Marsh Island (3 page)

“I want to go back to camp,” Tommy said.

“All right,” Jake said. “But quit screaming.”

Jake tried to stand but stumbled over something lying near his feet. It was the box they'd dug up. He must have dropped it when he tripped over the log. Well, he'd brought it this far, he wasn't going to lose it now. He picked it up, tucked it under his arm and looked around to get his bearings, flicking his hair out of his eyes.

Which way should they go? Back to the stream? Just thinking about it made Jake's insides turn to mush. It might not have been Alfred Marsh in those bushes, but
something
had been there. He would have to find another way back.

“Let's go,” Tommy whined.

“I'm thinking,” Jake said.

He looked around for something to climb. If he could get up high enough to see the tent, they could find a different way back to the campsite.
That big pine tree at the top of the hill might work
, he thought. But he didn't get very far. He'd only taken a couple of steps when he spotted something strange in the bushes. He moved closer and peered through the trees.

“Come on.” Tommy tugged at Jake's shirt again.

“Just a minute,” said Jake. “There's something in there.” He took another couple of steps and shoved a branch out of the way to get a better look. His breath came out in a long low whistle.

“Look at this,” he said.

Jake pushed his way through the bushes into a clearing. It wasn't very big, but it was large enough to provide shelter for a small round hut.

“Wow,” said Jake. “I bet this was Alfred Marsh's hideout.”

The hut was made of sticks and mud and leaned a little to one side. Jake moved closer.

“Let's go,” Tommy said, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

Jake ignored him. “No wonder no one ever found Alfred Marsh. You'd never know this place was here.” The ground crunched under Jake's feet.
Clumps of clay and ground shells lay scattered in front of the door.

I've been shipwrecked on a deserted island, he thought. I built this hut with my bare hands. I live on nuts and berries and creek water. No one knows where I am. No one will ever find me
. A bird whistled, and he glanced back into the trees.

“Don't go in there, Jake,” said Tommy.

The walls of the hut were cracked and brittle. Jake reached out and the mud crumbled under his fingers.
How long has this been here?
he wondered.

“I'm just having a look,” Jake said. The door was woven together with vines. It hung crookedly over the opening. Jake pulled it open gently, afraid it might fall off the doorframe.

The first thing Jake noticed inside the hut was the smell. He wrinkled his nose. The stale and musty air smelled a bit like smoke.
How long since
anyone has been here
, he wondered.
Am I the first person to enter since—?
The door fell closed behind him with a loud
CLUNK
, and Jake jumped.

He laughed at himself, but the butterflies in his stomach wouldn't go away. It was cold and dark. Little slices of light filtered through the cracks in the walls. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a pile of gray ashes on the dirt floor.
Was this from Alfred Marsh's last fire?
he wondered. His scalp started to prickle.

“Come on, Jake!” called Tommy. “This place is giving me the creeps!”

Jake moved farther into the hut and squatted next to the ashes. What would it have been like to live here, alone in the woods? No tv, no videogames, no telephone, not even a toilet. Hunting for food, hauling water from the stream. Who would want to live like that?

Jake shivered. Alfred Marsh, that's who. Alfred Marsh, who had once been a rich and successful man. Alfred Marsh, who had come to this island and never been seen again. A cold draft blew across the back of Jake's neck. He swung around. Had something moved? He heard a scream.

Jake's blood turned cold. He jumped up and dashed out the door. “Tommy!”

Tommy was nowhere in sight.

“Tommy!” Jake called again.

No answer.

Jake shoved his way through the bushes and back to the pile of leaves he'd been sitting on before. He had told Tommy that he wasn't scared. He had yelled at him and called him a wuss. Well, he was scared now.

“Tommy! Where are you?”

“Jake!” Tommy's voice was faint.

Jake barreled through the trees toward it. This was all his fault. Tommy had wanted to go back to the
tent, hadn't even wanted to go exploring. But no, Jake had to go snooping around in the hut. If anything happened to him—

“I'm coming, Tommy!” he yelled.

“Help!” The voice was louder. More like a scream than a yell.

Jake ran faster. His chest was so tight he could hardly breathe. He crashed through a bush and fell into a knee-deep pool of water. The stream! In a flash, the cold creepy feeling washed over him again. It was the same feeling he'd had when they dug up the box downstream. He had to find his brother. He plowed through the water and scrambled up the bank.

“Tommy!”

“Jake! Hurry!”

“TOM—” Jake stopped so suddenly he almost swallowed his tongue. He felt like an icicle had stabbed him in the heart.

