Pepper, the Highlander & the Dead Guy

1

I felt every jab, smack, and bump as I tumbled down the hill and was wise enough to keep my mouth shut tight or I’d have had a mouth full of leaves and dirt. The fall was my own fault for foolishly not changing from my moccasins into boots, but then I hadn’t planned on strolling through the woods when I got up this morning.

Who was I kidding? I was curious to know who bought the rundown Willow Lake Lodge that sat on sixty pristine acres and practically surrounded my three acres.

I finally rolled to a stop, flat on my back, and I took a minute to assess my condition. I was able to move my arms and legs without any serious pain, so I sat up slowly. I was all but buried in a patch of assorted fall-colored leaves thanks to the red maple trees, the Northern oaks, and the American elms that peppered the area. Their colorful leaves covered my jeans and clung to my bright pink sweatshirt that had my name, Pepper, emblazoned across it. A color any hunter was sure to spot or be blinded by the glittering letters, not that this was a designated hunting area, but one could never be too careful.

I plucked crimson red, blazing orange and fiery gold leaves off my clothes and from my auburn-colored hair, not to mention twigs from my long braid. I just hoped I didn’t find any deer scat in there.

With cautious slowness, I stood, wincing every now and then. Guaranteed I’d be sore later today, but a nice hot bath would help with that.

A rustle of leaves had me turning my head to see two squirrels scurrying along the ground, rolling around like two playful pups, then running up a tree. I smiled. I loved these woods, and I knew them well. I returned home nine years ago to Willow Lake, Pennsylvania, after having moved away to attend college and work. And I couldn’t be happier for more reasons than my family would ever realize.

My fall had proven somewhat beneficial, landing me not far from Willow Lake Lodge whose only occupants for the last ten years have been the indigenous animals of the woods. It had been quite a busy lodge in its heyday. Families had come in the summer renting one of the many cabins available and enjoying the many activities the place offered. There’d been boating, fishing, and swimming in the large lake and campfires with storytelling, singing, and dancing. You could barbecue at one of the many grills available throughout the picnic areas or enjoy a family meal offered at the main lodge. In the winter, the cabins were closed and the few rooms in the main lodge were available for those enjoying winter sports in the area.

About ten years ago the owner Max Macgregor’s wife, Trudy, died, around the same time my Aunt Effie died. Max died not long after. The lodge had already been closed for several years and had fallen into disrepair. I recall clearly the last time I was at the lodge. I had been about to enter my first year of college and had gone with my mom when she went to try to talk Mr. Macgregor into selling the lodge and moving into town where friends could keep an eye on him since he was almost ninety. We had found him unconscious, and he died three days later in the hospital, having never regained consciousness. The lodge had been boarded up after that—by order of Willow Lake’s sheriff, who also happened to be my dad—and no one had gone near it until about a week ago when the town was abuzz with news that a new owner had taken residence there. Though how anyone could live in the place when it was in such disrepair was beyond me.

I walked up the small rise, being careful where I stepped. I reached the top and stopped to stare down at the lodge, a sturdy structure made of logs much like my own place. Two new, large windows that flanked the main entrance had been installed and the boards on all the windows on the top floor had been removed. Large boxes and more windows sat stacked on the wide veranda that ran along the entire front and wrapped around the sides. An SUV and a pickup truck, both fairly new, were parked in the circular driveway, and several contractor vans and trucks were parked in the side parking lot. Workers were going in and out of the place. Life was being restored to the old lodge.

Amy, my best friend since kindergarten, had heard that an investor had bought the place and was planning to build condos on the property. That idea had turned my stomach. This part of PA still retained a natural pristine beauty and a small hometown atmosphere, and I hated the thought that might change, especially since it would mean the beautiful woods that surrounded me would be destroyed, replaced by buildings and people and vehicles.