The Pumphouse

Could she really be here?

Dawn breaks through the fog in a way that makes it seem like the dead really could rise, the mist twisting through the branches like a spirit keeping its sinister eye on my every move.

I never thought I’d come back here. Then again, I never thought anything could happen to us—to her… not like that.

All I want is one more minute.

The quiet hits first—no birds or crickets—as I step off South Avenue and creep down the access road. Nothing has bothered to change. The same gravel ruts, the same walls of brush and crooked tree limbs clawing at the sky. Up ahead, the brick pumphouse crouches at the base of the water tower, sealed off from prying eyes.

We were kids here once. Teenagers stretching curfew, stealing time, pretending that whatever happened here, the outside world would never know. This clearing held the start of everything—sweetness, mistakes, memories that don’t fade, no matter how much you try.

My shoulders knot up, and my eyes dart wildly as I track every flickering shadow—the silence presses from every direction. The sense of being watched squeezes my throat until I’m nothing but a frightened rabbit trying to hide in plain sight.

A tremor buzzes against my thigh—sharp and sudden.

I fumble for my phone, hands shaking, but the screen is blank. No notification. Just another phantom buzz. They’ve been coming more often since I got that message from you. I never expected an answer to those voicemails—I just needed to talk… to someone.

My thumbs hover over the screen, even though there’s nothing new, just the same list I’ve been opening and closing for days.

******

Outgoing Phone Call:

Vic Belafonte --> Sydney Turcotte

March 13, 10:34 p.m.

“Hey, it’s Sydney. I can’t get to the phone right now. I’m probably driving or out saving lives. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

beep

“Hey, Syd, I’m just—well, I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m just watching this show about an emergency room, and… I just kept thinking about how great a doctor you would’ve been. You know… if all this hadn’t happened.

Dammit! We were supposed to be so happy.

I guess I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately because the wedding would’ve been next week. I’ve still got your ring. It’s on the piano, right next to that stupid—er, cupcake teapot.

Your family… they’re holding out hope you’ll be found alive. But I—

The police say it’s still a missing persons case, which is good news. I just…

I miss what we had.

I’ll always love you.”

click

Outgoing Phone Call:

Vic Belafonte --> Sydney Turcotte

March 21, 11:06 a.m.

beep

“Hey, Syd. Today… today would have been the day you walked down the aisle.

I just—I can’t stop thinking about that stupid fight. Dammit. I know we both said things we didn’t mean, but why’d you run out? Why’d you leave in the middle of the night for God knows where? And look where we are now.

Everyone thinks you got yourself into some big mess—you know, your mom’s convinced you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe snatched up by some drifter.

I’m trying to be fair about this. I know it’s my fault too. But if my drinking was such a big problem, why wait until the week before the trip to bring it up? I’m suddenly not allowed to come because I’m a liability.

Or did you mean I’m too much of an embarrassment to be at an all-inclusive resort with your parents?

Dammit, Syd. Why’d you have to run out like that? Things could have been so different.

click

Outgoing Phone Call:

Vic Belafonte --> Sydney Turcotte

March 24, 12:29 a.m.

beep

“Listen… I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for stabbing you in the back. You’re right—you’re always right. The alcohol does turn me into a different person. Sometimes I don’t even like that person.

No—that’s not true. I don’t even know that person or the hurt he’s capable of.

If I could take it all back, I would. I would’ve grabbed you before you ran through the door. I would’ve said I’m sorry, put the kettle on, and watched that stupid show with you—Downtown… er, Downton Abbey.

I just keep replaying that night over and over. I know things went too far. I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. But you were talking nonsense, Syd. You can’t just suddenly call off a wedding and run away from your problems. We’re adults. We could have figured things out.

Wherever you are now… I forgive you. And I hope you can do the same.”

click

Incoming Phone Call:

Sydney Turcotte --> Vic Belafonte

March 24, 1:14 a.m.

“It’s Vic. Can’t talk now. Say what you need to say.”

beep

“Come find… me.

Where the… beginning—

—the end meet.”

******

The pumphouse. Everything revolved around this goddamn pumphouse. The good, the bad, that first spark of love—the final nail in the coffin.

Could you really be here?

As if answering, a gust of wind rattles the trees, and a long, low groan rolls out from the thick, silvery poles holding up the water tower. It sounds like a warped clamour of pain and fear—a sound too close to the one I’ve buried in my own chest. The one I shut away with a padlock forged from self-deception.

Those feelings start pounding on the prison walls as the pumphouse door slowly creaks open. A slow, deliberate movement—like whoever, or whatever, is on the other side wants me to notice.

A shadow bleeds into the fog, a shifting smear that's hard to determine if it's human.

A tremor buzzes across my leg, then again. Not a phantom this time. My phone screen glows bright white, cutting through the mist—and there it is.

Sydney Turcotte.

The name stares up at me like a tombstone with my name carved underneath.

“Hello?”

Silence.

The pumphouse shadow steps forward. As it pushes through the fog, the shape resolves—not a woman, not Sydney. A man in a suit. Clean-shaven. Hair slicked back.

My stomach drops. Every lie I’ve told myself collapses in a single breath.

“Congratulations,” I murmur, staring into the suspicious eyes I’ve been avoiding for months.

Detective Ryan Lovell chuckles, lifting a phone into the pale light.

Sydney’s phone.

“Amazing what we can find buried out here,” he says.