Page 63 of Middle of the Night

“How many people do you think drowned in here?” Ragesh says. “I’ve heard at least a dozen.”

“Bullshit,” Ashley says. “If someone died here, we would know about it.”

Ragesh puffs out his chest, clearly annoyed to be corrected. “I meant, like, a hundred years ago.”

“This wasn’t here a hundred years ago. It’s all landscaped. It’s not like the Grand Canyon.”

It might as well be to Ethan. He’s awed by it. All this is within walking distance of his own backyard and he never even knew it. And while it’s still technically part of the suburbs, it feels like the end of the earth.

Adding to the strangeness of the falls is what lies beyond it. From the outcropping, the grounds of the Hawthorne Institute stretch outbefore them like some storybook kingdom. Directly below is the lake, which widens as it moves away from the falls, the water settling into a flat mirror that reflects the sky. It eventually splits into several small streams that meander across the property. Here and there, stone bridges arc over the water.

Nestled beside the lake is a meadow that slants upward to a vast area dotted with trees and various structures that Ethan can’t make out from this distance. He can only see walls of wood and stone.

Beyond them is a stone-walled mansion that looks as big as a library. It reminds him of the building at Princeton where his father’s office is located. It’s got the same look. Old. Stately. A little bit creepy. Ethan doesn’t like visiting his father at work because the floors creak and everything echoes. He doubts he’d like being inside that mansion even less.

“What is that place?” he says to no one in particular.

“The Hawthorne Institute,” Ragesh says.

“What do they do there?” Russ asks.

“Scientific shit,” Ragesh says. “It’s a research center.”

“Yeah, but what kind of research?”

“Iknow what they do.”

This is said by Billy, who’s inched away from Ethan and closer to the edge of the outcropping. Too close, Ethan thinks. Right on the cusp of dropping over the falls. But Billy doesn’t seem to notice that as he stares in the distance.

“They talk to ghosts,” he says.

SEVENTEEN

The wall, when it appears in the distance, sends a shudder of recognition running through me. It looks just as imposing now as it did thirty years ago. Maybe even more so, thanks to its obvious lack of upkeep. Some stones have broken off, leaving behind dark crevices slick with moss. At the top, rust clings to the teeth of the razor wire. It all suggests something not just forbidden, but truly dangerous as well.

Once I reach the wall, I follow the path blazed thirty years ago, looking for the gap we had passed through. It’s still there, making me think both stewards of the land—first the Hawthorne Institute, now the county—either don’t know about it or don’t care.

Passing through the gap in the wall, I get the same nervous chill I’d felt as a child. I shouldn’t be doing this. Not now, not then. The biggest difference between these two journeys is my fitness—or lack thereof. When I was ten, I was barely aware of the ground sloping higher as we approached the falls. Now forty and in only semi-good shape, my legs ache as I trudge onward. By the time I reach the outcropping, I need a minute to catch my breath. Then I peer over the falls and lose it again.

Billy was here all this time.

While I grew up, grew older, went to college, met Claudia, got married, Billy remained right here, unable to do any of those things. The unfairness of it—the downright cruelty—brings a tear to my eye that I quickly wipe away.

Although there’s currently no police activity at the base of the falls, signs of their recent presence are everywhere. On the lake, a small inflatable dinghy sits moored to a rock, the unsettled water from the falls making it bob slightly. On the shore, yellow police tape has been stretched along the lake’s edge. A bit of procedural overkill that nonetheless reminds me I’m looking at a crime scene.

Rescue vehicles have left large tire marks on the grass, including two parallel ruts in the ground that lead right to the water. I can think of only one vehicle that would need to get that close: the van that carted away what was left of Billy.

Sobered by that thought, I turn my attention to the rest of the grounds. The place has grown in considerably since the last time I was here, with the forest encroaching on all sides. Thirty years ago, I could see most of the outbuildings, even though I was too high up to tell what they were. Now, though, I can barely make out anything through the trees. Maybe the people who pay to have their weddings here prefer it that way.

The only structure that can easily be seen is the mansion. Even among the increased growth, it’s too big to miss. Looking at it now, I remember what Billy said about the place.

They talk to ghosts.

Scanning the institute grounds from my perch, I see no one else around. No cars. No people. Even though I know the area isn’t completely abandoned, it feels that way. As if the police, having recovered Billy’s body, decided to pack up only what they needed and left the rest behind.

I wonder if the same is true of the institute itself. While themansion is put to occasional use for weddings and parties, I assume there are areas where guests can’t go. It’s a big place, likely containing rooms that haven’t been touched since the institute closed. Is it possible that, just like the police here at the lake, the people who worked at the Hawthorne Institute left things behind?

I leave the outcropping and start to make my descent to the rest of the institute grounds, relying on the memory of my long-ago previous visit. There’s no path down. Just a steep, densely wooded slope studded with rocks and waist-high weeds. I step carefully, gripping tree trunks and ducking under branches. The whole time, I listen for noises like the ones I heard on the way here. The echo of footfalls that aren’t my own. If someone followed me to the road, I see no reason why they wouldn’t continue to do so here.

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