Night Terrors (6 page)

“We need to go to cabin seven,” I say. “I need your help.”

Josh sits up and rakes his hands through his long hair. “I thought we agreed. We'll wait until morning, then we'll go tell Edward and Harvey about the…body.”

“You don't get it. Harvey isn't going make it back by morning. You saw the road, right? There are trees down all over the place. And you think Edward is going to help?”

With his round glasses and bed head, Josh looks like a flustered owl. He shakes his head slowly.

“I don't know,” he says. “This is bigger than us. We need to tell someone.”

“We can't trust Edward,” I say. I lean in toward Josh and lower my voice. “And there's something else going on. I just saw something.”

Josh looks uneasy. The candle flame flickers, then steadies.

“Saw something? When?”

“It's hard to explain.” I rub a hand across my face. The headache is back, throbbing in my temple. “It was in this dream I just had.”

Josh pushes his glasses up. Blinks a few times.

“You know how you sound, right? You don't trust anyone. Your dreams are telling you what to do.”

“It's not like that.”

“No, it's exactly like that. You need to get it together. You probably have a concussion or something from that fall. You're not thinking straight.”

I turn away from him, furious. I shouldn't need his help. But the truth is that I'm scared. I'm scared of what I've seen. In real life and in my dreams. And after being alone in the woods, nearly dying out there, I don't want to go out alone. It's like I'm a little kid again. Scared of the dark.

I look at the black window, showing my pale reflection in the candlelight.

I'm sick of being scared.

Maybe it's like my dad says—I'm making myself see scary stuff, when in fact there's nothing at all. I'm jumping at shadows. But I know there's something going on. And it's like I'm being shown a path and I have to walk down it. Maybe if I get to the end of the path, the bad stuff will stop.

“Stay here, then,” I say. “I'll be back soon.”

“Dylan,” Josh says. “C'mon! What are you going to do? Get lost in the woods again? Be smart about this—” His words are cut off as the door slams behind me.

I pull up the hood of my jacket against the cold. Clouds have rolled in again across the sky. It's pitch-black as I walk through the cold night air to cabin seven. I test the door—locked. Our keys don't unlock staff cabins, just guest cabins.

I slam my shoulder into the door. There's a sharp crack. The door swings open.

I walk into the cabin, playing my headlamp around the dark space. It looks the same as when I left it. A couple rows of bunk beds. An old bookshelf. Bathroom at the back. A woodstove in the center. I walk over to the marks on the wall and kneel down.

Deep gouges, all around that loose board. I remember thinking that Harvey would make us fix it up. I fumble around the board, testing, pushing. Nothing. I scan the cabin with my headlamp, my eyes finally settling on the woodstove. There's a long black iron rod—the fire poker. Perfect.

I shove the tip of the poker under the board and push down. Twice. Finally, it gives. I pull the board away from the wall just far enough to reach inside. My hand closes around something dry, soft, square. Papers?

I'm about to pull my hand out when I freeze. Over the low moan of the wind outside, I think I hear something. A slam. But then nothing else. Maybe it's just the wind knocking things around. I gently pull out what I've found in the wall. A small brown notebook.

I sit down on a bunk and carefully open it up. White pages covered in blue ballpoint pen. Sloppy handwriting, a little like mine. Dates at the top of each page—it's a diary. I flip back to the front cover. There's a name.
Allen Ender
.

Allen. The name on that scrap of jacket out in the woods. The name of the body. The guy who went missing.

I feel dizzy for a second. I feel that sense of pressure building up and up in my head. My hands start to shake, and I nearly drop the notebook on the floor. I take a deep, ragged breath and steady myself. I turn to the last pages of the diary. All these entries are dated October, after Allen had volunteered to stay on and close up the resort. One word keeps appearing on all these pages—
Edward
.

As I read, I realize that Allen had it even worse than Josh. Allen was alone up here that fall, just him and Edward. And Edward had decided that Allen was his personal project. Allen was a slacker who needed “training.” He'd send Allen swimming out to the raft and back, just like he did with Josh. And other stuff. He'd wake Allen up in the middle of the night to carry wood to the cabins. Make Allen scrub the kitchen floors before he was allowed to eat. Cruel, petty stuff.

