I AWOKE WITH a dull pain pulsing in the back of my head. It kept time with the rhythm of the wind pounding against the walls of the house. The headache had been there since the previous night at the gas station. It had receded some since the encounter, but it lurked in the back of my mind like the wind lingered outside.
My vision spun for a second as I sat up on the couch where I had slept. I'd taken to crashing either at Jeremey's place or Lydia's after my parents moved away and sold the house. I guess I could have afforded an apartment somewhere, but I was living a low maintenance lifestyle at the time. My minimal belongings were distributed evenly between Lydia's room, Jeremey's place, and my car, and I think Jeremey liked the company anyway.
It was already past noon. I considered raiding Jeremey's fridge, but my need for a smoke outweighed my hunger.
I pulled on my sweatshirt and slipped my feet into my pair of used-to-be-white Converse. The backs of the heels were worn down flat because I tended to wear them like slippers with the laces tucked in—too lazy to tie the poor things.
My pack of cigarettes lay where I'd left it on Jeremey's coffee table, next to my BIC lighter. I really needed to get a Zippo because of the wind, but getting one seemed to me like accepting defeat. I shoved the pack into the back pocket of my jeans and kept the lighter in hand as I trudged toward Jeremey's porch.
The door gave a gentle creak as I swung it open. Cool air stung my lungs, and the screen porch walls groaned with each gust of wind. Jeremey was already sitting in his spot and rolling something on the clouded-glass end table.
"Don't get your hopes up, Harper, it's just tobacco." He must have known I'd be eyeing the cigarette, because he didn't even look up from his work as he said it.
"I wasn't looking for anything else," I said, which was half-true.
I sat down in the wicker recliner, lit a cigarette and took a drag, immediately feeling a bit more relaxed as some of the pain in my head subsided. I'd invented the idea that I had anxiety problems. I didn't, but lying to myself that I was smoking because I needed it to calm down made it easier to justify. Really, I was just addicted, plain and simple.
I stared at the dogwood in the yard across the street. Its leafless branches strained to stay on the tree as the wind knocked them around. Jeremey and I had always wished it'd been in his yard when we were kids so we could climb it. We'd tried anyway once, but Mr. Baxter had this mean as shit beagle named Ralphie that he let out on us. Dog bit me right on the ankle as he chased us off his lawn, growling and barking the whole time.
Dog's dead now. Mr. Baxter's in Florida.
Might as well be dead, too.
"Did you hear someone bought the old farmhouse on Clay Road?" Jeremey asked as he finished rolling.
"No shit?" A chill danced up my spine. The old building stood at the edge of town, looming over Millstone like a scarecrow watching its crops. "That place has been abandoned for at least a year."
"At least," Jeremey emphasized my words, sticking the hand-rolled cigarette between his teeth. He leaned towards me, and I lit it for him.
"Yeah, apparently the guy that bought it paid cash," he continued after taking a puff. "Can you believe that?"
"I mean, how much could it have cost, really?" I chuckled, trying to shake the feeling of unease that had crept over me. The stories we'd told about the farmhouse when we were kids buzzed around my mind. Even back when Mr. Jones and his wife had still lived there, we'd joked that the place was haunted, daring each other to venture past it on our bikes at night.
"The place looks like it's about to fall down," I finally continued. "Bet there's rats and feces all over that shit-hole."
Jeremey shrugged. "I don't know, man. There's a lot of acres on that lot. Maybe the guy that bought it plans to use the land for something."
"Use the land, what, like for farming?" I asked. "Do people even still do that anymore?"
"Are you an idiot, Harper? Do people still farm? Where do you think your food comes from, dumbass?"
"I know people still farm, Jeremey. I'm not stupid. I just meant around here. Small scale stuff. I thought it was mostly industrial, big farms and all."
Jeremey shook his head. "Used to be a lot of small, family-owned farms in this town, you know? Back in the 70's, I think."
"Neat," I replied, my sarcasm as heavy and thick as the tar in my lungs.
