Page 7 of The Unknown

The exact spot where they lived and ate and slept, not to mention disappeared. And it’s where, if Pete is to be believed, they and whatever killed them still remain.

My phone pings again and I jerk it from my pocket. There’s a follow-up text from the actress I replaced, finally answering my question.

to warn you

About what?I type.

I stare at the screen, anxiously watching the gray dots ripple across the bottom, signaling her imminent reply.

don’t set foot on that island. if you do, i swear, you WILL regret it

Two

I look up from my phone, and suddenly New Avalon is there, looming before the boat, as if it sensed our impending arrival and moved closer to bridge the gap between us. Up close, it seems bigger than the island I saw on my phone’s screen this morning. Wilder, too. A mini wilderness surrounded by miles of water.

From lake level, the island appears eerily asymmetrical. Starting at the southern tip, the brush-covered land gradually rises about fifty feet to a plateau of dense forest that covers two-thirds of the island. Through the trees, I spot flashes of white that I assume to be buildings. When I squint, I can barely make out slivers of walls and the peaks of roofs hidden among the branches.

Instead of another moderate slope back to the water, the northern edge of the island abruptly stops, plunging into a sharp cliff. Below it is a beach studded with boulders, which have been whittled by erosion into jagged points that look like teeth. Not a welcoming sight. Even Loretta seems taken aback by them. Finally looking up from her phone, she eyes the beach with dread, as if she’s worried Pete will lose control of the boat and send us directly into the rocks.

But Pete’s hand remains steady at the wheel as he steers the boatsharply to the left, sending us directly into the island’s shadow. It’s colder there, the change from sun to shade so stark that a shiver zips down my spine. Or maybe the chill is caused by the text I just received, still visible on my phone if I dared to glance at it, which I don’t. There’s no need. Its message is loud and clear.

This is a bad idea.

One the actress who previously had my part likely realized ahead of time and backed out because of it. Probably because she was smart enough to ask for more details. Not me, though. I just blindly went where I was told.

I drop the phone back into my pocket and tap Loretta on the shoulder. “Are we really going to be doing this on New Avalon itself?”

“Yes,” she says. “I could have sworn Ronan and I told you that.”

They absolutely didn’t.

“Or maybe we just assumed you knew,” Loretta adds. “I mean, where else would we do it?”

I want to reply with the obvious answer, which is anywhere else. Literally anywhere. Instead, I say, “Don’t you think it could be—I don’t know—dangerous?”

Loretta cocks her head. “How so?”

“Those women vanished,” I say. “Allegedly killed by something evil. Do you think it’s wise for all of us to spend a week where it happened?”

“You don’t really believe all that, do you?”

I don’t. Not really. Despite the claims of Pete’s grandfather and despite my own past experiences.

Tell me a story.

A ghost story.

It’s more likely that those poor women got lost or drowned or fell into a cave and starved to death. Which is the real reason why this strikes me as a bad idea. This is an island we’re talking about. One miles from the mainland.

“I just worry about being so far from civilization. What if something goes wrong?”

“It’ll be fine,” Loretta says. “I know the island has a reputation, deserved or not, which makes it seem ominous. But people have spent summers here for decades, and not a single thing went wrong. If there was even the slightest hint of danger, the studio lawyers wouldn’t allow it. Besides, Ronan and I will be here with you the whole time. I’m actually looking forward to it. It’ll be just like summer camp!”

There’s that enthusiasm again. I pretend to share it, even though, as Pete guides the boat parallel to the shore, all I can think about is how he’s likely right. Those women are probably still on that island, dead for a century.

That strikes me as another reason to want to avoid the place. It’s like having a picnic in a graveyard. Sure, youcoulddo it, but why would you want to?

Pete steers the boat to the island’s far more welcoming southern end, where a dock juts into the water. Another, smaller boat with an outboard motor is moored to it, gently riding the swells of the lake. A man stands beside it, waving as we pull up to the dock.