Chapter 1

Alexandra Whitaker had never been one for hiking. So she didn't understand exactly why she had dragged herself out of her warm, cozy bed at 5 o'clock this morning to go trudging through the forest in the mud and the uncomfortable humidity. The insects were driving her mad, and to make matters worse, she was lost.

"What a wonderful idea, Alex," she muttered to herself, pushing her way through a thicket of brambles. "This is very inspirational."

A recent graduate of Boston University, Alex had always aspired to publish a book before she settled down and got a job. To do that, she had needed to get away, somewhere that she could think and write in peace, with no interruptions from her nosy family or her party-hard social group.

Consequentially, she'd found Tashmore Lake to be the perfect place for all of this, with its population of maybe one hundred and the miles upon miles of nature that separated everyone from everyone else.. A few months before receiving her diploma, she had decided that a retreat was in order. Unbeknownst to her relatives and friends, she'd bought a small house on the outskirts of Tashmore, where she'd disappeared to following graduation.

She'd known that they would be worried. But after she'd sorted some things out and had the first few chapters of her book written, she would call them and let them know where she was.

Alex yelped as a stiff briar branch suddenly whipped back and struck her across the arm. An angry red welt appeared almost instantly on her fair skin.

She sighed and stopped, leaning against the nearest tree to examine her surroundings. Her stomach rumbled; the paltry picnic lunch she'd packed for herself hadn't sufficiently relieved her hunger. Then again, she hadn't known that she would be out here for so long.

A glint of silver through the trees to her left caught her attention. She wove her way through the tangle of trunks and shrubs carefully, her heart pounding.

Her spirits lifted as she realized that the trees were thinning, and what she had first thought was a clearing ahead of her was, in fact, a road. A familiar vehicle was parked alongside it, the sun shining off of its mirrors.

Alex stumbled through the ditch and onto the gravel road where her car awaited her.

A low-riding, navy blue 1979 Thunderbird was her ride. It had been the cheapest vehicle she could find. Her friends had always been attempting to convince her to buy something newer, but she had refused. Secretly, she loved its heavy frame and the sturdiness of its build. However, it was a gas guzzler, and tended to stall at the most inconvenient of times.

She threw her backpack into the passenger's seat and got into her car. The Thunderbird started without a hitch, and Alex sighed in relief.

Alex was halfway home when her car decided to stall.

"Shit!" She hit her palms against the steering wheel in frustration. "Not now! Come on!" She turned the key in the ignition. The engine caught, coughed once, and died.

Alex leaned back against the back of the seat and exhaled slowly. She popped the hood of her car and got out to check the engine. She stared at the machinery for a good five minutes before realizing -- or admitting -- that she had no idea what she was looking at. Shadows were beginning to lengthen across the road, and the sun had almost vanished from sight. The trees surrounding her were starting to look ghostly and foreboding, their dark leaves making an eerie rustling sound that caused chills to run down her spine.

Her cell phone was, of course, exactly where it always was when she needed it: at home on the kitchen table. She needed to find help soon or would end up spending the night in her car. A square of light was emanating through the trees, a short distance up the hill on the right side of the road. The dark outline of a building could be faintly seen against the darkening sky.

A house, Alex thought. Somebody had better be home.

So she locked the doors of her car and plodded slowly up the incline, the bottom of her mud-caked, too-long pant legs tripping her every few steps. She walked onto the deck, wincing at the creak the stairs made, and stood for a moment, psyching herself up to explain what had happened. Taking a deep breath, she knocked loudly on the door and hoped that someone was home.

Mort Rainey was jerked awake when he heard the knock at his door. He made a face and pulled a pillow over his head, hoping that whoever it was would give up if he didn't answer them. A few minutes of silence passed, then a louder knock and a woman's hesitant voice calling: "Hello? Is anybody there?"

Mort groaned and sat up. He ran a hand through his already bedraggled hair and straightened his glasses. Not that it made him look any more presentable. He slid his feet into his tattered gray slippers slowly, thinking that perhaps if he procrastinated long enough, the person at his door would leave. No such luck.

"Hello?" the woman said, knocking for the third and loudest time yet. Mort got up off the sofa heavily, pulling his favourite bathrobe tighter around his body. He padded across the wooden floor to the door and pulled it open.

"Yes?" he said.

The woman standing in front of him was of middling height, with shoulder-length light brown hair and blue eyes. Her shirt was ripped at the sleeve, and her shoes and pants covered in mud. She looked nervous. "Uh, hello. My car broke down over there, just through those trees," she said, "and I was wondering if I could use your phone? I just need to call the tow service."

Mort scratched the back of his head and opened the door, motioning her inside. "Go ahead," he told her. "Phone's right there."

"Thank you so much, Mr - ?" the woman said as she stepped indoors.

"Rainey," Mort said. "Morton Rainey." He closed the door behind her.

"Alexandra Whitaker," the woman told him.

She picked up the phone and stared at it for a moment, before turning back to him, her cheeks taking on a touch of red. "I'm sorry. I'm new around here; I don't know the number…"

Mort sighed. He dialed the number for her and went into the kitchen to wait for her to finish her call. He didn't want to intrude on her privacy, and he felt awkward enough as it was. He was never any good with strangers.

He was pulling a glass out of a cupboard to pair with the waiting jug of juice on the table when a shadow fell over him. A familiar sinister feeling washed over him, and he didn't even need to turn around to know who was there.

"Hello, pilgrim," John Shooter said. "Long time no see. How's our darlin' wife?"

Mort wanted to scream, but his throat constricted suddenly and all that came out was a low, choked whimper. His feet rooted themselves to the floor, and the glass in his hand was frozen halfway out of the cupboard.

"I'm finished, Mr. Rainey," Alexandra's voice called from the doorway. "I'm so sorry to bother you at this time of day -- oh! You have company! I'm terribly sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to thank you for using your phone. I'll let myself out."

Mort's mouth opened and closed soundlessly as Alexandra disappeared into his living room. He heard the door slam. The glass slipped out of his hand and fell with a crash, shattering into countless shards all over the kitchen floor.

Shooter was saying something to him, but all Mort heard was a faint buzzing sound. He was too astonished to comprehend anything except for the realization of what had just happened:

Alexandra Whitaker had seen Shooter.