Morgan stared toward the kitchen.
For several seconds, she didn't move.
The sound had come from beneath the mixing bowl.
She was certain of it.
Then it came again.
One quiet knock against ceramic.
Morgan tightened her grip on the photograph.
“No.”
She had reached her limit for impossible things before breakfast.
The apple could stay exactly where it was.
She turned back to the photograph.
Evelyn Bennett.
Margaret Bell.
Thomas Mercer.
October 17.
At least this mystery involved people.
People could be questioned.
Preferably somewhere that did not contain self-lighting fireplaces or knocking fruit.
Morgan slipped the photograph into her coat pocket, grabbed the brass key, and left.
Mrs. Bell wasn't at the orchard.
The young man working the roadside stand told Morgan she'd gone out early that morning and hadn't said when she'd be back.
“Did she say where?”
“No.”
“Did she take her car?”
He pointed toward the small gravel lot.
Mrs. Bell's truck sat beneath an oak tree.
Morgan frowned.
“Did she leave on foot?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
He shrugged.
Morgan resisted the urge to interrogate a teenager who clearly wanted nothing more from life than for her to buy a bag of apples and leave him alone.
“Thanks.”
She turned toward the orchard.
The western hill rose beyond the rows of trees.
From here, Morgan could see the oldest tree at the top.
And beneath it, Mrs. Bell's red scarf.
The scarf had been tied around a low branch.
Morgan touched it.
Still damp from the morning air.
“Mrs. Bell?”
Nothing.
Beyond the tree, the land sloped toward the woods bordering the back of the Bell property.
Morgan remembered those woods.
As children, she and DC had spent entire summers exploring them despite repeated instructions not to.
They'd built forts, gotten lost twice, and once returned home covered in mud after becoming convinced they could cross the creek using a fallen log.
Morgan smiled at the memory.
Then she noticed the footprints.
They began beneath the apple tree.
One set.
Deep impressions in the damp earth leading toward the woods.
Morgan looked down at Mrs. Bell's scarf.
“Of course.”
She followed.
The woods felt smaller than Morgan remembered.
They also felt quieter.
Leaves shifted beneath her boots as she followed the footprints between the trees. The air smelled of damp bark and earth, with the faint sweetness of fallen leaves beginning to decay beneath the canopy.
The tracks were easy to follow at first.
Then they disappeared.
Morgan stopped.
Ahead of her, the ground was covered in leaves.
No footprints.
She turned.
The tracks behind her were gone, too.
Morgan stared at the ground.
“No.”
She kicked aside the leaves.
Nothing.
A branch snapped somewhere to her left.
Morgan turned sharply.
“Mrs. Bell?”
No answer.
Another sound came from deeper in the woods.
Not a branch this time.
Footsteps.
Morgan reached into her pocket and closed her fingers around the brass key.
The footsteps stopped.
She waited.
Nothing.
Then she noticed something through the trees.
A roof.
Morgan frowned.
There had never been a house out here.
At least, she didn't remember one.
She pushed through a patch of brush.
A small cabin stood in a clearing.
Weathered boards covered its walls. Moss crept along the roof. A narrow chimney rose from one side.
Smoke drifted from it.
Morgan stopped.
Someone was inside.
“Mrs. Bell?”
The cabin door stood slightly open.
Morgan approached slowly.
A pair of muddy footprints crossed the porch.
Fresh ones.
She climbed the steps.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Morgan pushed the door open.
Warmth met her first.
A fire burned low in a stone fireplace. The room smelled of old wood, smoke, and something faintly sweet.
A dark coat hung beside the door.
Beneath it sat a pair of muddy boots.
Morgan looked down, then back toward the porch.
The muddy footprints crossed the threshold and ended directly in front of the boots.
Someone had come inside.
“Mrs. Bell?”
Still nothing.
A table stood near the window.
On it sat an old lantern, a small leather pouch, and a photograph.
Morgan stepped closer.
Her stomach tightened.
The photograph showed a little girl sitting on the steps of the cabin.
Dark curls.
Missing front tooth.
Purple jacket.
Morgan knew that jacket.
