To Bophobean: Yes, Fern certainly has unique methods! And I enjoy Buster's moments of clarity.

To 707: Great to see ya around!

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains description of extreme peril. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter 29

Raccoon Hill

The trek to Van Houten Farms was supposed to be a mission as well as an escape, but it was when Fern leaped across a narrow section of Mill Creek's channel, clearing the bubbling stream with ease, that it felt like an adventure. As she sprinted up the valley, carpeted with emerald moss, all the while dodging saplings and skirting around nettled brush, she reflected on what she had accomplished thus far. She had evaded the watchful eye of Principal Brooks, picked her way into the locked band room, and sneaked out of school and into the thicket behind MCM without anyone's knowledge. Except for George, she conceded, but even he did not know everything. Instead of kowtowing to her mother's will, she was forging her own path this afternoon. If she had stayed in place like a good little girl and participated in whatever was happening inside the gymnasium, it never would have compared to her escape and the feeling it gave her now, one of complete and fearless independence.

She looked to the trees above, barren save for the evergreens, branches reaching like brown and bony fingers toward the graying sky. Though her body was warm from activity, the air was colder than she had expected, and she was willing to bet the snow forecast for around midnight tonight would fall much sooner. Fern would be back in her room by then, comfortable, recording everything she could possibly remember about her journey today and planning her return trip. She was reveling in this fact when she stumbled over an exposed root, barely saving her balance by grabbing the slender branch of a burgeoning maple. While she had anticipated slippery terrain from fallen leaves or pine needles, the forest floor was proving to be quite the disappointing obstacle the farther she traveled. The hills she had sprinted during training, though fine for strengthening her endurance, had not fully prepared her for just how unstable her footing would be.

"Still better than the Autumn Ball," she huffed as she plodded along, though the sentiment did little to allay her growing doubt. She thought, It all began so impeccably well….

As much as she had tried to prepare herself for the reality that any number of things might prevent her from reaching Van Houten today, from unfortunate incidents that could hinder her pace to unforeseen dangers that could force her to turn back or even hastily flee, the flawless execution of her break from MCM had bolstered her confidence, and hope had sprung eternal that the expedition would yield the same result. But what if her journey did come to a screeching halt? What if all her preparation had been for naught? What if an aborted mission sent her back to the gym with the bitter taste of defeat in her mouth, a companion to the bitter taste of having to witness everyone else at the Autumn Ball living it up, especially Luster?

Exactly the kind of thinking that will end your mission prematurely if you lend too much energy to it. You haven't come this far to fall. It's not over until it's over, not until the GymMaster sounds off. Until it does, stay on the move. Taking deep breaths as she refocused, she grunted out her mantra: "Be. In. The. Moment."

Fern pushed onward, kicking up dry leaves and squishing into the layer of wet and rotting ones just below them, slipping here and there as she climbed. As well, she pushed away the knowledge that her palms were sweaty, cooling beneath the open weave of her gloves and growing almost as cold as her fingertips. She ignored the anxious flutter in her chest over the prospect of failure and refused to throw in the towel just yet. She was almost halfway to her destination, after all, and if she still had the will, she still had the time. Jenna's GymMaster was counting down for her, and when it beeped, regardless of how far she had made it, her time truly would be up. If Fern still had not made it up Raccoon Hill by then, she would gracefully bow out, turn around, and sneak back into MCM, where she would rejoin the ball attendees and make good on her promise to George. Then she would simply conquer Raccoon Hill some other day, when the ball and the musical were all but forgotten and she had more time at her disposal.

But when would she have more time at her disposal? Fern could not help but wonder. After today, after closing night of The Music Man, her mother likely would expect even more plays and social events out of her, not to mention there were her sentences at the food pantry and Ladonna's card drive, yet to be served. When would she ever be left alone long enough to reach the top of the hill again, never mind explore its farmland? Fern slipped once more, losing her foothold, and she fell to her hands and knees, leaf water seeping through her leggings and gloves where she had touched down.

"No!" she spat at the ground.