There was Tommy, backed up against a rock. His face was white, and his eyes were bugged out of his head. But it wasn't the look on Tommy's face that sent a chill through Jake's bones. It was the shadowy figure in the trees, back hunched, arms stretched toward Tommy.

“Leave him alone!” Jake shouted.

The man whirled around. Cold hard eyes bore into him.

Jake froze. Only the hammering in his chest told him that he hadn't turned to ice.
Run!
his mind screamed. But Tommy was trapped against the rocks. He couldn't leave him.

The man took a step forward. He had a dirty gray beard and horrible black teeth.

I am a warrior
, Jake told himself.
I am strong and brave. I can protect us.

Suddenly he remembered the box clutched under his arm. He hurled it at the man's head.

“Run, Tommy!” he screamed.

Tommy sped past, and Jake took off after him. There was a shout, and the sound of heavy footfalls.

Jake ran faster than he'd ever run in his life. His legs pumped like the pistons in a monster truck. “Faster, Tommy!” he urged.

The ground was rough and uneven. Jake stumbled as the ground dipped beneath him. Up ahead, Tommy slipped and fell. Jake thumped down on top of his brother and then scrambled up, pulling Tommy with him. There was a crash behind them.

“Quick! To the top of that hill!” yelled Jake.

They clambered up the hill, half running, half stumbling. Jake glanced back, expecting to see the dirty scowling face of the stranger. Was it Alfred Marsh?
It couldn't be
, his mind told him. But something inside him told him it was.

They sprinted the last few meters to the top, gasping for air.

“We have to find Dad,” Jake said. “Look for the tent.” His eyes combed the hillside. The tent was down there somewhere, hidden in the trees. They had to find it. It was their only hope.

“I don't see it anywhere,” cried Tommy.

“Keep looking!” snapped Jake.

He could feel Tommy close beside him, his body tense. Jake was feeling panicked too. Where was the tent? He heard a shout. The voice was closer than he'd expected.

“It's got to be here. It's got to,” he mumbled.

He spotted a small patch of blue.

“There it is!” he shouted. “Come on!” He grabbed Tommy's hand and sped down the slope, ducking around trees and jumping over rocks. Branches grabbed at his shirt and scratched his arms, but he didn't care.

They were almost at the campsite. Dad would be there, and he'd take them home, off this island and away from whatever was haunting it. Home, where Mom and Grandpa were puttering around in the garden, waiting for them to return, eager to hear about their adventures. Home, where exploring meant a trip downtown on the bus, where he could buy a drink and a hot dog at the corner store. Home, where Alfred Marsh stayed in stories where he belonged.

Jake could see the tent.

“There it is, Tommy! Hurry.”

They sprinted toward the campsite.

“Dad! Dad!” they called out.

Jake burst out of the bushes, tripped and fell to the ground. Tommy tumbled down on top of him.

“Jake! Tommy!” Dad helped them to sit up. “Where have you been? I've been worried.”

“Dad, you'll never believe it, we—,” said Jake.

“There's ghosts here, real live ghosts and—,” said Tommy

Both boys stopped. A shadow moved on the side of the tent.

“Beg your pardon,” said a deep voice.

Jake's head jerked up. He saw trousers smeared with mud, a dirty gray beard and dark beady eyes

Jake couldn't believe it. They had escaped from the stranger and raced to the campsite. How could the man have made it to the tent so fast? Jake leaped to his feet. “Leave us alone!” he shouted. “Go away! We haven't done anything to you!”

“Jake!” Dad put his hand on Jake's shoulder.

“But Dad, it's—it's—”

“Chris Mumford,” said the man. He stepped forward and tipped his hat. “Marsh Island Historical Society.”

Dad shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

“You mean—you're not Alfred Marsh?” asked Jake.

Dad stared at him. “Jake!”

“Let me explain,” said the man, hiding a smile behind his hand. “I came across the boys up at Marsh's Hut. I do a bit of work up there, preserving the historical site. Think I gave them a fright. The young fella here took off so fast I was afraid he'd get lost in the woods. Had to follow him for a bit, till his older brother here found him.” He touched the side of his forehead where an angry red lump was forming. “Didn't mean to scare them.”

Jake took a closer look at Chris Mumford. He was wearing khaki cargo pants and hiking boots. His beard was gray but flecked with black and neatly trimmed. There was a backpack slung over his shoulder. He smiled at Jake. Mumford's teeth were straight and white. Jake squeezed his eyes shut. How could he have ever thought this was Alfred Marsh?