And Allen never fought back. Didn't seem to think he could. Thought that this was the way it had to be. Even thought that he deserved it. That Edward was right about him, even as he seemed to get worse. The stuff Allen described was starting to sound more like abuse. Like torture.

I'm near the end of the diary when the writing stops abruptly. I turn the page, expecting to see more. But there's nothing. I flip to the end. Nothing. Just a couple of blank white pages.

I'm sitting there staring at the little book when I hear a noise behind me. I turn, automatically lifting my arm against the bright beams of two flashlights. When my eyes adjust, I see Josh standing near the door of the cabin. Then Edward steps inside and rests a hand on his shoulder.

“You were right to come to me, Josh,” says Edward. “Dylan is clearly not himself.”

Chapter Sixteen

Edward crosses through the dark cabin until only a bed is between us. He shines his flashlight on the iron poker on the mattress. On the plank torn from the wall.

“More vandalism?” he says. “Disappointing. Harvey told me you had learned your lesson.” He picks up the poker and moves to place it back next to the woodstove. “Clearly, you haven't learned a thing. We'll have to remedy that.” My pulse is pounding. I look toward the door, but Edward turns suddenly, the poker still in his hand.

“Josh told me what you think you saw in the woods,” he says, stepping closer to me. “You know, Josh says you've been seeing a lot of things recently. And that little wound on your head can't help. Must've been quite a fall.” He reaches up with his free hand and brushes his fingers across the gash on my forehead. I flinch and catch sight of Josh. He blinks a few times and looks away.

“I had to tell him, Dylan,” he says. “You were acting kind of crazy. I was worried about you.”

My head throbs. Suddenly, I'm furious. Furious at Edward for what he did to Allen. To Josh. For what Edward's gotten away with all these years.

“It's not all in my head,” I say, holding up the notebook. “This proves it. You remember Allen? He wrote all about you in here. All the crap you made him do. All the stuff you filled his head with.” For once, Edward looks flustered. His mouth works, but nothing comes out. I keep going.

“What happened to Allen? He tried to run away, like me, didn't he? You kept on pushing him and pushing him until he couldn't take it anymore. Right?” Now I'm yelling. “Right?”

For a moment, standing there in the cold light of our flashlights, Edward is completely still. And pale. Like a corpse. Then his face wrinkles into a snarl.

“Not at all,” he says. “Allen knew better than to try and leave. He was a smart boy. Not like you.” Edward points the poker at me. “You just think you're smart. No, Allen was clever enough to always do what I asked.” He steps even closer to me. His eyes have that look again—hungry, cold. Not quite human.

“But Allen, in the end, was too lazy.” Edward snorts. “Like all of you, isn't it true? Why is that? All of you—slackers.” He punctuates the word by tapping the poker on the mattress beside me. My back is against the wall. I look over at Josh. He's frozen, still near the door.

“So one morning, Allen just…gave up. And he had swum out to the raft so many times before. He was a strong boy. The cold shouldn't have been a problem. And yet…” Edward presses his face close to mine, close enough for me to gag on the metallic scent of his aftershave. “And I couldn't have questions, could I? Not everyone understands my training methods. It wasn't my fault that he was weak and couldn't make it back to shore. So I tucked him away in the woods. You understand, don't you, Josh?”

Edward suddenly turns toward Josh. I realize I've been holding my breath, and now I let it go. I slip the notebook into my pocket. We need to get out of here. I look around. There's only the one door. Where Josh is standing.

“Come here, Josh.” Edward walks toward him, poker swinging at his side. “We'll start with you. We'll clean up this mess together, shall we?”

“What do you mean?” says Josh. He pushes his glasses back up on his nose.

“No!” I shout. Just before Edward swings the long iron poker at Josh's head.

Chapter Seventeen

As I stumble over the bunk, I hear the hollow thunk of the poker as it smashes into the doorframe. I lunge at Edward, hitting him in the lower back with my shoulder just as if this were a football game. He grunts and falls on his side.

