Page 52 of Middle of the Night

It’s even possible that’s the reason Billy’s remains were found now and not five, ten, twenty years ago. Thathe’sthe one who allowed themto be found, because he knew the four of us had returned to Hemlock Circle.

More likely, it’s just me he was waiting for. His best friend who left and never looked back. It would explain the lights going on and off around the cul-de-sac—not to mention the baseballs in the yard. That also could be Billy, resorting to one of his old tricks to gently nudge me in this direction.

What to do next, I have no idea. The consensus suggestion of the websites I’ve consulted is to try to establish communication. Carefully, of course. Make a mistake and all sorts of things could go wrong. And one of the most common mistakes is to approach communication without utter sincerity.

I shut my laptop, pull out my phone, and call the only person I know I can talk to about something so strange. I count the rings, knowing there’ll be five of them before the call goes to Claudia’s voicemail.

“Hey,” I say after the beep. “It’s me again. I know I shouldn’t be calling you like this. But I have to tell someone or else I’ll go crazy. Maybe I already am.”

It’s not until I say it out loud that I realize it might be true. Maybe everything that’s happened the past few days, combined with the events of the previous years, have led me to insanity. It would explain a lot, including why I’m calling Claudia at one in the morning. Yet I keep talking, compelled to try to make some sense of it all.

“I think Billy might be haunting me, Claude.” I pause, picturing her weirded-out reaction. “I know, it’s ridiculous. But weird things are happening that I can’t—”

Ping!

At first, I assume I’ve again exceeded the limit of Claudia’s voicemail system and been cut off. The realization that I’m wrong comes a few seconds later, when I hear the familiar impatient beep from Claudia’s voicemail. Only then do I understand the first noise.

It was an alert from the sole app open on my phone.

The trail cam has just taken another picture.

I freeze, the phone still pressed to my ear, paralyzed by—what?

Uncertainty?

Maybe.

Fear?

Definitely.

Because what if this is indeed real? What if I open the app and see Billy’s ghost standing in front of the trail cam?

That thought alone is frightening enough, but there is also the bigger picture to consider. I don’t know how to live in a world in which ghosts are a reality. Does this mean I’ll start seeing more of them? Will they also try to contact me? Even more daunting, will I be able to contact them?

Bracing myself, I open the app. Instead of Billy, I see bare lawn and the forest rising behind it, with nary a shadow person to be found.

But something triggered the camera’s motion sensor, and I need to find out what it is.

I leave the study and head to the kitchen, where I grab a flashlight from the cluttered all-purpose drawer. Outside, I step cautiously into the backyard and sweep the flashlight’s beam across the grass and into the woods. The light catches something just beyond the tree line.

A blur.

Something in motion.

The sight of it elicits a yelp from me and more motion from whatever the hell is moving through the trees. In that moment, all I can think about are the stories about the falls and the lake and the ghosts of people who’ve died in it drifting over the water like fog. Is that what happened to Billy? Is he this blur of gray?

No, it turns out. For the thing in the woods quickly takes shape, turning from a gray blur into what’s clearly a startled deer. In theflashlight’s glare, I can easily see its white tail bobbing as it springs deeper into the woods.

Mystery solved, I remain in the yard, waiting. For what, I’m not exactly sure. Billy, I guess, stepping into the yard in ghostly form. Or floating. Or doing whatever ghosts do. Maybe he’s here right now, invisible in the shadows, quietly biding his time until I notice him.

I look back on everything that has happened in the past few days—the lights, the baseballs, the shadow in the woods—and wonder, not for the first time, if there could be a rational explanation for all of it. If so, I haven’t found it yet. Which, I suppose, is what makes something supernatural. That complete lack of rationality.

There’s a chance that some of it could simply be my imagination, fueled by guilt, grief, and a form of magical thinking. Then, of course, there’s Vance Wallace’s unfortunate condition, which confuses his brain into thinking he’s seeing things that aren’t there. Even the baseball appearing in the yard while I stood there could have a logical explanation.

I shoot a glance to the old Barringer house, where a corner of the second floor is visible over the hedge. A single window there faces my backyard. Maybe someone tossed the ball from there, although I don’t know who could have done it. No one currently lives there, and no Barringer has been inside since the mid-nineties. But it’s at least a hint of an explanation. I’m sure I can think of similar hints for every single strange thing that’s happened. It doesn’t matter that my gut tells me the opposite, that it’s all been the work of Billy himself.

I’m in the process of turning back toward my house when I hear something.

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