Finch Marlowe glanced over her shoulder to check if anyone watched them. No one was there.
She stepped over the rotten log and off the park path. The recent rainfall made the muddy trails slippery and the thick underbrush slick. The air was damp, cold, and smelled of petrichor and decayed leaves. A twig snapped beneath her foot and she jumped at the sudden sound. She took a deep breath. You're fine. It's just a stick.
"Okay, according to that guy on Reddit —" Stevie started from behind her.
Finch snorted. "'That guy on Reddit'?"
"Dude. You know what I mean."
"Yeah, what did that guy on Reddit say, Stevie?" Battista teased.
"You guys are assholes," Stevie muttered. He cleared his throat. "According to the local explorers’ lore, the Milgram Cottage is a small shack, made with stone and rotted wood. They say it housed a serial killer in the 90s."
"Don't they also say it was used for Satanic rituals?" Battista retorted. "You can't believe everything you read on Reddit, Stevie."
Finch frowned to herself. "Didn't the Tunnel Rats warn us away from the Milgram place? They said it was boring, right?" She stepped with care over an exposed tree root and bumped against a moss-encrusted tree. Her clothes came away sodden and heavy.
Battista grunted behind her. "Yeah, they did. Said there just wasn’t anything exciting to see there anymore."
"Hey: Local legend is still legendary," Stevie retorted. "We're doing this. And then we're doing the Castle, right?" He named an infamous abandoned building in downtown that they had to explore.
Finch led the way through the evergreen foliage while the rain misted down. She heard Stevie trip, followed by his sudden curses. She tried unsuccessfully to stifle a snicker.
“Fuck off, Finch,” Stevie said without any real heat. He cursed again as he slipped in the mud.
Finch paused to catch her breath and to give Stevie a moment to catch his balance. The hike off the trail had led up a steep slope, toward the crest of the hillside. She hoped to have a clearer view once they reached the top, to try and spot the Cottage.
“People incoming.” Before Battista finished speaking in his quiet, deep voice, Finch slid behind the flimsy disguise of a huckleberry bush. The other two ducked behind shrubs or trees. She peered through the huckleberry branches to watch a young man and woman dressed in designer jogging gear run by. Their huffing laughter suggested that they were a couple or at least good friends.
As soon as the couple disappeared down the trail, Finch rose and brushed off the leaves on her knees. She continued to lead them up the hill and at the top, she spun in a slow circle. Pulling up the hood of her rain jacket, she then framed her face with her hands to shield herself against the mist that had turned into a relentless rain.
“Let's go northwest.” Battista's quiet voice uncurled through the rain. “That’s what the Reddit post described.”
Finch nodded, then stepped aside to let him lead the way for a time. The mud and moss-covered rocks were treacherous, and Finch was so intent on her footing that she forgot to watch her surroundings. Suddenly, Finch slammed into Battista’s back.
Irritation rippled through her. “Battista, what the hell?” At least Stevie hadn't crashed into her, too, like the last of the Three Stooges.
Battista glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. It's your own fault, the look seemed to say. Finch ignored the flare of warmth that rose high on her cheekbones and simply raised her eyebrows in return, the question plain on her face.
Battista pointed to his left, and following the length of his arm with her gaze, Finch saw what had prompted him to stop. A spot of color—a bright pastel pink—was barely visible through a thick stand of holly bushes. Squinting, Finch tried to make out the details but the rain obscured her vision.
“Wanna look?” Battista asked.
Finch shrugged. “Sure.”
Stevie squawked. “Dude, no. It’s not what we came for. It’s pink, for fuck’s sake. It’s not gonna be interesting.”
Finch rolled her eyes. “The Cottage is in that general direction, Stevie. We have to go there anyways.”
“Oh.” He sounded abashed from within his jacket hood.
Battista chuckled. “Let’s go.”
They navigated the treacherous hillside with careful steps. Glancing down the hill, Finch could see a washed-out 'fool's trail' that ended with a small waterfall. Behind her, Stevie cursed every time he slipped or bumped into a tree. The dim light under the dense forest canopy began to further darken with encroaching twilight, and Finch shivered, pushing her hands deeper into her pockets. We should have given ourselves more time.
Finally, they arrived. The holly bushes reared before Finch and the boys like an ancient castle. Still, the pink something beckoned from within. A bag or backpack, maybe? Finch couldn’t tell. She studied the thick bush and almost shook her head. She couldn’t figure out how they were going to get through.
Then Finch stilled. A slight gap yawned between the holly branches and the large maple tree to her left. She picked her way across the ground and peered down the gap. About a half-foot wide, and maybe five feet long, the gap left a short tunnel that ended in a clearing on the other side of the holly bushes. Finch glanced over her shoulder.
“Hey, over here.”
