The rustling from either side of the narrow path is a giveaway for whoever’s watching us. I ignore the whispers and the grubby faces poking out of the brush here and there. An arm or leg appears as our watchers get braver, but they draw back before I can catch them. Halfacre is attentive, darting his head back and forth when he senses something, but stays at my side as we push through the fog. I’m banking on his size being a threat. My coordination is better, but I’m still “off.” This is a distraction on top of not knowing where I’m going. The path isn’t marked and I don’t know how big the grounds are. The fog doesn’t help, either. I set a good pace in hopes we’ll find a main trail sooner rather than later—or maybe catch a ranger on his rounds. I’m still sticking to my guns that this is all some mix-up and I dreamt the last day or two. All the crazy talk from the man at the cottage sticks with me as much as I try to ignore it. Part of me says I’m in denial. What does it mean if I’m dead?
What do You think about The Camaro Murders (2011)?