We sat in silence for a while as we smoked, and I started to shiver. The porch kept most of the wind at bay, but it did nothing to fend off the cold March air.
"I met a guy at the gas station last night," I finally broke the silence. "Said he was in town for beekeeping. What do you think that means?"
"Jesus, Harper." Jeremey ran his hand back through his ginger-brown hair, shaking his head. "Lydia must only like you for your looks. Sometimes I wonder if you actually are stupid. It probably means he, duh, keeps bees."
"I know that. But what does he mean by being 'in town' for it?"
Jeremey shrugged again. "Maybe he's the guy that bought the farmhouse. Maybe he plans to keep bees there."
"I guess so." I shuddered at the thought. Of all places, why would someone choose to live there?
"It would make sense." Jeremey interrupted my thoughts as he put the stub of his cigarette out in the chipped ashtray. "I think I'm going to grab some lunch, you want anything?"
"As long as it isn't kale," I replied, trying to push the farmhouse from my mind. "Lydia's on this health food kick, and I can't stand it."
"Burger King?"
"Perfect."
I followed Jeremey out to the street. The wind tossed my hair around as we walked, and I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up to cover it.
Jeremey unlocked his silver Focus, parked right in front of my white Camry. I climbed into the passenger side, moving assorted debris from the seat to the floor. As soon as Jeremey started the car, I turned the heat up as high as it would go and held my hands in front of the vents. It rushed out in a cold gust, and I impatiently waited for it to warm up. As we pulled out onto the street, I considered lighting another cigarette, but that would mean opening the window, and I wasn't willing to tolerate the cold.
Jeremey drove the two miles to the Burger King, and I watched the small ranch houses pass by, some with flags on brushed-aluminum poles billowing in the wind, all of the yards quiet and empty. Yellowed grass clung like tangled hay in the lawns, dead from the icy winter and waiting for the wind to finally pick up enough to whisk it away.
Finally, Jeremey turned off the road and into the Burger King parking lot, shared with the pharmacy to the left and the post office at the back. I watched as a kid wheeled a bike that was way too small for him towards the post office. The earth dropped off into a shallow ravine back there, and the kids had carved out dirt trails for jump tricks. It was also a known spot for drug deals, but that was mostly after dark.
When we were kids we'd called it Devil's Blood Creek. The water ran red through the ravine, and child's lore said it was because it had the blood of the Jersey Devil in it, or perhaps that of his prey. Much to our disappointment, there was no Devil's blood in that water, just tannic acid leeching out of the cedar trees that cloaked the Pine Barrens.
The kid disappeared behind the post office. The trees swayed in the surging wind as they swallowed him up. Who knew what the darkness of the forest held. Maybe there were devils out there, hiding and waiting for their next meal.
I exhaled heavily through my nose and shook my head, trying to clear the last remnants of my headache. I turned my gaze away from the tall pines as Jeremey pulled up alongside the white bricks of the drive-thru. We stopped right before we reached the microphone. There was only one vehicle in front of us—a beige pickup truck with Pennsylvania plates.
"Check it out." I pointed out the front windshield. "That's the truck I saw at the gas station last night. The one with the guy that was talking about beekeeping."
"Hmm." Jeremey didn't seem nearly as interested as I was.
The truck pulled forward, and Jeremey let the Focus coast up to the microphone. He rolled down the driver's side window a crack, and a breath of cold air gusted into the car.
"Can we get—" He paused for a second and looked at me. "What do you want?" he mouthed.
I shrugged. I hadn't thought about what I wanted to eat. I was too distracted thinking about the pickup in front of us.
Jeremey rolled his eyes and placed an order for two cheeseburgers and two large fries. I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket and handed him ten dollars as we drove up to the first window. The truck was still in front of us, waiting at the last window to get his food.
"We should follow him," I suggested. "See where he goes."
"What? Why?" Jeremey handed the girl at the window the cash, and she gave him back a dollar and some change, all of which he tossed into the cup holder.
"We could see if he goes to the farmhouse. Find out if he's the guy that bought the place." My heartbeat pulsed in my wrists in a combination of fear and excitement, like climbing the first hill on a rollercoaster.
