Page 24 of In Her Fears
“Was the back gate locked last night?”Jake asked, moving toward wooden gate at the rear of the yard.
“No, we never lock it,” Chloe admitted.“There’s just an alley behind us, and then another row of houses.The neighborhood has always been safe.”
Jake examined the gate, which swung open easily at his touch.“No signs of forced entry.No damage to the fence.”
Jenna scanned the yard, looking for any sign of struggle or disturbance.No obvious blood or drag marks.Just an abandoned telescope pointing at the sky and two empty beer bottles.
“Chloe, did Alexis mention hearing anything while you were out here?Seeing anyone unusual?”Jenna asked.
“No, nothing.”Chloe shook her head.“It was just a normal night.We were talking about her moving in with Ryan, looking at the moon...everything was fine.”
Jenna paced slowly around the yard, her trained eye catching nothing out of place beyond the telescope left out overnight.And yet her instincts screamed that something terrible had happened here.
CHAPTER NINE
Grant Mosher adjusted his worn backpack, its canvas faded from years of sunlight and weather.He checked his watch—6:47 AM, perfect timing.The early September morning was comfortable despite the slight chill and the trailhead of Whispering Pines Forest beckoned.The narrow path before him disappeared into tall pines whose needles whispered in the gentle breeze.
This was his ritual, his Wednesday morning escape from the insurance claims that would pile up on his desk by afternoon.Here, in the soft light filtering through the canopy, the world made a different kind of sense.
Grant took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air scented by pine and earth.At forty-six, he wasn’t getting any younger, but these weekly hikes kept him feeling connected to something larger than the cramped office where he spent most of his waking hours.Seventeen years as an insurance adjuster for Midwest Mutual had paid the bills, but it was these mornings—alone with his thoughts and the rhythm of his footfalls—that kept him sane.
The trail curved upward, familiarly challenging his calves and quadriceps.Grant had memorized every variation in the path, every gnarled root that threatened to trip the unwary hiker, every place where the ground grew unexpectedly soft after rain.The forest was busy with morning sounds—chickadees calling from branches above, a woodpecker’s distant percussion, the occasional rustle of small creatures in the underbrush.All of it folded into a comforting symphony that had soundtracked his hikes for nearly a decade.
His ex-wife, Andrea, had never understood his attachment to these solitary excursions.“What do you even do out there for hours?”she’d asked more than once, her voice tinged with barely concealed irritation.“Just walk around looking at trees?”He’d tried to explain the peace he found here, the mental clarity that came with physical exertion in nature, but some things couldn’t be adequately put into words.Their divorce three years ago had at least freed him from the need to try.
Grant unscrewed his water bottle and took a long drink, then checked his watch again.Just past seven.He had plenty of time to complete his usual loop before needing to shower and head to the office.But as he tucked the bottle back into his pack, Grant found himself considering the old hunting lodge that sat abandoned about half a mile east of his current position.He hadn’t stopped there in a while, though it had once been a regular part of his route.
The lodge had been built in the 1930s, according to the weathered plaque beside its door, and had served as a hub for local hunting expeditions until the early 2000s when the land changed hands.Now it stood empty, a relic of a different era, slowly being reclaimed by the forest that surrounded it.Grant had always been drawn to its sturdy timber construction, the solid craftsmanship that had allowed it to withstand decades of harsh weather and neglect.
“Why not?”he murmured to himself, decision made.He had time, and something about the crisp morning air made him nostalgic for the lodge’s quiet dignity.
Grant adjusted his course, stepping off the main trail onto a less-traveled path that wound through a stand of younger trees.The Forest Service had thinned this section last year, he recalled, and new growth was already pushing upward, determined saplings reaching for sunlight.The trail here was less defined, occasionally disappearing altogether beneath fallen leaves and pine needles, but Grant navigated by memory and the occasional marker carved into tree trunks by previous hikers.
Twenty minutes later, the lodge came into view, sitting in a small clearing.Its log walls had weathered to a silvery gray, and moss crept up the northern side, painting a verdant streak against the weathered wood.The steep-pitched roof, designed to shed heavy winter snows, sagged slightly on the eastern side but otherwise appeared intact.Two small windows flanked the central door, their glass long since broken by vandals or storms, now covered with plywood nailed haphazardly in place.
Grant approached slowly, appreciating the building’s solidity despite its obvious deterioration.The porch creaked beneath his weight as he stepped onto the planks, testing each board before committing his full weight.Through the years, he’d watched the gradual decay—a loose shingle here, a rotting board there—but the core structure remained sound, built by men who understood the forest and its challenges.
The door hung slightly ajar, its heavy iron hinges strained by the settling foundation.Grant pushed it open wider, wincing at the protesting groan.The interior was cooler than the warming morning outside, and considerably darker.He paused, allowing his eyes to adjust from the brightness of the clearing to the lodge’s shadowy confines.
The main room stretched before him, dust motes dancing in the few shafts of sunlight that penetrated through holes in the roof and gaps in the window coverings.The stone fireplace dominated the far wall, its massive hearth cold and filled with decades of debris—leaves, twigs, the occasional evidence of small animals seeking shelter.A few pieces of furniture remained: a heavy oak table, its surface scarred and stained; three mismatched chairs, one missing a leg and leaning drunkenly against the wall; shelves built into the walls, now empty of whatever supplies or decorations they once held.
Grant inhaled deeply, finding comfort in the familiar smell—old wood, dust, the mustiness of disuse, but underneath, the subtle tang of pine that had been worked into every beam and board.He’d spent many afternoons here over the years, sometimes reading a book brought specifically for the purpose, other times simply sitting in contemplation, watching how the light changed as it moved across the sky.
He moved further into the room.Something felt different today, though he couldn’t immediately identify what.There was a stillness that seemed unusual even for an abandoned building.Normally small creatures would scatter at his entrance—mice darting for cover, occasionally a startled bird that had found its way in through a hole in the roof.Today, nothing moved.
Grant frowned slightly.Nothing seemed obviously disturbed.The table stood where it always had, the broken chairs leaned against the wall in their familiar positions.He turned slowly, taking in the entire space, and froze.
Something hung from the center beam of the ceiling—something that hadn’t been there during his last visit.
At first, in the dim light, his brain struggled to process what he was seeing.A bundle of some sort, suspended from the massive central beam by what looked like rope.It swayed almost imperceptibly in the air disturbed by the opening door, rotating slightly to reveal different views as it moved.
Then comprehension hit him like a physical blow.Not a bundle.A person.
A woman hung from the rafters, suspended by her wrists bound tightly above her head.Her toes barely cleared the rough wooden floor.She wore a simple sundress, pale blue, its hem fluttering with the slight air movement like a sigh.
His mind registered details in disconnected flashes.Dark hair cascading down, obscuring part of her face.Bare feet, toes pointed downward as if searching for ground that remained just out of reach.The impossible stillness of her form.
Grant staggered back, his shoulders meeting the rough wall beside the door.The jolt stirred him from his paralysis, and just as he was about to bolt, recognition hit him like a lightning strike.He knew her face—an unsettling familiarity that sent chills racing down his spine.
