A Reckoning at Hills Peek

It’s like someone flipped a light switch out here. Everything is black. The almost full moon must’ve crept behind a cloud or tree . . . or something.

I stop. My eyes dart struggling to find a point of reference. I fumble my phone from my pocket, tap my screen to turn on my flashlight, and gulp in steady breaths again. Thank God I charged my phone earlier.

Now there’s extra light behind me. My bestie, Celeste, must’ve turned on her flashlight as well. The path is visible once more with its roots and ruts. I’ve already stumbled twice trying to keep up with Damon. I can’t see him but hear his shuffling footfalls. He’s not far ahead. He took off like a bat outta hell at the trailhead. Said he needed a bit of space. He was coughing and scratching at his neck in the car, so something’s going on. And is he upset I brought Celeste?

Given where we’re heading, I’m glad she came.

She hisses from behind me, “You sure about this?”

My eyes are still focused on the path as I answer, “Of course,” which is a lie.

We could just as easily head back down the trail as continue up the hill. But I accepted Damon’s invitation and should keep going. It’d be rude to bail.

Celeste steps beside me on the steep trail. “I get you wanted a buffer.” She puffs a few misty breaths. “If I’d known where we were going? . . . I would’ve said ‘no.’”

Celeste is right. If Damon had told me where we were going, I would’ve said “no” too. And how does he already know about this place? It isn’t exactly advertised in the local travel guide.

Damon, whose footsteps are becoming fainter ahead of us, is the new kid that arrived after the school year started. Moved to Kill Devil Hills a week ago, and in my chem class, my teacher made me Damon’s lab partner. Damon is a hottie with dark hair, hazel-green eyes, and a smokin’ bod’, so I was more than happy to help.

He’s a bit intense, though. 

During our chem lab yesterday, our Bunsen burner flame flickered higher than everyone else’s. I kept turning down the gas, but the flame stayed the same height. It was weird. After we finished our lab write up, Damon asked me about our town name. I told him it was something to do with really strong rum that washed ashore a few centuries ago. “People used to say the hundred-proof rum was so strong it could kill the Devil. My grandma had a dusty old bottle of the rum in her pantry.”

He looked me in the eyes, and said, “Speaking of . . . You want to take a night hike tomorrow?”

What does he mean by ‘speaking of’? “Where are we hiking?”

“It’s a surprise.” His voice was low and kinda seductive.

I couldn’t say “no” to that.

Now I wish I had.

“How much longer?” Celeste gasps.

“How should I know? I’ve never been here. Same as you.”

“A ways back,” Celeste points her thumb behind her, “I saw a sign that said one-point-two miles to Hill’s Peek Asylum. I hope we’re there soon.”

“How come I didn’t see the sign?”

“I dunno. The paint’s faded. Maybe that’s why.” The light beam from Celeste’s phone sweeps in an arc past fallen logs, skeletal tree branches, and drooping fingers of moss. “Where’s Damon?”

“He’s probably there already,” I say, my legs throbbing from the gain in elevation.

Hill’s Peek Asylum is where insane people were kept over a century ago. Where insane people died from lobotomies and torturous experiments. Where over 3,000 unnamed bodies are buried. Up there.

A century ago, the old asylum was left to rot and a new one was built across town. But the bodies remain. An insane person would have some haunting to do with that kind of treatment.

At slumber parties, we’d scream our heads off when our friends would tell us about coming up here, seeing shadows, and hearing moans.

And Damon, Celeste, and I are headed to the graveyard.

“Boo!” Damon lunges out from behind a massive tree trunk about twenty yards ahead. My hand presses my chest, as if my fright has squeezed all the blood from my heart. Celeste’s scream pierces the fog.

Damon’s bent over laughing.

“Not funny!” Celeste says. The beam from her phone is pointed upward. “Damn it all to hell, Damon. You made me drop my phone!”

“Is it cracked?” I point my phone’s flashlight toward hers.

“No. The battery’s low, though,” Celeste says as she brushes off the screen with her sleeve. “Should’ve charged it.”

Damon laughs some more and says, “We’re almost there.”

When I jog up next to him, he starts scratching and coughing. He was fine a second ago and now he’s back to wriggling and coughing. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine once we get up there,” he rasps and stumble-sprints up the last of the path, into a clearing.

