The woods kept silent a.., p.1
The Woods Kept Silent: A riveting mystery thriller with a shocking twist, page 1
The Woods Kept Silent
A Riveting Mystery Thriller with a Shocking Twist
Blair Weeks
Copyright © 2024 Blair Weeks
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Art Painter
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
August 1, 1952
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
July 2, 1951
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
June 15, 1952
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
October 20, 1951
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
July 10, 1951
Chapter 23
August 16, 1951
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
July 30, 1951
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
July 15, 1951
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
July 29, 1951
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Thank you for reading The Woods kept silent !
About The Author
July 26, 1952
I saw him do it. I know it was him, and for as long as I live, I will never forget it. He’s threatened me to keep quiet, but nothing can make me forget what he’s done.
My hand is shaking and it’s hard to write, but maybe I should. Maybe this counts as evidence. I’m not sure. I can’t even bring myself to write his name. Would he know? Can he sense if I write his name in my journal? This is so unbearable. I’ve never been so afraid in my life.
I don’t know what is going to come of me. I’m really, really scared that he will hurt me or someone I know. God forgive me for not trying as hard as I should, but I don’t know what else I can do. Maybe if something happens to me, if I disappear, someone will read this and be able to pick up the pieces on my behalf. Maybe they will discover the person who did this as easily as I did. The person who I once thought was the center of the world.
The person who made Sadie Sanderson disappear.
Perhaps for the last time,
Ginny Hunt
Chapter 1
No one ever says jewelry designers have great job security. So I probably should have predicted this morning’s email from my boss, the great Patricia Schofield of Schofield Designs, announcing, with much regret, that I no longer have a job. I didn’t sense much regret in the writing of that email, to be perfectly honest.
Today’s ill-fated morning began normally enough. First, I picked up a coffee and a spinach bagel for our senior designer, who barely deigns to acknowledge me. I haven’t been an intern for two years, but food deliveries still fall on me.
Then there’s my work with Joanna, who's been at the company for ten years but still struggles to pull her weight. We’ve been working on a new project, but she spends most of her time complaining about her ex-husband and their divorce settlement while bemoaning the loss of their border collie.
It was during the topic of Trixie—and while I was trying to figure out whether spinel or corundum would work better with white gold—when I received the following email:
“Hi, Sydney!” as if the letter were bringing good news, “We’re making organizational changes to our team,” mind you, there are only twelve people at this company, “and we’ve had to make tough decisions. Regretfully, we’re going to have to let you go—”
I closed the email, knowing it was signed off by Schofield herself, and pinned my eyes on the floor.
I’ve now been staring into the abyss for ten minutes.
Am I the only one fired?
Once I muster the courage to lift my eyes, I scan the open-plan warehouse. The “ring team,” as they proudly call themselves, are huddled together in concentration, as they always are, trying to stick as many diamonds onto metal as they can. The designers in charge of this year’s Valentine’s Day collection are also busy at work and so are the designers venturing into women’s watches. The head of finance is busy in his glass cage, grumbling into his phone while still gainfully employed, I assume, and Joanna is now painting her nails over our sketches. Holy crap, I’m the only one fired.
“I guess . . . I’m . . . going to go now,” I murmur.
Slowly, the shock wears off, and I begin collecting my things, wondering if I should take the designs that Joanna hardly contributed to. Joanna only notices the look of horror on my face once I slide off my stool.
“Where are you going?” she asks flatly.
“I’ve been fi—I’ve been let go.”
“What?” she squawks, her eyes widening.
“I no longer work here, apparently.”
Before saying a word, she slams her hand down on her phone to turn it over and begins scrolling through her email. “Oh thank god, it's probably just you.”
A punch in the stomach. Great, even Joanna keeps her job. How does that happen, exactly?
I’m the youngest at the company, so they must’ve thought firing me was an easy decision. I can’t wait until they find out how useless she’s been.
Once I gather my things, I look over at the senior designer, wondering if I should notify him. He never takes much pleasure in our interactions, and I doubt I’ll have a chance to beg for my job, anyway. So I pivot toward the exit and begin walking in that direction.
“That sucks, Syd. Call me if you want to go out together!” Joanna says in farewell.
I’ve never “gone out” with Joanna before, and I don’t plan on it now.