It would have been far too easy to let this moment break her. Surprisingly, a chapter from Stephanie Bachman's memoir came to mind, one titled "Firebrand". In it, Bachman described her early years, before Ernesto Del Rey had become her literary agent. Back then, her time had been monopolized, split between struggling as a freelance writer and struggling as a waitress in a Bar Harbor diner. She had skipped meals, worked through illness, and missed holidays with family to make ends meet. Exhausted, beaten down, and left with little time left for writing fiction, Bachman said the world felt unbearably cruel. She had cried herself to sleep many times and often considered giving up writing altogether, until one day it was as if all her tears had dried up and a fire had been lit beneath her. She still believed she had stories in her that were worth telling and, do or die, she would tell them. She needed to tell them as much as she needed anything else to survive. "Maybe I've only got fifteen minutes to write before crashing," she told herself on a particular occasion, "but they are fifteen very important minutes, and I have no choice but to make them count." From that moment on, nothing had stopped Bachman, no matter how cruel the world felt. And nothing was going to stop Fern.

I won't stop, not today or any other day after. Do or die, I need this.

As she scrambled to her feet, something caught her eye, and Fern knew her steadfastness had been rewarded. About fifty feet ahead of her was what looked like a worn trail, cutting through the forest from north to south. Rather than heading straight up the incline, it traveled diagonally, but there was only one place it was sure to lead, and she smiled at her luck.

"Of course!"

Just as she had not been the only person to sneak into the off-limits sector of Wonderworld and venture into Kiddie Cove, there was no way she was the only person in Elwood City to climb this hill to get a glimpse of the forgotten farm. The only difference was someone else, or several other people by the look of it, had approached Van Houten from a different direction. And they had made her trip much, much easier. Fern hurried to the path, taking note of where she had entered it. A large oak, whose trunk stood covered in red and dying vines, was close by, and she decided to use it as a landmark, the point at which she would get back onto her original path on her way back to MCM. Fern followed the trail, renewed vigor in her stride.

As she traveled, she worried less about making it to the top and thought more about what Kelly, Danger Girl's protagonist, might think if she were in the same situation. This reminded Fern that, more than a mission, an escape, or even an adventure, Racoon Hill was the crowning achievement of her practical research, method writing at its finest. Above all else, the experience should serve her novel, and it would. Her eyes and ears became Kelly's as she took in the array of trees, nettles, and vines surrounding her, listened to singing birds, barking squirrels, and a deer rustling leaves as it retreated to safety. Odd. She would have expected the air to smell fresher and cleaner out here away from the highway, but it was damp with a subtle moldy quality. Fern swore she could even taste it. The tip of her tongue was stinging, as if aware of the mold's presence in the atmosphere. Very interesting. She was in the moment, just as she had been on her way to the morgue, and the Autumn Ball may as well have been taking place at another time and in a different world rather than a few thousand feet away from here. Fern did not allow a single detail to slip by her as she exerted herself, knowing she was closer than she had ever been.

She broke into a run when she saw it, a chain-link fence where the land began to level out, no doubt serving as some sort of privacy measure set in place by the property owners. It was not tall, but it was long. No matter which direction Fern looked, the fence stretched as far as she could see. It was a clear statement that trespassers were not welcome beyond this point. The issue with fences, however, was that, like locks, they only kept out those lacking the drive to reach what was on the other side of them. It seemed the countless people who had summited Raccoon Hill had not come this far to be deterred by some rinky-dink fencing either, for enough of them had simply climbed over it until a portion of the links bent over, and the section was now leaning from its posts, nearly parallel with the ground. Feeling playful in light of her victory, Fern approached this spot and, instead of climbing over it as well, she turned until her back was to it. As if performing a trust fall, she leaned backward until she rolled over the fence and landed on the other side. It was the extent of her parkour skills, but it had been fun nonetheless. Fern landed in a crouch, giggling. She had made it. There was a break in the trees ahead, and the canopy of limbs above her steadily began to thin, letting in more light. In a burst of speed, Fern made a break for it, thankful for flatter land. She ran until the sky was all steely clouds, stopping only when Van Houten Farms came into view, and she was captivated by its enormity.

