Liz had been moved to tears. Ian—not so much.
But according to the homeowners, it had worked. They had gone on to live happily in the house, had even been interviewed for a podcast about supernatural phenomena.
“Other than that, though? Have you ever experienced anything that you didn’t understand? Anything that—you know—really scared the shit out of you? Something you knew was real.”
The question sent a chill through him.
“Yeah,” Ian admitted. “Once. When I was a kid.”
“Was that at Merle House?”
The name was like a little electric shock. Josh had serious eyes on him.
“How do you know about that?” asked Ian. Would Liz have told him? Josh and Liz had talked a lot. Maybe. It wasn’t a secret. It was all out there, like everything, for anyone with a computer and a little bit of curiosity.
“You’re not the only one who does their research,” said Josh, ripping into some vegan “cheese” puffs. “Can you talk about it?”
Ian checked the monitors by flipping open his laptop and ticking through the images being broadcast from the various rooms. It was going to be another long, quiet night. He’d really only ever talked to Liz about what had happened, how it had formed him in a way, driven many of the choices that followed that summer he turned sixteen.
“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”
And just like that, he was back there.
4.
Summer didn’t start until Matthew Merle showed up at Ian’s door—usually about a week after school ended. Matthew would stand on the front stoop with his flop of dark hair, smattering of freckles, and a kind of glint in his eye. The kid was a laugh waiting to happen, a climbed tree, a built fort, fireflies in a jar, a swing from a rope into the cold water of the lake.
They might message occasionally during the year, or see each other over the holidays. But their friendship really belonged to summer—to the heat and the long days, not a parent in sight most of the time. Matthew’s grandfather, Justice Merle, or “the old man,” as they used to call him, dwelled somewhere in the recesses of his giant house. He was practically a myth. They rarely saw him. If they did, he looked more like ghost than man. During the summer, they were the ultimate free-range kids—before that was even a thing.
Once Matthew showed up, they’d go get Claire. She was the girl they both loved, though neither of them would ever acknowledge it, or even know what to do if she loved either of them back. Which of course she didn’t.
They dwelled in a space of almost presexual innocence, or at least Ian did—though plenty of kids their age were getting high, getting laid, running amok. Not that he wasn’t looking at girls, thinking about them; he just had no idea what to do with them. It had to be said that he was pretty dorky, a decent student, a rule follower. Mostly. Ian thought about that time a lot, the freedom, the innocence of it. He wouldn’t lose his virginity until college.
Eventually, usually when they were out in the woods at the old shack they called the fort, Mason would show up. He was the uninvited fourth of their group, but they were all too nice to kick him out. Plus, he always had . . . stuff. Sometimes money. Most often candy, cigarettes, dirty magazines, comic books.
“Hey.” Mason was late to show up that summer. No one had said anything, Ian, for one, afraid to mention his name in case it conjured him.
“When did you get into town?” he asked Matthew.
“Just got in,” Matthew said vaguely. It had been about a week—a week of long days by the pool, traipsing through the woods, flashlight tag, cleaning out the fort, which had filled with leaves and other stuff that let them know they weren’t the only ones out there—cigarette butts, used condoms, an old sleeping bag.
“Cool,” said Mason. He stood slim and unkempt by a tree, his skinny calves the same color as the white birch bark.
“Saw you at the game,” Mason said to Ian. “Nice goal.”
In spite of being a bit of a nerd, Ian did all right on the soccer field. “Thanks,” he said.
Truth was, Mason was a pretty nice kid. It was just that there was something about him—his clothes were dirty and ill fitting, too big or too small. He looked out at the world from under bangs that needed trimming. As an adult, Ian got that Mason was a kid who was neglected at best, abused at worst. He was hurting, awkward and shy.
The adult Ian had compassion for Mason. The kid Ian wanted to punch him for reasons he couldn’t explain. Maybe boys want to hurt weakness because it makes them feel stronger, because they’ve already internalized the cultural message that might makes right. Still, they all treated him with kindness, let him join the group. They all knew what it was like to feel left out. None of them were the kind of kids to hurt someone else’s feelings on purpose.
“Did you hear about the missing girl?” Mason asked.
“I heard she ran away,” said Ian.
Amelia March was older, a just-graduated senior who wasn’t going to college and who worked at the pizza place. She’d smiled at Ian once, and her long black hair, her tight T-shirts and ripped jeans, occupied his thoughts some. She was a burnout—someone who smoked and did drugs and who was widely regarded as “cool.” There was gossip about how she’d run off. She wasn’t quite legal, still seventeen. But there hadn’t been a search and a media circus the way there had been years ago, when a much younger girl had disappeared and been later found safe at the bottom of a well.
“She ran off with her much older