"That sounds dumb," Jeremey said.
"No one's lived there since Mr. Jones and his wife moved out. Aren't you curious?"
"Not really."
"Why do you think they moved, though? His family's lived there since the place was built. Why suddenly move away after all that time?"
"Maybe they just got sick of it," Jeremey suggested. "It's not like they had any kids to leave it to. Bet it takes a lot of maintenance to keep up an old house like that, plus all that land."
"Yeah, probably." I paused, staring out the window at the trees moaning in the distance. "Or maybe it's haunted."
Jeremey snorted.
The truck ahead of us pulled out, and we coasted up to the last window. The kid behind the glass handed Jeremey a white paper bag, and then we turned onto the street. The light was red at the first intersection, and stopped ahead of us was the beige truck with his right blinker on.
"Come on, I'm bored. Let's follow him." I knew we were supposed to turn left here to get back to Jeremey's, but if we took a right, that would lead us in the direction of Clay Road—towards the old farmhouse.
"No." Jeremey took a handful of fries out of the bag and stuffed them in his face.
"Yes," I argued.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
Before Jeremey could say another word, the light turned green. The truck turned right, and then, much to my surprise, so did we.
"Fine," Jeremey said as he spun the wheel. "But as soon as we find out whether he is going to the farmhouse or not, we're going home."
I grinned, reveling in my victory, as we cruised down the road after the pickup. I guess Jeremey was just as bored as I was.
We followed the truck through a number of intersections, Jeremey making sure to keep at a reasonable distance so we wouldn't seem suspicious. I watched out the window as we passed the coffee shop, Gary's Hardware, and the shut-down dentist's office with the chipped, sun-damaged, giant plastic tooth sitting turned-over in the front lawn.
As we drew closer to Clay Road, my heartbeat quickened with second thoughts. When we were twelve, our friend Chris had dared us all to sneak past the house. Mr. Jones wasn't home—no cars in the driveway—but I'd sworn I'd seen something dart past the downstairs window.
I shuddered thinking about it. A trick of the light. My imagination running away from me.
Jeremey rolled up to the stop sign at the intersection with Clay Road. We waited long enough to let the pickup get about thirty yards ahead, and then we turned after it.
Finally, we reached the edge of the farmhouse lot. Jeremey slowed the car down to a crawl. The pickup pulled into the dirt driveway in front of the decrepit old house. The yellowed-white paint peeled off the shingles, exposing the rotten and worn grey wood beneath. As Joshua got out of his truck, a gust of wind took one of the shingles clear off the house. It flew through the air like a kite for a second before landing twenty feet away in the long, swaying grass of the desolate field.
I'm not sure if Jeremey braked, or if he just forgot to press the gas for too long—or maybe it was some other dark and unseen force at work that day—but the car came to an absolute stop right in front of the house, leaving the two of us staring at Joshua Rider as he turned around and faced the road.
We both remained absolutely still, as though our instincts were telling us that if we didn't move a muscle, maybe he wouldn't be able to see us.
Oh, but he saw us.
He made eye contact with Jeremey. Then he made eye contact with me. Something glinted in his eyes that made my stomach twist into knots. The headache that had been hiding in the back of my mind since the morning flared up with a sharp sting.
It was as though I was seeing into the man's head, not his actual thoughts, more his feelings—his soul.
I saw absolute darkness.
Everything surrounding him had ceased to exist, like it had been sucked into a pinprick of a point by a force so strong not even light could escape. Space blurred around him, shaking and shuddering, ready to give up and cave in.
My eyes stretched wide, and a chill so great ran through my body that my teeth chattered. The temperature in the car had dropped ten degrees in a matter of seconds.
"Gas, Jeremey," I hissed between clenched teeth. I saw my breath.
I'll be damned if Jeremey hadn't experienced the exact same thing when that man looked at him, because that kid stepped on that gas so fucking quick the engine screamed, and the car did zero to forty in maybe three seconds.
And that's when the dogs started barking.