It wasn’t there when I chased her from the house, was it? It couldn’t have been. I gather my nerves and storm across the porch, tearing the paper from the blade and jerking the knife out of the wood. I let my rage about the marred door drive my hands to unfold the paper. And when I do, every emotion in me that’s been simmering just beneath the surface boils over all at once.
You’ve been a bad bad girl Honeybee
CHAPTER TWO
Brett
One Year Ago
If the legends are true, I’m on a journey to find monsters in the hills of Guernsey County, whether they’re hairy humanoids dubbed “the Grassman” or just a guy named “Thick Rick” perched on a tailgate doling out relationship advice. The hills at Salt Fork are full of stories, and I’m here to write my own, to escape the outside world for a few, precious days that are hard to come by.
My room smells of Fabuloso and orange scented dust cleaner, but it’s better than must and stale cigarette smoke. The wood paneling looks freshly painted white with a sage green accent wall that pops out from behind the massive oak headboard. The room is exceptionally bright with a sliding glass door that lets the sunlight in. There’s also a balcony overlooking the lake, framed by maples and poplars.
I watch the door shut behind me and listen for the latch to click. Once it does, I reach for the door handle and give it a few good tugs. The latch holds firm. I’ve seen too many Instagram and TikTok videos of faulty locks and gaps in hotel doors. My eyes move to the emergency exit diagram posted on the back of the door. I scan the map and take mental note of which direction to turn and which stairwell to take in case the building spontaneously combusts. I don’t anticipate a fiery escape, but so many people overlook this kind of thing. It takes five seconds to look, so it’s idiotic not to.
The crisp, white hotel sheets and pillowcases look new. That, or they’ve been soaked in bleach and baked in an industrial dryer. Either way is fine with me. I lift my backpack from my shoulders and let it fall onto the edge of the bed. I’m pleasantly surprised to see a solid, beige bedspread punctuated by a russet brown throw blanket instead of the dated red and green floral polyester disaster that every other hotel seemed to cling to. Then again, maybe I’ve just been a cheapskate and nicer hotels actually update their décor.
This excursion is a last-minute splurge, but that doesn’t mean I don’t methodically check the room and search behind curtains, in closets, behind the shower curtain, and over the side of the balcony. I circle back to the bed and unzip the front pocket of my backpack to retrieve a black rubber doorstop, the same kind in every school and office building in America. They’re also good for reinforcing hotel room doors. After I drop it on the floor and wedge it under the door with my foot, I return to the king size bed and make my way to the side table. I lift the phone from the receiver and dial the front desk.
“Salt Fork Park Lodge, this is Leah,” a bubbly voice answers.
“Hi, Leah. Can you please tell me when breakfast is served?”
I don’t need to know when breakfast is served. But it does tell me that the phone is working properly. After I hang up, I retrieve a small flashlight from the side pocket of my backpack and walk to the sliding glass doors that lead to the balcony.
I don’t like these.
I step out onto the balcony, peer over the black metal railing, and look from side to side. I’m on the second floor and the neighboring balconies are flush with the building and way too far away to reach one another. I’m not totally convinced, but I’ll figure it out later.
Stepping back through the doors, I pull the cord and slide the blackout curtains over the glass, casting the room into darkness. I click on the flashlight and began scanning the room slowly. Over the walls, between the shelves of the TV stand, and between the air vents, looking for any reflection that’s not supposed to be there. Once I’m satisfied that my checklist is complete, I open the curtains again and decide my mini-vacation can commence.
Some, including my best friend, Barrett, might call it overkill, a symptom of paranoia. One might say I’ve watched too many episodes of Dateline or listened to too many true crime podcasts. But who can blame me? What woman travelling alone doesn’t take some sort of precaution? I’m not paranoid or overly cautious. I have other reasons for being so vigilant, ones that don’t need to be discussed ad nauseum.
Besides all that, “safety” is in my job title. Safety checks, safety protocols, hypothetical scenarios conjured up to plan for the worst that will probably never happen. And that’s how I created my checklist—by watching the security personnel I work with every day.
My day job is also why I’m here. I’ve only been at Wolfsson, a mid-size defense contractor, for a little over a year and this is my first permanent position after being a contractor for the first couple years out of college, but I think I’ve finally proven myself. As part of the safety and compliance unit, I was made the designated liaison between the C-suite and their military brass clients during their annual inspection. Detailed, organized, confident, and a fast learner, I always try to exude professionalism. That didn’t happen yesterday though when safety got in the way of profit and everything devolved into a shouting match.
