right at the place where the ice meets the open water. A line between dark and light. A wave moves across the water, then meets the edge of the ice and tunnels beneath like a giant worm. I grab for the railing as vertigo washes over me.

Across the bay, another peninsula mirrors this one. A dock extends into the water where a pair of red Adirondack chairs and a dark lump—probably a BBQ—wait for the return of summer. Perched on the cliff above the dock, I can just make out a house. The shape is boxy andultramodern, but clad in raw wood that blends into the forest. A house wearing camouflage.

My toes ache. Time to start moving. I turn away from the view, already thinking about a cup of coffee. But there’s a monster on the trail. Huge with spindly legs and dark fur beneath a crown of bone. Puffs of white from nostrils big enough to swallow my fist. My heart squishes into my throat.

Moose.

The word takes too long to surface. Then it’s gone, crashing off into the underbrush.

In the silence that follows, a laugh bubbles out. A moose. It’s so absurd. Are moose dangerous? I have no idea. I listen for the snapping of branches, but all is quiet.

Then it’s not.

A raw howl of terror rends the air. Everything in me freezes—legs, heart, breath. Then it’s over.

Breathe, breathe, but I can’t find any air. My vision swims. I replay the sound in my head, but it’s like trying to relive the pain of a broken bone—a dull, faded version of the real thing. And now it’s so quiet I wonder whether I imagined it. But my beating heart says differently.

Was it the moose? But, no. I’m sure the sound was human. I don’t know how I know, but I just do. Someone out there is hurt. I think of the single set of footprints in the snow.

My breathing slows. I think back, trying to figure out what direction the scream came from. There was an echo to it, as if it were bouncing off something. It was close. And I’m almost sure it was coming from the north, back the way I came.

I retrace my footsteps, scanning the ground. But it’s only my footprints. Where had the others left the trail? I speed up. A minute later, I find an offshoot trail I hadn’t noticed before. Even with the yellow marker nailed to the tree, I might have missed it if it weren’t for the footprints in the snow. The trail leads steeply down toward the water.

“Hello?” I call. No answer. Not even wind in the trees.

Maybe someone fell and broke a leg.Then why aren’t they calling forhelp?The voice in my head is all sarcasm and raised eyebrows. It sounds like Lola.

Okay, maybe they just had a scare and screamed. Maybe they saw a fucking moose.

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