“Come on!” I pull Josh outside. It's dawn, and the sky is lightening. But the wind and snow are swirling around us, making it hard to see. At first, I'm just running blind. Just trying to get away. I see the main hall in the distance. Maybe there's a door we can lock. A phone to call for help with. “This way!”

I look back and see Edward coming at us through the snow. Gaining ground. I grab Josh's arm again. He's panicking, stumbling. We hit the doors of the main hall, but they don't budge. Locked. I rattle them. They're too heavy to bust open.

“Around the corner,” gasps Josh. “Loading dock.” We run again, sliding on the snow-covered lawn. Up the steps leading to the rolling metal door. Josh shoves a hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a ring of keys. I look over my shoulder as he rattles through them, trying to find the right one. No sign of Edward. Yet.

Josh finally finds the right key, and a moment later the rolling door clatters upward. We slip through and lock it down again. Then we both slump to the floor. The kitchen is still dark. Just a little gray dawn light seeps through the windows.

“We've got to find somewhere to hide,” I say. I shine my headlamp around the kitchen, the light reflecting crazily off the stainless-steel counters. I stop at the big walk-in cooler. “What about that?”

Josh uses one of the keys to unlock the padlock on the handle. We push open the big door. There's a slight smell of something rotting—with the power outage, the temperature inside the cooler is the same as it is outside. Not great. But maybe we can hide in here for a minute. Figure out what to do. Josh goes in. I'm about to follow when I hear a noise. A door being unlocked. I click off my headlamp and crouch to the floor.

“Josh—stay quiet,” I whisper. I hear muffled footsteps somewhere in the darkness. A flashlight beam wanders around the kitchen.

And finds me.

Chapter Eighteen

I stand and turn on my headlamp. It's Edward. Flashlight in one hand. A big chef's knife gleams in the other.

“As I said, Dylan,” he says, “you're not as smart as you think you are. Not hard to figure out where you ran to. So, where did the other one go?”

I realize I need to distract Edward from the cooler. Give Josh a chance to escape. “I don't know. He took off on me outside.” I pull the notebook out of my pocket and put it on the silver countertop. “This is what you want though. Right? You can have it. And I'll never say a word. It'll stay a secret.”

Edward looks amused. “That's very obliging of you. I have a better idea.” He starts to walk toward me, down the aisle between the two counters. “Why don't we go visit Allen again? I'm sure you will be good at keeping secrets. Just like he is.”

Before he can reach me, I leap and slide over the countertop, barely landing on my feet. I run for the loading-dock door and start to heave it up. I feel a sharp pain on my shoulder and realize as I tumble through the opening that Edward's knife must have made contact. Adrenaline keeps the pain down though. I jump down the steps and run. Anywhere. Away.

Through the snow swirling around me, I hear the sound of waves. I veer toward the dock—maybe I can get to the boat. Get away from shore before Edward catches up with me. I hit the dock and skid on the icy wood. I scramble back onto my feet. The inflatable is still in the water. Still no gas tank, but I don't care. I lower myself into the rocking boat. Fumbling with the icy ropes, I try to untie the bowline. I'm almost finished when a boot stamps down on my hand. I cry out.

“Dylan. Shame on you,” Edward says, panting. “Adding theft to your list of crimes?” He reaches down and tries to grab my wrist, but I pull my throbbing hand away and fall backward in the boat.

“You have so much room for improvement. Let's get you back up here.” We stare at each other for a moment—Edward, wild-eyed and sweaty, looking down on me from the dock, me flat on my back on the floor of the inflatable. I can feel the cold water through the thin hull of the boat.

“Come up here now,” he commands. “Don't make me come after you.”

I shake my head. He yells in frustration. Paces up and down the dock like an animal at the zoo. The big knife in his hand looks dull and gray in the pale morning light.

“All right, then. I will come to you,” he says. Still pointing the knife at me, he clumsily starts to lower himself off the icy dock and into the boat. I shrink back toward the end of the inflatable. Trying to get away from him. Knowing that there's nowhere left to go.

Just as Edward extends one leg into the boat, I see a shadow rise up behind him.