◆◆◆
I must look like a zombie as I slowly walk out of the building and onto Pennsylvania Avenue of Pittsburgh’s Strip District. With feeble fingers, I enter my car and drive the two or three miles downtown toward my high-rise apartment building, which I’ll now have to figure out how to pay for. It’s got a great view of the Allegheny River and the bright yellow bridges strung over it. Sometimes I like to look into PNC Park on the other side of the water and pretend I can see the game going on. Baseball games for free, I like to tell my parents.
Oh god, what am I going to tell them now? They tried to convince me to live with them back in Spokane, Washington while saving up for a down payment on something, but I traded in financial acuity for independence.
I slump onto my sofa in my living room, keeping the lights off in case I need to save up, and I stare into the most photogenic parts of the city framed by my large windows. The reality of today’s news begins to hit, and sadness creeps in.
I just now started to feel confident as a designer at the company. I planned to bring in niche designs inspired by ancient pagan symbols into my work and establish my own voice as a designer. In the Baltic states, they use traditional pagan motifs to decorate their Easter eggs, and I’d already pitched the idea of recreating miniature versions of them using guilloché enamel. Finding another brand to give me this amount of freedom will be easier said than done. Of course, that desire for freedom is probably what got me axed in the first place.
I slip on an old sweatshirt, one belonging to my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, that is, as of two weeks ago.
Man, has this month been rough.
Bow-legged Ronald, as I refer to him
I grab a pint of ice cream and turn on a movie, setting up the perfect self-pity party. But just as I begin to eat my feelings, my phone lights up. It’s Mom.
I sigh, preparing to break the news. “Hey, Mom, I need to tell you something—”
“Sydney, honey, I have bad news. Grandma’s dead.”
Chapter 2
What’s a more stunned state of consciousness beyond paralysis? I don’t know, but I feel it. Maybe I angered those pagan gods, whose symbols I was designing for an upscale American brand. But Grandma Ginny? Now, that’s too far.
Mom and Dad are in shock since they expected Grandma to live another fourteen years. Becoming a centenarian would’ve been on brand for her, but eighty-two isn’t shabby.
Once the shock wears off, I’m hit by a sharp pang of sadness.
I’ve been meaning to visit Grandma sometime before winter, sometime before her 30-acre forest in northern Washington ices over. I promised to visit her in the summer but work pushed it off.
Grandma Ginny was always my favorite person in the whole family. She encouraged me to call her by her first name because she wanted to be my favorite grandma. Grandma was free-spirited and young at heart. She loved to hike and always carried with her an assortment of trail mix and protein bars. She always wore scarves and copious amounts of jewelry, which might have played a hand in my career decisions. She was always smiling, eager to satisfy my quench for creepy stories, and there was plenty to be had concerning the forest.
That forest.
Or the Woodland, as I lovingly called it as a kid. Grandma’s cabin is surrounded by several acres of pines, a realm of wild, lofty giants deserving of a proper noun. And somewhere down below the hill on which sits her cabin is a lake. There was an abandoned summer camp there, and I used to venture off into the area when I was kid, peering into its old cabins and finding lost objects campers left behind long ago.
And there were stories . . . strange stories about its previous owner—
I realize that my mind has wandered into nostalgia territory while my mom is still on the line. “Sweetheart, are you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, as a tear rolls onto my bottom lip. “How about you?”
“I’m managing. Your dad’s been great. He's helping out with everything. Look, I need you to fly over here. Do you think you can? Would Mrs. Schofield mind?”
“Yeah, that—that won’t be a problem.”
“Great, just get the earliest flight you can to Spokane, and I’ll reimburse you. We’re going to have to drive up to the cabin and deal with all that—”
Just then, I hear Dad trying to get her attention in the background.
“Deal with what?”
“Sydney, I have to go. I’ll call you in an hour—”
I can’t understand what she says next as my phone slides from my face into the slits between the sofa cushions. My ice cream has melted, and my paused movie turns into a screensaver. The afternoon sun softens, and the evening sun wanes into darkness. Eventually, I sit in complete oblivion.
Eventually, I’m forced to wake up from my stupor. I turn on the lights, immediately purchase my flight, and pack a bag. I hesitate for a moment then decide to pack everything and order a mover.
Because I sense I won’t be back.
Chapter 3
It’s raining in Spokane because of course it is. The general mood of the Wilkerson family finally matches the weather.
