A thunderclap shakes me awake, rattling the glass of water on the nightstand. It is 4 a.m., and I am alone in a strange bed, in a room that smells raw and damp under frigid air conditioning. As I struggle to sit up, a sheet of water falls and hits the pine trees all at once, announcing an East Texas downpour.
It is my third trip to Holly Lake. This time I’ve left my family in Austin and come here alone to research, write, and spend mornings in the—oh god. The canoe.
There is no time for an umbrella or even a flashlight. I run out into the hammering rain in my nightgown, cursing myself for tethering the battered canoe that afternoon instead of pulling it ashore. I kneel on the slimy dock amid flashes of lightning and haul in the vessel, its belly sloshing with water. What am I even doing here?
Back inside, warm and dry, I decide to blame Lisa Tuttle. After all, she is the one haunting me.
Early in the pandemic, scary books were the only kind that held my attention. Our day care had shuttered in the first week of lockdown, the owner sobbing as she handed me a garbage bag full of finger paintings and Pull-Ups through our car window. With two jobs, no child care, and everyone in quarantine, our cozy house quickly became stifling. Even the play grounds were draped in yellow police tape, like crime scenes. I needed the stakes of the stories I read to be higher than the stakes of real life.
We had to break free. I longed for a road trip to New Mexico or Virginia, but given the
