Winterwood

And that Oliver went into the woods that night. That I found him in the trees. And that he walked around the lake to the cemetery yesterday and stood over Willa Walker’s grave. That something bad happened the night of the storm.

One boy survived. One boy died.

“It was an accident,” Jasper insists, looking at me from across the fire, both eyebrows raised, but his head lolling a couple degrees to the left, like he wants me to believe him. Like he’s trying to convince me. Only an accident. Nothing to see here. Nothing to report. Go about your business.

But I don’t let it go. “How did he die?”

Rhett tosses the half-burnt stick into the fire, letting it be devoured. “We said it was an accident,” he growls, releasing his arm from around Suzy. Fed up. Pissed. He doesn’t want me here, standing around their bonfire, asking questions.

A hush cuts over the group, and I know I’ve pressed it too far. Rhett stares at me like he might step past Suzy and fold his hands around my throat to shut me up. To keep me quiet. For good. A wedge of unease folds itself beneath my skin, willing me to turn and leave. But I don’t move.

Jasper clears his throat, staggering to the left, like he’s struggling to keep himself upright. “I vote we just keep drinking until the road clears, then we get the hell out of here.” He tilts his head back and takes another gulp of the booze, eyes swaying back into his skull. “I barely notice any of it when I’m drunk.”

I catch Suzy rolling her eyes. It’s obvious Jasper has had too much to drink, and it’s irritating even her.

Another brief quiet falls over the group, and I try to stop myself, to hold it in, but the question falls out anyway. “Notice what?”

“The voices,” Lin answers quickly, in a near whisper, before Rhett can stop him. And the whites of Lin’s eyes peer at me like I should know what he’s talking about. Like the moon witch can surely read his thoughts. Understand the hint of something hidden behind his pursed lips.

And maybe I do know what he means.

I think about the howls I used to hear when I was little, echoing from the cemetery—weeping howls, madness howls, the howls of the dead. Just like all Walkers before me, we hear what others can’t. We see.

My heart vibrates too quickly and a chill rolls down my back, one vertebra at a time. “What kinds of voices?” I ask. I need to know.

Lin’s eyes blink in slow motion, chewing over the words in his mouth before he spits them out. “At night, in our cabin. We hear things.”

Jasper flicks something in his free hand, and it catches my eye. It looks like a lighter, silver and shiny-sided. He stares down at the tiny flame before he flicks it closed and pushes it back into his pocket. Like he doesn’t want anyone else to see it, to admire it for too long. “It’s not just at night,” Jasper says, coughing once. “I’ve heard it during the day, too. In the trees, like it’s following me.”

I step forward, closer to the fire. “What’s following you?”

Lin shrugs and Jasper takes another drink of the whiskey. Rhett stares down at the flames—his round face a sharp contrast of light and dark shadows. But no one answers.

Maybe because they don’t know. Or maybe because they’re afraid of something.

Something they can’t see.

Or perhaps it’s all in their heads. Snow madness, my grandma called it. The cold can solidify itself in the mind, tendrils of ice scattering all sane thoughts. A buzzing fear that makes the eyes see things that aren’t there. Hear things that don’t exist. The forest playing tricks on you.

Jasper sways back from the flames, his face bright red. “It’s Max’s fault this happened,” he declares now, each word mashed together, a slurred jumble of sounds.

“Don’t blame it on Max.” Rhett’s jaw constricts. And this time his dagger eyes are focused on Jasper.

But my thoughts are stuck on one thing: Max.

Is he the boy who died?

“So you think we should blame Oliver?” Lin asks defensively, removing his hands from his oversized coat pockets, like he’s preparing for a fight.

“It’s someone’s fault,” Jasper counters, puffing out his chest.

But Suzy steps forward, lifting both hands in the air. “Stop it,” she interjects.

They all stand with rigid shoulders, like strings that were pulled too tight, about to snap. They eye one another, unblinking, the air tensed in their throats.

And I wonder: Do they know I found Oliver, that I’m the one who brought him back from the forest? Do they know that he’s been staying in my house, that he says he doesn’t trust them? A part of me starts to doubt that Oliver appeared on my doorstep as a dare. A silly prank. If he was friends with these boys, wouldn’t he be here with them now? At the bonfire?

“What did Oliver do?” I ask swiftly, my eyes ping-ponging between Jasper and Lin, hoping someone will tell me.

The strain in the air seems to soften, even if only just a little.