As the boys came over, Finch eyed Battista and Stevie. She was short for seventeen, only a little over five feet. But Battista, with his lanky and tall frame, and Stevie of the former football glory, would have trouble squeezing through the gap. Finch wriggled into the slight gap and inched down the tunnel, taking care to avoid the sharp holly leaves. Soon the front of her jacket and jeans were soaked and smeared with dirt. Battista muttered as he struggled behind her, snapping branches and flinching from the thorny leaves. Finch didn't have to strain to hear Stevie, whose loud complaints chased them towards the clearing. She kept moving forward.
The foliage was misleading: What had seemed five feet long was closer to seven feet, as another maple and then an oak obscured the clearing. Still, Finch wriggled and slipped through the gap. Finally, she emerged into the clearing. Finch felt a trickle on her neck and reached up to check. Her fingers came away with blood, bright and red against her pale gray and green surroundings. Something scratched me.
Her gaze drifted up and Finch glanced around the clearing—and froze.
A body.
There was a body. In front of her.
Finch stared in disbelief. She felt numb, and somehow distant like she had stepped away from her innards to float away. A cry broke from her and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Shallow, rapid breaths see-sawed out of her chest; her limbs trembled. The body—the woman, Finch realized—wore a flimsy work blouse that strained across her breasts while her arms rested at unnatural angles against her bent legs, which were encased in stained corduroy. Her clothes were smeared with green moss, gray mold, and brown mud. The body rested on the ground, against the tree trunk. A bright blue nylon rope wrapped under her neck and dangled from a branch above.
“Finch, what is wrong with you— oh, fuck." Battista came to a stop next to her. “Oh, shit, oh god.” His voice cracked on the last word.
How did she get up there? Finch wondered in a distant corner of her mind. She doesn’t look tall enough… there’s no ladder… how? Finch shook her head like a wet dog, trying to clear her thoughts. She pinched her wrist and a brief pain flickered up her arm. I am awake. This is happening.
Finch stared at the body. She had no idea how old the woman was. The skin was too mottled, too discolored from death. Her eyes traveled from the splotchy, desiccated skin to the woman's mouth, where her tongue protruded past her pale, puffy, and distended lips. Her tongue was a blackish purple that reminded Finch of a rotten plum that had long since fallen to the ground. The woman's eyes were open, dull, and with a blue-white film over the pupils. Only one shoe remained on her feet, and a pink purse lay abandoned at the ends of her legs.
Tears seeped out of Finch’s eyes. She shook her head, then looked somewhere else. Anywhere else.
“We should leave.” She had never heard Battista sound so bleak. He grabbed her arm and shook it. “Finch.”
“What do you think?” Finch and Battista paused at Stevie’s question.
Finch stared at the blond boy. “What?” She couldn’t make sense of his query.
“Suicide? Or something else?”
Finch watched Stevie with blank incomprehension. “What do you mean?” Her voice sharpened with irritation. Noose around her neck, in a remote corner of the city's largest park? What else could it be? “God, you’re an idiot. Look at her.”
“No, I know what it looks like but hear me out. Scratches on her face, the torn fingernails? How the hell did she get the rope up that high? No ladder or footholds in the tree. And her pants are still on but that doesn’t mean anything.” Stevie glanced at Battista, then to Finch. His eyes, already on the small side, were squinting in concentration; his brow, furrowed. Finch watched him wrap his arms around himself, a faint tremor coursing down his limbs. He doesn't look worried—he looks… excited.
Nausea roiled within her, and Finch swallowed hard. She felt her disgust twist her features and she turned away from the blonde woman.
Battista made a retching noise. “Try to sound a little less excited about the murder-and-rape scenario, Stevie, you sick fuck," Battista whispered, his words grating and harsh. He shook his head. “We need to leave. We don't want to be here.” He strode out of the clearing and charged through the holly tunnel, not making the effort to remain quiet.
“He's right. Let's go, Stevie.” Finch began to follow Battista but paused when she didn't hear Stevie behind her. Finch turned her head in time to see Stevie dig through the woman's jeans pockets.
“What the hell?” Finch hissed at him.
“Maybe she has something, you know?”
“You're robbing a dead woman?”
“ID, cards, whatever.”
“You just left your prints all over a dead woman”
Stevie turned a pale shade of green, and fear skittered across his face. “I'm not in the system.”
Finch swiveled away, shaking her head. Fresh anger chased away some of the chills that had settled into her bones. Unbelievable.
“I'll explain later,” Finch heard him reply but didn't bother responding. She focused on getting through the gap as quickly as possible. The erstwhile tunnel seemed narrower, and the branches now seemed grasping, as though they were trying to trap her within. With the body. Finch choked back several gasping breaths and ignored the pricks of pain when she shoved aside the holly leaves. She then threw herself through the gap until she finally emerged on the other side.
Finch followed Battista down the steep hillside in haste. They made no attempt to keep quiet and crashed through the underbrush until they reached the park trail, covered with sodden bark-o-mulch. Finch's breath plunged in and out; she couldn't seem to get enough air. The fresh air and the scents of the forest—tree resin, rain, damp vegetation—couldn’t chase away Finch's memory of the woman up the hill, with her rotted fruit tongue and empty eyes.