The farmland sprawled, stretching forever with fields, pasturelands, barns, garages and outbuildings of varying sorts, all in different stages of dilapidation. The garage closest to the house, for instance, had held up rather well. In two of the large open bays, Fern spotted a rusting pickup truck and an old tractor, both sitting on deflated tires that had dry rotted ages ago. Aside from the relics within and the graying white paint that had mostly peeled off, the structure looked sturdy. The same could not be said of the chicken coop and horse stables, which had caved in. This place was a patchwork quilt of different eras, with fences made of stone, others of broken pickets, and others still of wooden posts and steel mesh. The farmhouse, a split-level behemoth with sharp-angled gables, also reflected this. The original house had been much smaller, and an addition had been built in 1910. An antechamber had been added sometime after the advent of vinyl siding. The siding had blackened from age and neglect, but the rest of the house, like the garage, shared the same graying, peeling paint. Windows and doors had been boarded up, but some of the boards were loose or torn out completely, courtesy of the explorers who had come before. But perhaps the house's most striking feature was the towering oak tree that had uprooted in the back yard, most likely due to a storm. The tree had not been tall enough to destroy the entire house, but its top had crashed into the lower level, punching a large hole through the roof. It now leaned into the farmhouse, resembling a sort of sinister-looking access ramp, if only one dared to climb it.

"Beautiful…." Fern breathed.

This place was astounding, fascinating, and it pained her to leave it. Surely, it was time to go back to MCM by now. Fern stretched out her jacket until the screen on the GymMaster was visible.

"Wow. You're kidding?"

There were over four minutes left before it chimed. Even with the slip-ups, she had still made it here with time to spare. The trail really had been a blessing. Not only had she arrived early and done recon, she was going to get back early. While that part did not thrill her, the extra time would be a boon to her plan for sneaking back in, which would require a great deal of care in order not to get caught. Fern took one more long look at the land before turning around and walking away, back to the woods. She only went a couple of paces before stopping, turning to look again. The house looked so inviting, and she was rather close to that antechamber, and its door was missing most of its boards. Still, three minutes was not a lot of time to explore.

It's enough for a quick peek inside.

Going downhill would be a lot easier than traveling uphill had been. That would save her some time, too.

I mean, it would be a shame not to use those three minutes to serve my story. I'll be back, but I don't know when. It would be nice to have as much to go on as possible.

Her feet were moving before she had made up her mind. "In for a penny, in for a pound," she said as they carried her across the land in a hurry, following the visitors' trail through the dead grass. The closer she got to the house, the better she could make out the bits of graffiti some had drawn on it. A large piece of artwork featured a rather skillful drawing of a raccoon's face, with pointy ears, tufted cheeks, and bandit mask depicted most prominently. A crown sat tilted atop its head, and "THE KING OF RACCOON HILL" had been written above it all. Fern smiled at this then held in a gasp when a live raccoon darted out of the antechamber door and scurried off into the distance, cutting a trail of its own into the woods.

I suppose that's why it's called "Raccoon Hill".

Others had contributed to the graffiti, only these additions had been made by someone with less talent and a vulgar mind. On the boards still covering the top half of the antechamber door were several crude drawings of male genitalia as well as the sentiment "andrea filkins = whore". Fern frowned. She then peered through the door's opening, listening carefully before ducking under the boards and entering.

The antechamber had been built as a bigger space to do laundry, it seemed. Fern spied water hook-ups and drainage pipes running up the walls as well as custom shelving that was perfect for folding clothes and storing detergents, though the washer and dryer were absent, and the utility sink had been torn from the wall and pushed over. She crept along. The laundry room led into the kitchen, which was the part Fern really wanted to see before she left. It was the room most effected by the felled tree, and it did not disappoint. The kitchen was vast with an adjoining breakfast area. The tree had crashed right above it, and dull light spilled through the hole in the roof. Heavy mildew hung in the air, much worse than it had been on the hill and impossible to ignore. How much water had leaked into the house? To find out, Fern only needed to follow the powdery trail reminiscent of soap scum that ran from a dried-up pool beneath the hole, leading into the kitchen proper, where it had seeped into the seams of the pale-yellow floor covering, causing the floor to bow and dimple in places. Worse still was that there was a gaping, almost frightening-looking hole on the far side. Flooring as well as the boards underneath had crumbled away, leaving the appearance of a deep, black, and jagged-toothed maw.

Must be the refrigerator.

That was the most plausible explanation. The antique range was still present, and if Fern had to guess, the fridge was probably an old and heavy one as well. All that water, collecting here, ruining the floorboards' integrity—they never stood a chance against such massive weight, and the fridge had fallen to the basement or root cellar below. Fern inched closer toward the hole to get a better look, but she did not dare go too far. Past a certain point, the floor became soft, spongy, and she knew it was unsafe, even for a small person like her.