When I crest the hill, I cast my light beam across the grass, which is checkered with concrete squares embedded into the ground. The light beam illuminates Damon setting out candles that he’s pulled from his backpack. One red and two black candles. Tall like the ones my mom sets in an old-fashioned hurricane candle holder.

He starts coughing again as Celeste and I arrive next to him. I swear he’s allergic to me or something.

“You sit over there.” Damon points. “About ten paces.”

I take ten steps away from the candles. Ten paces? Very specific.

He strikes a match with his thumb nail and lights each candle. The flames reach upward at least the length of my finger.

“Celeste. Ten paces that way.” Damon points.

“Um. What are we doing?”

I’m glad she asked because I’m wondering the same.

“It’s a séance,” Damon says.

“A­–a séance?” I’m sitting cross legged on top of my backpack and my knees have started trembling. My hands are tucked into my jacket pockets. One hand clasps my phone, which I had turned off to save my battery because we’ll need it on the hike down. My other hand clasps a rosary my grandma gave me for my First Holy Communion. She died last year. Grandma had said the rosary belonged to my great grandma; the tiny silver loops that hold the beads together and the crucifix are tarnished, like it’s really old. I keep it under my pillow when I’m sleeping, and I brought it with me tonight.

I’m not a huge fan of the dark.

“Hell, no,” Celeste says. “We’re not bringing insane people back from the dead. No way.” Celeste is barely visible, almost ghostlike in the faint light, which makes me shiver. I wish I could say something to her but now’s not the time.

“It’s not people. One person,” Damon says. “My dad.”

“Your dad?” I shift on my backpack and lift my knees to my chest.

“Yeah. He died in a fire last year.” Damon’s penetrating stare flickers in the candlelight.

I’m pretty sure he’s staring straight at me. But why? I pull my knees closer, my rosary pressing into my fist with the cross dangling from my hand. Who invites basically a stranger to his dad’s séance?

“Why do we need to be here? And why not at home?” I don’t want to do this. Especially not here.

“We have to be here.” Damon says to me, “You need to be here.”

My eyelids stretch open as wide as they’ll go. “I need to be here?” My heart is ramming against my chest, like a spirit that wants out of its grave.

Celeste shifts and starts to stand.

“Sit down!” Damon yells. “Now that the spirits know we’re here, we can’t leave.”

This was a bad idea. I knew nothing about Damon, but I agreed to go on a night hike with him. In the dark. This definitely was a bad idea.

Celeste seems far away. Too far for me to help her. Or her to help me.

Damon begins. “Oh, spirits. We’re here to speak with Damon Senior. Tell him that the killer’s granddaughter is here . . .. He’ll like that.”

Granddaughter? I’m snorting through my nose in short bursts. Don’t panic. Just don’t panic. I glance toward Celeste. Her knees are pulled to her chest; she’s freaking out too.

I run my fingers over my phone in my pocket, turn the screen toward my body to hide the light, and press buttons on both sides to power up my phone. Our Father. I inhale through my nose. Who art in Heaven. I exhale. Hallowed be Thy name. Inhale. I continue silently reciting The Lord’s Prayer to calm my jangling nerves and it seems to be working because my brain starts thinking again.

“We are believers,” Damon says, gazing out to the horizon, his arms outstretched.

He said his dad died in a fire last year. Firefighters found a guy in my grandma’s house when she died but his name wasn’t Damon. Or was it?

“Spirits. Set forth my father. Let his voice be heard,” Damon says.

Oh my God. The man that died in the same fire as my grandma had escaped from the asylum across town. Was it Damon’s dad?

The candle flames dance and rise higher, at least a foot into the still air.

Damon repeats, “Let his voice be heard,” and his head tilts back.

I stand. “Damon. You need to stop.” I step toward him, and he starts coughing. Hacking. “Stop!” I say again.

“No,” he says, low and deliberate.

I reach my hand toward him. He swats it away, then recoils his hand as if he’s burned his skin. He steps back. Steps backward again. “Your grandma killed my dad.”

“She died in a fire.” I reach my hand toward him to get him to listen to me.

“Your grandma killed my dad,” he says again. He points toward my hand. “What’s that? What’s dangling from your fist?”

I ignore his question. I want answers! “The man in Grandma’s house. Was that your dad?” I move toward him. Celeste is next to me now.

“He was killed just before the fire started.” Damon’s palm is outstretched. “Stay away. Stay away from me . . .. What’s. In. Your hand?”

“How do you know? That he died before?” I ask.

