Page 1 of Haunted

Chapter one

Lance

Morris Mountain is on fire. I floor the gas through the abandoned neighborhood that skirts the base of it. Above me the ridge wears a crown of light. Oak, tulip poplar, sweetgum, birch—eighty years of hardwood with no rain on it since August, going up like matchwood. Embers rain down on my truck. Smoke billows around me so that mailboxes and hedges seem to appear out of nowhere. Three houses are already on fire toward the intersection with State Road 514, their yards littered with bikes and abandoned jack-o’-lanterns. There’s a plastic skeleton slumped over on a lawn that’s already burning. Even through the filtered air in the truck cabin, my eyes start to water. I can feel the heat through the glass.

I take the narrow road at speed. The wind shifts. The smoke thickens, then breaks, and there are deer in the road. Six, eight of them, coming down the mountain at a dead run. I swerve and take the hairpin turn too fast. My dad’s CB radio swings off its cradle and clatters into the footwell, spitting static. The deer split on either side of my truck, ignoring me in their panic.

I hit Parker’s number again and jam the cell under my ear. Three years, and I’ve never once been brave enough to actually call him.

“Lance!” His voice pitches up when he finally picks up. “Elliott’s having a meltdown.” His voice quietens; he’s not talking to me anymore. “Elliott, honey, I found Mr. Snail. Look, he missed you. Why don’t we have something to eat now?”

“What the fuck, Parker!” I yell into the phone. “Why are you still home? Why aren’t you out yet? I texted you an hour ago!”

“The news says that the fire’s been contained. We’re so far away from it.”

“Morris Mountain is already gone at 514. The winds are shifting. It’s in the trees, Parker. It’s not going to stop at the yards. You have to get out now.” In the rearview mirror, the last deer vanishes into the haze.

“What the–” He catches himself. “Mom! The wildfire’s broken through to Morris Mountain at the highway!” There is a gasp in the background. “Right. Thanks for letting me know, Lance. I’ll text you when I’m out.”

“I’m on my way,” I say, but the line’s already dead. I chuck my phone onto the dash.

There’s a cop car at the intersection of Hemingway and Morris Mountain Road with its lights blazing. There’s a sign across Hemingway that says, “Road Closed. Local Traffic Only.” The cop comes over. He looks anxiously over my shoulder. “How bad is it, kid?” he asks without preamble.

“Top of the road’s already gone. I don’t think it’ll be passable anymore.”

“Shit.” The cop is young, square-jawed, and already sweating through his uniform. He leans toward my window. “Where you headed?”

“Denning Court. It’s down toward the underpass,” I say.

“They’ve already closed the underpass. It’s too dangerous. You live out there?”

“I’m evacuating somebody who can’t get out.”

He compresses his lips into a hard line that says he’s making a judgment call. “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” I lie. He gives me a suspicious look, like he’s about to call me out for being seventeen, but there’s a sound like an explosion from somewhere.

The cop looks up toward the noise. “Bet it’s another propane tank,” he says. He breathes sharply through his nose and looks behind me up Morris Mountain Road. I turn. The sun is blotted out. Burning leaves swirl toward the intersection. The cop shakes his head. “Go home,” he says.

“You gonna chase after me?” I ask.

“Don’t be a dumb-ass,” he warns.

I hit the gas and lurch past him, rolling up the window. I can hear him screaming at me to stop as I come within inches of clipping his car. By the time I pass the speed limit 45 sign, I’m doing at least 90 as churches and abandoned houses flash by me.

I take the turn onto Denning Court and plow through someone’s front yard, narrowly missing his mailbox. I slam on the brake and yank the emergency. The truck slides sideways, tires digging into the grass. Sod flies behind the camper shell before it finally screeches to a stop.

Parker’s house is a modest blue ranch, set on a slope a little below the road. The front door is open, and I can see straight into the house because of the angle. There are two cars parked in the driveway with their trunks open. Mrs. Bishop is on the front porch, pacing and smoking.

I race down the driveway and take the two steps up to the wooden front porch in one stride.

“Don’t tell me what’s reasonable.” She turns her back on the open door. “I know exactly where you were Thursday. And who with.” She listens for a moment. “Then find more. I’m not the one who has something to lose here.”

“Where’s Parker?” I interrupt.

“You’re paying to have that lawn resodded, young man,” she says, glaring at me, then waves me inside.

I am completely dumbfounded. I thought adults were supposed to be smarter than me. I step back so I can see over her roofline and gesture pointedly at the oaks standing dead-still behind her back fence and the orange boiling up through them.