17 & Gone (4 page)

the snowy pines right then. I shivered

involuntarily.

“We were all like, ‘Hey what’s going

on, why’d we stop?’ And the bus driver

was like, ‘Whoa, there’s a girl in the

road.’ And then I was like, ‘I know her,

that’s Lauren Woodman! From school!’

You know we used to be on the same

bus and—”

“My van broke down,” I said, so

she’d stop talking. I’d already clicked

away from Abby’s page and filled the

computer screen with the library’s

search catalog. But the flyer—Abby’s

dirty, crumpled flyer—was on my lap

under the desk, and I twisted it up and

rolled it into a tight tube.

“Yeah, but you ran across the road.

We saw you—”

She was a tiny girl, with warm brown

skin and warm brown hair, and she

seemed harmless enough, she seemed

genuinely concerned, but I couldn’t

listen to her anymore. What caught my

attention was the movement out the

window: not the flurries of snow but the

flash of red. A gloveless hand on the

glass that left streaks of mud in its wake.

She’d left my van and come close to

the school, even though she couldn’t get

inside. There she was, a girl dressed for

summer, though all around her was a

white stretch of December snow. Her

face was clouded with dirt, her long hair

woven with brambles, with sticks and

leaves and other indecipherable things

gummed up and glimmering through the

glass. The expression on her face—that

haunted look in her eyes—made it seem

like she’d seen things I hadn’t, things not

many of us had. Bad things.

The hand to the glass, the gesture,

palm out, five fingers spread, insinuated

so much to me: I should say nothing

about her if asked, not to this random

freshman and not to anyone. And it said

she wanted something from me, needed

it, and that I was the only one who could

give it to her.

Help. Abby Sinclair needed my help.

“What’re you looking at?” the

freshman asked. She followed my gaze

to the window and when she said,

“Oh . . .” my heart seized, and I wanted

to block her view with my body. But

then she added, “Gross. Someone’s got

to clean that window—so dirty.” She

looked back at me and shrugged.

She wasn’t able to see Abby, but she

could see what Abby had left behind: the

handprints, if not the hand that made

them.

—
4
—

THAT
night I had the dream.

In it was a house. I could try to

explain it like it’s an actual place that

could be found on some street

somewhere. Narrow and made of brick.

Abandoned. Four floors rising up to

disappear into shadow-smogged sky.

The broken iron gate. The cracked and

collapsing set of stairs leading up to the

dark front door.

Even though the dream starts with me

standing out on the street, I know it’s not

a street I could find anywhere in the

waking world. There’s no town or city

beyond this place. The sidewalk begins

and ends in a prickling patch of

darkness. I can only go inside the house.

And I always go in.

That first night, I was at the door in no

time. Though the windows were covered

in boards, and though a shroud of silence

enveloped the building, curling out from

the cracks and gaps in the brick, gagging

me with it, I lifted my hand to try the

bell. It was grown through with rot, so

when I pressed the doorbell my finger

sunk into something soft and wet, as if

plunging into an open, oozing wound.

I pulled my hand away, then tried the

door itself. It gave. One push, a few

steps in, and there I was standing in

darkness. I didn’t realize I was in the

foyer, beneath the dangling skeleton of a

once-grand chandelier. I didn’t know

what was above me, or beside me, or

shuffling down near my feet.

But I could smell something: the

distinct scent of smoke. It tickled my

throat, made my eyes water. Coming

from close or far away, I couldn’t tell.

The hush of it was simply in the air, like

a hot breath exhaled.

I should have been afraid, want to

race out of there, even if I met my end

where the sidewalk did. But I stayed put.

It may have been dark, too dark to see

my own hand before my face; and it may

have been quiet, so quiet someone could

have been hidden in the shadows

observing my every move; but I felt the

need to stay.

Soon I’d come to know the space of

this dream like I know the house I live in

with my mom, the carriage house we rent

from the Burkes who live on the other

side of the hedge, that little house with

its unnecessary closets and stacked

cupboards, its creaky steps and crooked

doors. But on this night, my first night

visiting, I didn’t know what I’d find in

this place. Or who.

When the smoke thickened, the

oppressively hot air filling my lungs, I

began to think I was in danger. That I

could die. But no, actually. The dream

wasn’t that.

Soon I’d know this dream wasn’t

about anyone dying—it was about living

on, forever. The house was a place

where you could be remembered, even

visited. A home for you when you lost

your own. If you ran away. If you got

taken. If you steered your bike down the

wrong dark road.

All the girls ended up here.

When I’d visit on other nights, I’d

come to notice the patterns decorating

the wallpaper in all the rooms, the

prickly vines of climbing, choking ivy.

I’d see the gaps in the patterns, the

blackened gashes where the rot had

licked the walls away.

I’d know the layout of the rooms, even

the upstairs, once I got the courage to

climb the staircase without fearing it

would turn to dust under my weight.

