That’s where the smell came from. That horrible, sweet rotting smell layered with the damp earthy smell of the bog.

She’s down there and she’s still got the noose around her neck.

Then, knowing it was silly to check, but unable to stop herself, she stepped into the kitchen, passing beneath the beam, and looked in the corner. Empty.

“Hattie?” she said, voice low, unsure of itself. “Are you here somewhere?”

She waited, listening, watching, feeling a little self-conscious, a little crazy even. Was she really talking to a ghost? What would Nate say if he heard her?

Maybe he was right. Maybe she’d imagined it. She’d had too much wine, and maybe she’d had a nightmare, a nightmare come to life.

But that smell, she told herself. Could she really have imagined that smell? And the sound of the creature’s voice. Ground glass on glass. The sound of pain.

It was real and she knew it.

    She pulled on her jeans and got the hell out of the house, walked down the hill to the trailer.

“Nate? You here?”

Not in the kitchen. No coffee had been made. No granola left out.

And he wasn’t in the bed.

The truck was parked in the driveway, windshield covered in dew; the keys hung on the little brass hook next to the front door. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and called him. It went straight to voice mail.

She clenched her jaw, felt the air around her grow thin, the walls moving in a little closer.

No need to panic, Helen told herself. He must have gone for a walk. Early-morning bird-watching maybe. That’s a Nate-like thing to do.

“Nate is fine,” she said to the empty trailer.

Say the words. Make them real.

She made coffee, ate some cereal, checked her email, telling herself everything was fine. Everything was normal. An email from her friend Jenny greeted her:

Glad to hear you’re making progress with the house. Love the pic of Nate’s mountain man beard! And the story of your “ghost” visitor. Olive sounds like quite the kid. Still though…maybe I’m reading between the lines, or maybe it’s just my best friend super-psychic powers, but are you doing okay up there? Really?

Helen closed her laptop, looked over at the pile of library books on the table. She kept renewing them. She picked up Communicating with the Spirit World and opened to the first page:

    Do you ever feel that you are not alone?

Do you sometimes look over your shoulder, sure there was just a figure standing there?

Helen slammed the book closed, hands trembling, and left the trailer and stood in the yard calling for Nate. Nothing. Only the morning chatter of birds.

She walked down the path to the bog, sure she’d find him there sketching early-morning birds. But there was nothing. No one.

    She looked out into the center, where the deep part of the water was, and imagined George Decrow pulling his wife out, dragging her to the edge, her body cold and lifeless as he started CPR. She imagined it was her doing the CPR, Nate beneath her, lips blue.

Helen shook the image away, trudged back up the path to the trailer, poured herself another cup of coffee.

She grabbed the little notebook in her purse, found the number the realtor had given her for George Decrow down in Florida. She dialed it and waited.

“Hello?” A crackling old-man voice, a little out of breath.

“Yes, good morning. Mr. Decrow?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Helen Wetherell. My husband, Nate, and I bought your place in Vermont out by the bog.”

The line went dead. He’d hung up.

Helen pushed redial. He answered on the first ring. “What is it you want?”

“Mr. Decrow, I heard what happened to your wife and I’m so, so sorry. And I hate to bother you, but it’s just that weird things are happening here. My husband, he thinks I’m imagining things, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m going a little crazy.” She paused, worried that she’d said too much.

She heard his raspy breathing, was sure he was about to hang up. But he didn’t.

“Have you seen her?” he asked.

Helen held the phone tight against her ear, listening to George Decrow breathing. She thought of lying, of playing dumb, but this might be her one and only shot with this guy and she thought honesty was her best hope of keeping him talking.

“Yes. I saw her last night.”

“Edie saw her, too. I didn’t believe. I didn’t believe until it was too late.”

“Mr. Decrow, I know this might sound crazy, but I think maybe she wants something. She said a name last night—”

“She wants something, all right. She wants you. The best thing you can do, you and your husband, is leave right now. Leave and don’t ever go back. I’m sorry.”

And there it was again, that sound of dead air. He’d hung up. She tried calling again, but the line was busy. He’d taken his phone off the hook.

    Shaken, she sat down at the table, opened her laptop, then closed it. Where the hell was Nate?

Work. That’s what she needed to do. Go to work like this was just a normal day. Like she hadn’t seen a ghost last night. Like Nate hadn’t disappeared into thin air.

He’s gone for a walk, that’s all, she told herself. He’s gone to look for birds. She said this last bit while trying to ignore the fact that his binoculars, bird book, camera, and nature journal were sitting on the table right beside the front door.