But at the end of the day, we did our jobs, safety protocols were upheld, and my boss Dave gave me an “unofficial” extra day off and we both agreed to try to forget the whole ordeal. I decided it warranted getting out of town—even if it is only an hour and 45 minutes outside of Columbus. It’s the little things.
I’m also at Salt Fork for another, far more important, reason.
I stretch my arms toward the ceiling, stretch from side to side, and focus on my laptop screen. Besides taking a much-needed break from reality, coming to the park is an opportunity to work on the book I’m writing, uninterrupted, and without distraction.
I estimate it’s half complete. But who can really say? I plan to get up early each morning and do nothing but write, hike, and eat—not necessarily in that order. It’d be better if this place was a Rocky Mountain hideaway. I don’t know why people are so creeped out by The Shining. Ghosts or not, shutting myself away in a historic mountain lodge for half the year to write sounds absolutely grand to me, but I have to take what I can get.
I save my progress and lift my laptop from the tops of my thighs, beaded with sweat from the heat of the battery. The digital clock reads 4:48. I was on such a roll that I didn’t stop for lunch and only had a Twix since breakfast. I stand up and stretch again while considering my options. After deciding to take a walk around the lake, order a pizza, and spend the evening on the balcony, I pull on my pink and orange Nikes and tuck my room key and phone into the pockets of my grey running shorts. Standing in front of the mirror, I pull my mass of curly hair off my shoulders into a ponytail with a scrunchy.
Good enough.
Minutes later, I emerge from the entrance of the lodge and follow the asphalt path toward the lake. I feel light on my feet after hours of sitting, immersed in a different world. The road follows the perimeter of the lake, dotted with waterfront and hillside cabins on each side. The warmth of the sun feels amazing on my forehead and cheeks and there’s a warm breeze skipping off the water. The aroma of burning charcoal hits my nose and immediately reminds me of all the summers of my childhood. I inhale deeply, breathing in nostalgia. Children dart across the grass and through the trees, past the full picnic tables where laughter spills out from cabin porches and fire rings.
As I approach one of the campgrounds lined with RVs, I laugh to myself. Barrett was so worried about me escaping to a state park by myself. But once Labor Day rolls around, it’ll be impossible to be alone anywhere that includes a lake and campgrounds. Once I reach a pebbly beach just beyond the campground, I reach into my pocket to retrieve my phone and step onto a large chunk of sandstone lining the road. Scrolling through a page of search results, I choose the closest pizza place and order a medium Supreme.
While staring across the lake into the tree line, I contemplate the next chapter of my book. This place is its own kind of unique. In many ways, it’s just another Midwestern state park, but it also possesses a mysterious aura full of legends and ghost stories and strange creatures that stalk the forest at night. Maybe when I sell this book, I’ll get my own RV and travel to places like this just to write, breathe in wood smoke, and tramp through the woods in search of monsters.
As soon as I start back toward the lodge, I feel my phone vibrate and I already know who it is without looking at it.
BARRETT (4:03PM): Are you safe? Have you seen Bigfoot yet?
Barrett is nothing if not predictable, asking the same question she did when we went to dinner last Thursday.
ME (4:05PM): Yes. And no, not yet.
I already feel better. The stress of the previous week melts away with every breath of forest air. Before I know it, I feel myself being propelled down the path. I start jogging back to the lodge, catching a lightning bolt of motivation. I suddenly have an idea I need to write down immediately.
That, and pizza.
●●●
Cracking open another ice-cold shandy from the mini fridge, I return to the balcony and prop my bare feet up on the wrought iron railing, deep in thought. Half the pizza is gone, the box sitting on the patio table next to me. The sun dips in the sky, almost level with the treetops across the lake, and I just stare, mesmerized by the pink and purple wash saturating the horizon. My gaze shifts to my toes and I admire my purple glitter nail polish shimmering in the light.
My concentration is broken and I’m startled by the sudden ringing of the phone inside the room.
I stare at the nightstand for a few moments before realizing I should probably answer it. Half annoyed and half worried, it’s not lost on me that an unexpected call can only be one of two things—completely insignificant or an absolute emergency.
“Hello?” I pick up the phone suspiciously.
“Hi, can you please tell me where the Poplar Loop trailhead is?” The deep baritone voice on the other end of the line catches me off-guard.