Her grandmother had bought it for her seventh birthday.
Morgan picked up the photograph.
“No.”
She turned it over.
Nothing was written on the back.
She looked at the little girl again.
It was her.
There was no question.
But Morgan had never been here.
She would have remembered.
Wouldn't she?
Something shifted behind her.
Morgan spun around.
The room was empty.
The coat moved slightly on its hook.
She stared at it.
“Who's here?”
No answer.
Morgan reached for the brass key.
Before she could pull it from her pocket, a voice came from outside.
“Morgan?”
She rushed to the door.
“Mrs. Bell?”
No one stood on the porch.
“Morgan!”
The voice came again, farther away.
From the woods.
Morgan stepped outside.
“Mrs. Bell!”
“Over here!”
Morgan hurried down the steps.
She had taken only a few strides toward the trees when she stopped.
Something was wrong.
She turned back.
The cabin was gone.
There was no clearing.
No porch.
No smoke rising through the branches.
Only trees.
Morgan stood completely still.
The photograph was still in her hand.
She found Mrs. Bell near the edge of the orchard.
Or rather, Mrs. Bell found her.
The older woman emerged between the trees carrying a woven basket filled with mushrooms, herbs, and small bundles of bark.
“Morgan?”
Morgan stared at her.
Mrs. Bell stared back.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Looking for you.”
“Why?”
Morgan held up the red scarf.
“You left this on the tree.”
Mrs. Bell's face changed.
She set down the basket.
“I did not.”
Morgan looked at the scarf.
“It was tied to a branch.”
“I haven't worn that scarf in years.”
“It's yours.”
“Yes.”
Margaret took it from her, turning the damp fabric over in her hands.
“Then how did it get there?”
“I don't know.”
Morgan laughed once, without humor.
“Of course.”
“What happened?”
Morgan pulled the photograph from her pocket.
“I found a cabin.”
Mrs. Bell went still.
“A cabin?”
“In the woods. There was a fire burning. Boots by the door. Someone had just been there.”
Mrs. Bell looked toward the trees.
“And this was inside.”
Morgan handed her the photograph.
Mrs. Bell's face lost its color.
Morgan watched her.
“You've seen it before.”
Mrs. Bell said nothing.
“You have.”
Mrs. Bell looked at the photograph again.
“Where exactly did you find this cabin?”
“I don't know. The footprints disappeared. I saw the roof through the trees, went inside, heard you calling me, and when I came back out, it was gone.”
Mrs. Bell's eyes lifted sharply.
“You heard me calling?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn't calling you.”
Morgan felt something cold settle in her stomach.
Mrs. Bell grabbed her arm.
“Did you follow the voice?”
“I came out of the cabin.”
“Did you follow it?”
“A few steps.”
“How many?”
“I don't know. Three? Four?”
Mrs. Bell closed her eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Knowing exactly enough to terrify me and then saying nothing.”
Mrs. Bell looked toward the woods.
Morgan pulled the photograph from her hand.
“That’s me.”
“I know.”
“I’ve never been in that cabin.”
Mrs. Bell finally looked at her.
“Yes, you have.”
Morgan froze.
“No.”
“Your grandmother took you there.”
“I would remember.”
Margaret's expression tightened.
“I know you should.”
Mrs. Bell picked up her basket.
Morgan didn’t move.
“What happened there?”
Mrs. Bell started toward the orchard.
Morgan followed.
“Mrs. Bell.”
“Not here.”
“Then where?”
Mrs. Bell kept walking.
“The Gathering is tomorrow night.”
Morgan stared at the back of her head.
“I am getting very tired of hearing about the Gathering.”
“You wanted answers.”
“I still do.”
Mrs. Bell stopped at the edge of the trees.
For the first time, Morgan saw something in her expression that she hadn't seen since coming home.
Fear.
“Then come tomorrow.”
Morgan looked back toward the woods.
Somewhere beyond the trees, a branch snapped.
Mrs. Bell lowered her voice.
“And until then, if you hear someone calling you from those woods…”
She looked directly at Morgan.
“Make sure you can see them before you answer.”