There were many bedrooms, all down

the hallways; enough rooms to make me

wonder how many people had once

lived here, how many people could fit

here now.

I’d see the other girls there, each of

them bound to this place. But that was

later.

This was the first night. And the first

night I ever had this dream—after I

found the flyer with Abby’s face on it—

it was Abby I was looking for.

I could sense her, a shrinking, quiet

presence breathing from some pocket of

darkness. The scent was the same from

the van. But stronger, closer. She moved

and the floorboards creaked; that’s how

I knew she carried weight here. She was

substantial here. Here, she was real.

I took a step toward the noise. “Abby?

Is that you?” My voice scratched, but

sound still came out.

I could make out a figure near a

window in the next room. When I’d been

standing out on the sidewalk I hadn’t

been able to see that there were curtains,

but from inside I could see the long, dark

sails of the closed drapes. The light was

brighter in this room, somehow. The

curtains had a sheen that seemed to fight

the darkness, folds that could hide

bodies, grimy tassels that trailed the

floor.

She had her back to me.

Her hair wasn’t matted with leaves

and sticks, as it had been in my van—at

least, as far as I could tell. The curtains

hid her enough so I couldn’t be sure. She

felt familiar somehow, in a way I

couldn’t pinpoint.

I was trying to reach her through the

smoke, because I had questions.

Questions like: What is this place and

what’s burning? Is she really Abby

Sinclair from the Missing poster? Does

seeing her here mean she’s dead, or is

she still alive? Am I supposed to find

her?

But it was a dream. And legs don’t

work in dreams the way they’re meant

to, and my tongue wouldn’t shape the

words collecting in my mouth. All I

could get out was “Abby?”

The figure didn’t turn around or make

any kind of reply. This told me the

answers weren’t there in that scorched

house. They were outside, somewhere

near Pinecliff, my hometown, waiting for

me to go out and find them. And for that,

no girl in the smoke could help me.

I’d have to wake up.

—
5
—

THERE
it was, down a road I’d

driven before. To find it, I only had to

hang right at the fork instead of left.

From there, the winding road led deep

into the pines and the entrance I was

seeking was just past a blind bend,

marked by a cluster of white firs and a

blue sign. Most of the sign was obscured

by a fresh covering of snow, hiding the

words, so only the cutout of the lady

herself rose into the darkening sky, two

palms raised as if to catch the drifting

flurries. She wore a pale blue head

scarf, like the Virgin Mary, and had no

face, like a ghost. Behind her was a

locked gate as tall as the trees.

This was Lady-of-the-Pines Summer

Camp for Girls: a place where people

from suburbs and cities sent their

daughters. The campground was buried

in a valley of mosquitoes, pine trees, and

poison oak, skirting the edge of a tepid

lake. The mountain ridge cut off a view

of what was on the other side, beyond

this camp, so the girls—and their parents

—would have no idea what stood within

miles of them. All that nature they’d

spend the summer embracing was closer

than they might guess to one of the state’s

maximum-security men’s prisons, which

housed, last I checked, more than a

thousand violent offenders, including

murderers, rapists, and child molesters.

According to the Missing flyer, this

summer camp was the last place Abby

Sinclair had been seen. Here, past the

gate and beyond those trees.

I pulled in and cut the engine, but

Jamie’s car behind my van almost kept

on going. He braked in the road and had

to back up, scudding over a snowbank.

The snowplows hadn’t made it up here

since the latest storm, so all the snow

made it difficult to find a place to park.

When he was closer, he rolled down his

window and called out to me in the cold.

“What’s wrong? Why’d you stop?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I called back.

“Just get out of the car. Come here.”

I was already climbing out of the van

and testing my flashlight. Night came

sooner in winter, especially up here with

the ridge blocking the sun. I knew it

could be mere minutes before the dark

dropped down all around us, and I

wasn’t sure if the electricity would be

working on the closed campground

during the off-season. Without a

flashlight, we’d be out there unable to

see.

The flashlight flickered, and I

smacked it against my thigh. Light. I

waved it at him, signaling to get him out

of the car.

“Your engine didn’t die again, did

it?” he called.

I shook my head. He didn’t know why

we were here. I hadn’t bothered to tell

him that the spot I’d wanted him to

follow me to wasn’t a restaurant, as I’d

insinuated, but
this
place. Through the

gate was a snowed-out road leading in

to what I assumed were the main

grounds of the camp, where Abby had

spent those summer weeks before she

vanished. Only that locked chain-link

fence was keeping us from it.

Jamie gave me a look I couldn’t read,

but he shut off his engine, pulled up his

hood, then stepped out into the cold with

me.

I pointed the flashlight at the fence

opening, indicating the padlock secured

by rings of thick chains. “Can you do

something about that?” I asked. “So we

don’t have to climb over?” I let the light

reveal the top of the tall fence, the razor