“He told me last night when I brought him forth. Said your grandma killed him. And that he started the fire,” Damon says between spasms and gasps.

“A dead guy started a fire?” Celeste says.

“Forget I said that,” Damon says, waving his hand at her question. “Stay away.”

“A dead guy. Started a fire,” Celeste says again, as if saying it twice will make sense.

“Your hand!” Damon yells.

“It’s my grandma’s rosary. She gave it to me.”

“Put that . . . thing away!” Damon yells.

I obey and tuck my hand into my pocket. Mom said the firefighters detected an accelerant, maybe rum, near the man’s body. At least that was their explanation for how the fire started. They couldn’t figure out who or what lit the accelerant. No matches or lighters were found.

Damon coughs again, scratches at his neck, and steps backward. “My dad said I needed to bring you . . . so he could . . ..” He shakes his head. “Never mind.” He chokes and wipes his nose and eyes with his sleeve. “He’s not coming when I call. Probably the damned rosary.” His voice is fading as he backs away into the trees.

I can’t see Damon anymore. The candlelight doesn’t reach this far.

“Damon! Where are you?” I call into the trees.

Wailing and moaning floats up the hill, through the trees.

Celeste clutches my arm. “Is that Damon crying? Or . . .”

“Let’s get out of here!” I grab Celeste’s hand and we both sprint past the candles, through the clearing, and back down the path we’d taken earlier.

“We need your flashlight!” Celeste yells as we stumble over roots.

I slow to a jog, press my flashlight button, and the bright beam lights our way. We take off at a sprint again.

“Do you hear that?” Celeste says.

“Hear what?”

“Footsteps!”

We stop. Catch our breath. Listen. We hear nothing but an owl’s cry and the blessed sound of cars about a mile away, on the street below.

A crunch of pebbles interrupts our brief break, and we take off sprinting again.

Wheezing, Celeste says, “Do you . . . think . . . he’s following us?”

“Just keep running!” My hand squeezes the rosary into my palm.

The crunch of pebbles moves closer but is still at least ten paces behind us–too close.

Our Father. Who art in Heaven. Hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come . . . Celeste and I keep sprinting and I keep silently praying. Grandma taught me that prayer will keep me calm. And safe, she said.

Tires humming on pavement and car engines grow louder.

We arrive at the road.

“Cars! Thank God,” Celeste says.

“I think I recognize that pickup.” I point toward a white Ram driving toward us as we sprint on the side of the road.

Celeste waves her arms like wings flapping, the pickup slows down, and pulls to the shoulder.

“Hey girls. Whatcha doin’ out here, in the dark?”

“Hey, Harlan,” Celeste says, and we both dash across the road. “We don’t really know you, but could you give us a ride?”

“Thanks for stopping,” I say, barely able to utter words I’m so winded from sprinting and being scared out of my mind.

“Hop in,” Harlan says.

Celeste slides into the front seat. I glance toward the trail one last time, don’t see Damon, yank open the back door, and climb in. The moment we’re nestled in Harlan’s truck with our seatbelts on, Celeste reaches back, grabs my clasped hand, and starts crying.

“What the hell?” Harlan says, glancing sideways at Celeste.

“Long story,” I say.

“Seriously. What’s going on?” Harlan asks, pulling onto the road.

“Damon invited us up to the old asylum,” I say.

“The new guy?” Harlan says.

“He wanted us to have a séance,” I pause to steady my breath, “and we just ran away.”

“Where’s Damon?” Harlan asks as he slows down to take a turn.

“Back there,” Celeste says, tilting her head behind her.

“I don’t know,” I say at the same time as Celeste.

Celeste is still holding my clasped hand. She lifts my fist, turns it palm up, and says, “Is this the rosary he was talking about?”

“It was my grandma’s rosary.” A quick burst of embarrassed laughter escapes. “I always have it with me at night.”

“Huh,” Celeste says.

“It makes me feel safe,” I say, feeling kind of defensive, because not many teenagers carry a rosary around with them.

“Damon sure hated it.”

We ride in silence for the last few miles and Harlan drops us off at my house. After Celeste and I hug outside of her car, she heads home. She didn’t want to talk about what happened any more than I did.

***

This morning, as I prepared to go to school, I tucked my rosary into my jeans pocket. Just in case.

Damon isn’t in chem class, so I’m completing the lab by myself. The Bunsen burner flame is normal. Like everyone else’s.