Read Online The Winter People by Jennifer McMahon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer McMahon
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made her ears ring. Where had the birds and squirrels gone?
There were no tracks of any sort—not even a snowshoe hare, chickadee, or field mouse. It was as if she was all alone in the world.
R uthie didn’t often let herself think about what had happened to her father.
A little over two years ago, he had been out cutting firewood and didn’t come back for supper. Ruthie went out to look for him just as it was getting dark.
“Silly old man can’t keep track of the time anymore,” her mother had said. “Doesn’t have the sense to pay attention to his own stomach rumbling, either, evidently.”
It had been a damp fall, and the ground was slick with mud and rotting leaves. She slipped several times on her way up the path, slamming her knees down on the rocks, getting scratched by thorns.
She’d found him just north of the orchard. There was a neat pile of cut wood ten feet away with a saw beside it. He was lying on his side, his ax clasped firmly in his hands. His eyes were open but strangely glassy. His lips were blue.
Ruthie had taken first aid at school, and so she dropped to her knees and began CPR while screaming herself hoarse, hoping her voice would carry all the way down to the house. She pushed and pushed for what felt like hours but may only have been minutes, elbows locked, counting fast under her breath—
one-AND-two-AND-three-AND-four
—like she’d done on the plastic dummy in class. At last, her mother came, then rushed off again to call for an ambulance. Ruthie continued the chest compressions until the West Hall Volunteer Fire Department ambulance crew arrived. Her arms and shoulders were shaking, muscles spent, but still she kept going, until her mother gently pulled her away.
It was when she was on her way back out of the clearing that she noticed it: her father’s boot prints in the mud, impressions of the last steps he would ever take. But there, beside them, was another set of tracks, much smaller.
She asked Fawn about it later. “Did you go up in the woods to see Daddy today?”
Fawn shook her head hard, hugged her doll against her chest.“Mimi and me don’t go in the woods. Not ever. We don’t want to get eaten.”
Ruthie got a chill now, thinking of her little sister’s words, her mother’s long-ago warnings.
“Mama?” Ruthie’s voice came out squeaky and little-girl-ish. She hurried through the orchard, doing an awkward shuffle-run in the snowshoes now. The apple and pear trees ended, and Ruthie continued uphill, into the dark forest. The beech, poplar, and maple trees looked more skeletal than ever, bare and coated with fresh snow. She was sure she could feel eyes looking back at her as she climbed up, the trail growing steeper.
Her parents had always warned her about hiking up here alone: too many places to break an ankle. Once, her father had found an old well, way out in the woods, past the Devil’s Hand—a hidden circle of stones that went down so deep he claimed he couldn’t see the bottom. “I dropped in a stone, and I swear I never heard it hit.”
Some said there was a cave where an old witch lived. That was supposed to be where the boy in 1952 had gone in and never come out. When his friends came back later with help, they couldn’t even find the entrance again—just a blank face of rock where the opening had been. When Willa Luce went missing last month, a search party had combed through these woods but found nothing.
Everyone in town had a story about the Devil’s Hand, and though the stories differed in detail, one fact remained the same: it was an evil place, and bad luck to go there. Kids went on dares, sometimes even spent the night, bringing along a few six-packs for liquid courage. Buzz and his friends went up to smoke pot and watch for UFOs.
Ruthie’s skin prickled. She couldn’t shake the feeling she wasn’t alone out here.
“Hello?”
Stupid, she knew, but she moved faster anyway, trying to get the search over with. She’d go up to
There were no tracks of any sort—not even a snowshoe hare, chickadee, or field mouse. It was as if she was all alone in the world.
R uthie didn’t often let herself think about what had happened to her father.
A little over two years ago, he had been out cutting firewood and didn’t come back for supper. Ruthie went out to look for him just as it was getting dark.
“Silly old man can’t keep track of the time anymore,” her mother had said. “Doesn’t have the sense to pay attention to his own stomach rumbling, either, evidently.”
It had been a damp fall, and the ground was slick with mud and rotting leaves. She slipped several times on her way up the path, slamming her knees down on the rocks, getting scratched by thorns.
She’d found him just north of the orchard. There was a neat pile of cut wood ten feet away with a saw beside it. He was lying on his side, his ax clasped firmly in his hands. His eyes were open but strangely glassy. His lips were blue.
Ruthie had taken first aid at school, and so she dropped to her knees and began CPR while screaming herself hoarse, hoping her voice would carry all the way down to the house. She pushed and pushed for what felt like hours but may only have been minutes, elbows locked, counting fast under her breath—
one-AND-two-AND-three-AND-four
—like she’d done on the plastic dummy in class. At last, her mother came, then rushed off again to call for an ambulance. Ruthie continued the chest compressions until the West Hall Volunteer Fire Department ambulance crew arrived. Her arms and shoulders were shaking, muscles spent, but still she kept going, until her mother gently pulled her away.
It was when she was on her way back out of the clearing that she noticed it: her father’s boot prints in the mud, impressions of the last steps he would ever take. But there, beside them, was another set of tracks, much smaller.
She asked Fawn about it later. “Did you go up in the woods to see Daddy today?”
Fawn shook her head hard, hugged her doll against her chest.“Mimi and me don’t go in the woods. Not ever. We don’t want to get eaten.”
Ruthie got a chill now, thinking of her little sister’s words, her mother’s long-ago warnings.
“Mama?” Ruthie’s voice came out squeaky and little-girl-ish. She hurried through the orchard, doing an awkward shuffle-run in the snowshoes now. The apple and pear trees ended, and Ruthie continued uphill, into the dark forest. The beech, poplar, and maple trees looked more skeletal than ever, bare and coated with fresh snow. She was sure she could feel eyes looking back at her as she climbed up, the trail growing steeper.
Her parents had always warned her about hiking up here alone: too many places to break an ankle. Once, her father had found an old well, way out in the woods, past the Devil’s Hand—a hidden circle of stones that went down so deep he claimed he couldn’t see the bottom. “I dropped in a stone, and I swear I never heard it hit.”
Some said there was a cave where an old witch lived. That was supposed to be where the boy in 1952 had gone in and never come out. When his friends came back later with help, they couldn’t even find the entrance again—just a blank face of rock where the opening had been. When Willa Luce went missing last month, a search party had combed through these woods but found nothing.
Everyone in town had a story about the Devil’s Hand, and though the stories differed in detail, one fact remained the same: it was an evil place, and bad luck to go there. Kids went on dares, sometimes even spent the night, bringing along a few six-packs for liquid courage. Buzz and his friends went up to smoke pot and watch for UFOs.
Ruthie’s skin prickled. She couldn’t shake the feeling she wasn’t alone out here.
“Hello?”
Stupid, she knew, but she moved faster anyway, trying to get the search over with. She’d go up to
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