We stop walking. I can hear the rain on the lake, far away. The wind picks up, and a curtain of leaves begins to fall around us.

“Pearl is different,” I say. “I know what you’re saying. I’ve seen these precocious children at her elementary school. But there is something different about Pearl.”

He nods, but I know what he’s thinking: She’s different because she’s yours.

“So many times, she knows things she couldn’t possibly know. So many times, her fantastic stories somehow add up. I can’t explain it.”

We stare at each other in that darkening night, and the first heavy raindrops plunge through the leaves, rustle their way into the undergrowth like miniature projectiles fired at us from some faraway castle.

“You witnessed it yourself not too many hours ago,” I say, looking away.

“We should go,” Tom insists.

That’s when I hear you scream, a short burst.

I glance at Tom to verify that I actually heard something, that it isn’t a figment of my imagination or the sound of some horrific night animal I am not familiar with. It seemed to come from far off, even under the ground.

Tom’s face echoes my . . . what? Fear? Anxiety? Terror? We stop in our tracks, standing as still as deer interrupted.

It comes to us again, this time louder, more urgent, and closer. Definitely from the cabin, seemingly from the front door. I move in that direction. Tom calls after me, but I can’t tell what he wants. I don’t think he knows what he wants.

We move as quietly as possible through the brittle leaves, around the cabin to the side opposite the lake. There is a flickering of light on one of the small windows, as if the glass is reflecting some far-off approach. I turn quickly toward the driveway, expecting to see a car, but there’s only darkness. I don’t see a light. And by the time I turn back around, I realize the light is coming from inside the house.

There is a crashing sound. The light goes out. Another scream, this one stifled. There is a fumbling at the lock inside the door. The knob turns violently and the door explodes open.

You fall through the open space, your eyes wild. When you see me, you scream, hold your arms out to shield yourself, then recognize my face and fall into my wide-open arms.

You are soaking wet.

“Pearl!” I say.

Tom races up to us. But you interrupt me.

“Run,” you say. “We have to run.”

So Close

I try to hold you close once we’re in the boat, but you keep straining to look behind us at the house we are now speeding away from. The wind has whipped the lake into a frenzy, and miniature whitecaps bounce us up and down. A torrential rain soaks us in seconds.

“It won’t take long to get home,” Tom shouts through the sound of the motor and the rain and the wind. “Hang on.”