Bleak as it is, I’ve been homesick, and I embrace my mom and dad tightly when I arrive. Everyone from Mom’s side of the family has gathered in our living room while a couple of Dad’s brothers have come for support. Aunt Stacey and my cousin Anna are cooking up a storm in the kitchen. Younger cousins are running around playing hide-and-seek, and even younger cousins, whom I’ve never seen before, are cradled by their parents. I greet as many people as I can, catching up with those who I haven’t seen in years, but I realize the person who I want to see the most is Grandma Ginny.
The last time I saw her was in April, five months ago. But it wasn’t at her cabin in Siskinoa, sadly. I haven’t seen The Woodland in three years.
No, I visited her at my parents’ home, where she was staying for a few weeks and where she had been spending a lot of time the past few years. It was during this visit that she retold those same stories I loved to hear as a kid, the stories about the summer camp usually told on the porch of her cabin.
The details surrounding its history were now muddled in my memory, and I wanted to hear about it again as an adult. The creases around Grandma’s lips deepened into a smile after I asked, and she obliged, as she always did, happy to take me back to that summer of 1951 . . .
“Sydney, are you listening?”
I snap out of my trance, realizing that Anna has been trying to get me to eat a pierogi. “Oh yeah, thanks.”
Ann looks at me with pity. She hardly knew Grandma.
Eventually, the house clears out, and it becomes deadly silent. I’m settling into my old bedroom, intrigued with my odd jewelry creations from high school when I catch sight of an old piece: a wooden key necklace gifted to me by Grandma Ginny.
I remember when she gave it to me. Tiffany keys were becoming popular with girls in middle school, and I wanted one. My parents thought they were too expensive, but Grandma had this one stashed from childhood. I gladly took it, even though it wasn’t made of silver, because of an odd engraving of the word “It” on the stem. It was unique, and I loved it.
I eagerly put it over my head, intent on wearing it more often. Seconds later, my mother gently opens the door, stirring me from my thoughts.
Her eyes are a bit watery. “How are you doing?”
“Better than you, I’m sure.”
She smiles. “Well, that’s why I’m here. You know how looking to the future always helps me during times like these.”
I nod. She’s always been the practical type, which I’ve inherited from her. I’ll admit that I also have some of Grandma’s sense of the whimsical, which would also explain my career decisions.
“So I know you arrived only today, but there’s some really big news concerning you, and there’s no point in delaying it.”
Suddenly nervous, my mouth forms an ominous “o”. I’ve reached my capacity for bad news this week.
“Oh don’t worry, there's no reason to fret. In fact, it’s about Grandma’s cabin. It’s now yours.”
“What?” My facial muscles relax, but I’m not sure I understand.
“All ten acres of it are now yours, sweetheart. Your grandma and I had this conversation months ago. She wanted you to have it but wanted to check in with me first. I turned it down. I told her ‘nuh-uh, I’m retiring somewhere warm and sunny,'” Mom says with a laugh but immediately becomes serious again. “This is real estate, Sydney. Even if you don’t want it, even if you don’t want to live there, this is worth having—”
“No, I want it.” I’m surprised by the sound of my voice and the intensity powering it. I realize that, at this moment, there’s nothing more I want in the whole world than that place. “I want the Woodland.”
It was what I always looked forward to during visits to Grandma’s. The towering pines and the cool air that seeped between them. I played a game where I tried to traverse the entire thing, pretending that in certain places of dirt or moss, I was stepping onto ground that no one had stepped before. Areas cool and dark felt dense like a cloak; I felt as if I had discovered dark matter in those woods.
“Well, that’s that, then,” Mom says, slapping her knees before rising. “I’m going to let you rest. I’m glad this went over well—and quickly, to boot. I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.”
I only nod, my gaze on the floor. I don’t notice when she leaves the room or when my old cuckoo clock strikes midnight. I’m only thinking about The Woodland.
Chapter 4
It’s Grandma’s fault that the Woodland has this sort of power over me. The stories, the secondhand memories. Things left unsaid, deliberately or not. She made that place mysterious.
From time to time, I think about the Woodland without prodding. Last year, I designed a bracelet with a latch that resembled a ponderosa pine, inspired by the trees that reside there. Of course, Patricia Schofield loved it and ran with it, launching an entire collection. Naturally, I wasn’t offered a place on the design team nor was I credited as the catalyst. But that’s all in the past, now . . .
