Newton stopped and pointed. “What’s that? Is that a wall?”
Crow stopped and looked where Newton was pointing. Their marshy path broadened even further and then spilled out into a field. On the near side of the field, crowded back against the forest wall, was a flat mass of gray-white. “Sure as hell is,” he said, his throat going dry.
They moved through the forest with great caution, watching as the gray flatness took shape, became defined, resolved into walls and bricks and window frames. After a few dozen paces it was clear to them that they were approaching the place from the side, through a wall of trees that probably once stood as a backpiece to the house, in woods that would have remained untouched even as the forward acres were converted into farmlands and fields.
They crept closer, breathing shallowly, careful of the sound of each footfall as they studied the house. It was a huge old three-story pile of a place that looked like something out of a Charles Addams drawing, with a pitched and shingled roof surrounded by a decorative wrought-iron railing and improbable gables that looked like they had been attached as an afterthought. A broad-aproned porch ran completely around the house, the rail overgrown with ivy. Beginning at the edge of what had probably once been a path leading from the front yard and into the woods where they now stood was a wall made from rough-cut blocks that were about a cubic foot each; the wall began in the front as a knee-high double layer of stone and climbed, layer upon layer, until it reached its full height equal with the bottom of the house’s rear window
s. The effect was that the wooden part of the house looked like it had been fitted into a huge stone socket.
Ivy and wisteria climbed all over the stone and sent tendrils up the wooden planks all the way to the roof. Some kind of dense weed that looked like onion grass covered most of the visible parts of the roof, sprouting right up between the faded shingles. The wooden walls were brown with old paint and age, but they were still whole and looked strong. There were no holes in the walls, no crumbled sections of the wall, no evidence that any part of the roof might have collapsed. Except for the proliferation of the vegetation, the house might have been abandoned only a year ago, not three decades past.
“Are you sure this is the place?” Newton asked. “You said it’d be some kind of old hovel. ”
As they moved closer Crow started shaking his head. “This can’t be right,” he said. “But—it has to be. The map I looked at only showed one house on this lot, and this whole parcel belonged to him. ”
They moved closer, stopping again within twenty yards. There were thick sheets of plywood covering all of the windows on their side of the house. The side yard was a tangle of rowdy pumpkin vines, and all the pumpkins were obscenely swollen with disease. Crow squinted at the house, said nothing, but when he moved closer he drew the machete again. Newton followed him, holding his hiking stick at an angle across his chest as if it formed some kind of barrier between him and what he was feeling because of that house.
The house stood almost in a clearing except for four huge oaks that leaned so close to the house that their outstretched limbs and branches effectively kept the whole place in shadow. The first sunlight Crow and Newton had seen since entering the Hollow came no closer than the front yard and they glanced up to see that the whole sky was an almost solid mass of purple clouds except for a single hole up in the southern quadrant, beyond the tree line. A solitary ray angled down and its light glimmered on the brown tips of the grass like a promise of hope, but it was surrounded by despair, and it seemed badly overmatched by the gloom.
Careful not to make any noise, Crow and Newton drifted toward the patch of sunlight and stood in it as they examined the house. Weak as it was, the warmth of the sun and its golden light seemed to soak into their skin all the way to their bones like a shot of good brandy. Some of the oppressive weariness melted away under its heat, but the caution and apprehension they had both felt as they stared at the front of Griswold’s house obdurately remained. They lingered there and soaked up the warmth.
Now that they were closer to the house they could see that front porch had peeling whitewashed posts that held up a decrepit porch roof, which was the only part of the house that looked like it bore the ponderous weight of thirty years of disuse and neglect. The front windows were covered with plywood. Each sheet was larger than the window and appeared to be nailed right into the wooden front wall.
“Get your camera out,” said Crow. “I want some pictures. Get the whole house. All four sides. ”
Newton pulled out his small Minolta digital, tucked his walking stick under his arm, and left the patch of sunlight to begin shooting. As he stepped out of the patch of sunlight he was amazed at the difference in temperature and humidity of the shadows clutched around the house. Crow headed to the left, prowling around the perimeter of the house, frowning at everything. When Newton reached the front of the house, he stopped, staring at the patch of sunlit ground where they had stood.
“You done?” Crow asked from right behind and Newton actually screamed. It wasn’t much of scream, more of a yelp, but he did jump inches into the air and landed in a crouch, spinning around. He hadn’t realized that Crow had circled the house and come up behind him from the other side.
“Don’t do that! You about scared the piss out of me!”
“Oh?” Crow said with a snide grin. “Is this place getting to you?”
Newton flipped him the bird.
Crow moved past him and squatted down on the bottom step so that his line of vision was just above that of the porch floor. “Newt…don’t put your camera away just yet. Take a look at this. ”
“What is it?” Newton climbed up onto the porch to where Crow stood in front of the boarded-up window to the left of the door.
Crow pointed with his machete. “Looks like footprints in the dust there on the porch. Can’t tell how old they are, though. There’s been a lot of rain…” his voice trailed off and he rose to his feet, brow furrowed in perplexity. “Oh…shit. ”
“What?”
Crow stepped onto the porch and used his blade to tap the wood covering the window to the left of the door. “What’s your read on this?”
“Yes. Plywood. I have seen it before. Very impressive. ”
“Okay, smartass, you’re a hotshot reporter. You’re supposed to be a good observer, so observe. Tell me what’s wrong with this picture. ”
Newton stepped closer, peering at the four-by-eight sheet of heavy three-quarter plywood. It had been securely affixed to the wall with at least fifty heavy-duty sixteen-penny nails. The nail heads were neatly spaced and hammered flush. Professionally done, no owl-eyes, no miss-strokes. There was a pale-blue stencil inked onto the surface of the wood sheet, repeated twice in the high left and lower right corners. The lettering read BILDMOR LUMBER—CRESTVILLE. “Well,” he said, “I can say with some confidence that this, indeed, is plywood. ”
Crow made a disgusted noise. “No shit, Sherlock. Don’t you think there’s anything a little odd about it?”
“Um. No. Not really. ”
“Christ on the cross,” Crow snapped. “Newt, this place has been deserted for thirty years. We know nobody owns it because I checked the deed yesterday. Look at the plywood, for God’s sake. It’s still green!”
Newton did look at it and his mouth slowly opened. “Oh,” he said.