Another thing that was clear to her was why the raccoon had been in here. There were cabinets on the safer side of the kitchen, a top and bottom row that spanned the entire wall, with a countertop running the length in the middle. Someone had prowled through the top cabinets, leaving every door wide open. They had tried the same with the bottom set, only they had given up after opening the one next to the wall. Strewn about on the dusty olive-green countertop was a substantial amount of food garbage. Bags of potato chips and cheese puffs lay ripped open without a crumb to be found. A box that had once housed mini powdered donuts was now torn to shreds. Crumpled and empty cigarette packs, a drained 2-liter bottle of Sarah Soda, and crushed, colorful cans of something called Four Loko accompanied the rubbish. Either a gang of youths had hung out here and could not be bothered to take home their leftovers, or they had stashed the food here for a return visit, foolishly believing no one—or no thing—would eat it. Fern was leaning toward the foolish camp when she zeroed in on the graffiti they had left behind.

Oh, how edgy….

On the bit of wall visible between the upper and lower cabinets, someone had attempted to draw a pentagram inside a circle using red spray paint, only he or she had drawn a Star of David by mistake. Underneath the image, the bold artist had, Fern assumed, intended to write "hail Satan forever" in big block lettering, but spelling had not been this person's strong suit, and the result was a hilarious typo:

HAIL SATIN 4EVR!

The whole thing was precious in its utter incompetence.

Congratulations, nimrod, she thought, impulsively reaching into her bag for her phone. You've declared undying fealty to shiny fabric.

This was priceless, the type of detail she never would have been able to conjure if left solely to her imagination. The vandalism was unique in personality, and she needed to document it right away. One quick snapshot, that was all she wanted for the time being. When she returned to Van Houten Farms, she would take a hundred more. As she worked quickly, pulling up her phone's camera, the GymMaster sounded off, splitting the quiet air with a shrill and rapid BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEEP! BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEEP! BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEEP! If the noise had merely startled Fern, providing her with a jolt back to reality, it was nothing compared to the effect it had on the raccoon that burst from one of the lower cabinet doors. At first, Fern had no idea what was happening. With a yelp, she jumped back and away from the commotion as the terrified animal shot out of the storage space, scattering more food waste, sending the cabinet door sailing back with such force that it ricocheted off the neighboring door and slammed shut again before its hind quarters could clear the gap, momentarily pinning its bushy striped tail before bouncing open again. The scene was like something out of an old cartoon, when a character would run in place for a second or two before taking off at top speed and leaving behind a cloud of dust. The raccoon's paws tumbled one over another as it scrambled to regain traction, then it was gone, racing into the laundry addition and out the partially-boarded doorway.

Fern clutched the hand not holding her phone to her chest, feeling her heartbeat pound through her denim jacket and wet glove. She inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself, trying to process how unexpected yet thrilling that had been when she realized she had moved without taking a single step. It was the unmistakable feeling of a shifting floor, not unlike the slight suspension felt while in a multi-story building. Fern had most recently experienced this while in Elwood City Hospital, when she traveled a couple of floors up to leave her balloon behind for a patient. But why was she experiencing it now? Her question was answered upon looking down. Fern saw that, in her attempt to get away from the raccoon, she had landed on the soft and sagging portion of the floor near the hole. Her heart skipped again. This was a far too precarious position to be in, and she needed to get to steadier ground right away.

Fern's realization came one second too late. Before she could move out of the way, the floorboards broke. Perhaps due to the waterlogged and rotting wood, there was no loud cracking sound to be heard, but instead, she felt a soft popping sensation through the soles of her boots. The floor was falling away, creating an inescapable slope. She pitched forward, flinging her phone in surprise as she fell. The phone slid a few feet away from her, coming to a stop with its screen side down. Fern hardly had time to care, however, for she hit the floor hard, knocking the wind from her lungs. She sank as she gaped and gasped, fighting to recover her breath as she slipped downward on the death slide toward the hole. The GymMaster continued its beeping, heralding the pressing sense of doom that washed over her. She knew what was coming. In a last-ditch, fruitless effort to save herself, Fern threw a hand out, frantically feeling for purchase on the gritty floor, but there was nothing there, and she continued her descent until she was plummeting into the black void below, unable to cry out in fear.

To be continued…