Page 9 of The Unknown

But amid all that unruly nature are signs of habitation. The same buildings I spotted from the boat can be seen from the base of the incline, their pitched roofs peeking over the foliage. A clear path leads from the dock to the top of the island, zigzagging up the hill before ending in a set of stone steps at the tree line.

The three of us begin our ascent, Loretta taking the lead, me in the rear. Now that I’ve reasoned away my trepidation about the island itself, first-day jitters have returned in full force.

I’m going to be in a movie.

One directed by Ronan Peters.

Starring an honest-to-God legend.

Whom I will be meeting in a matter of minutes.

The idea that Violet Wright might be waiting for me at the top of thehill makes my legs tremble as I continue to climb. To distract myself, I pepper Brad with questions.

“Did you just get here today?”

“I’ve been here since Friday,” he says. “Spent the weekend prepping the place for your arrival.”

“All by yourself?”

Brad rounds the sharp corner of the last leg of the path. “Yup. And no, nothing scary or supernatural happened. Personally, I think all of that is overblown. New Avalon is just a regular old island. Pretty comfortable, too, all things considered. It may lack certain creature comforts, but there are worse places to spend a week.”

“Who owns the island now?”

“The state. They bought it from Ruth Hume Semple’s brother, who inherited it when she…” Brad’s voice trails off, almost as if he’s afraid to say aloud what really happened. That Ruth Hume Semple vanished along with four other women. Even though he claims the stories about the island are overblown, I get the sense that Brad believes at least a little of it.

“Ever since, New Avalon has been a base camp for various scientists,” he says. “They take water samples and monitor migratory waterfowl. Stuff like that. Usually they get here in April and stay until September.”

“They left early this year to accommodate us,” Loretta adds, clearly proud that even science isn’t immune to bending to the whims of Hollywood.

We start up the stone steps, which cut through the strip of forest at the top of the hill. A moment of darkness that’s as thick—and as brief—as a solar eclipse. Before my eyes can adjust, we’re out of the woods and back in the bright light of the afternoon. Blinking against the sun, I see a wrought iron arch swooping over the stone walkway. There’s writing inside the arch, the bent-metal letters spelling out the island’s name.

New Avalon.

Standing directly beneath it is Ronan, dressed, as usual, in khakis,white shirt, blue neckerchief. It makes him look like someone stranded here. A shipwreck survivor who refuses to acclimate.

“There she is!” Ronan says, springing toward me like a puppy. I begin my string of apologies about the lateness, the car, the traffic, but he stops me with a raised hand. “Marin, it’s fine. Shit happens. What matters is you’re here now.”

He leans in, and I prepare myself for another round of air-kisses. Instead, Ronan pulls me into a full embrace that catches me off guard. Until now, the most contact we’ve had is a handshake. It makes me wonder if this is common. If it’s normal for male movie directors to hug their actresses, either on set or off. Not having been part of a film before, I have no idea. The director of the commercial I did barely looked at me, let alone touched me.

But with Ronan, it’s welcome, even if it goes on a beat too long. Unlike Loretta, he actually seems happy I’m here.

“Let me show you around,” he says.

We pass through the arch, beyond which is a cluster of buildings surrounding a rectangular green. There are five of them—four tiny, tidy cottages and one large house—all so quaint that they look more like a backlot set than a real location on an island.

The cottages sit in pairs on opposite sides of the rectangle. Each one looks exactly alike, with a little front porch, white walls, and a door painted robin’s-egg blue. Tiny windows are located on both sides of the door, friendly and inviting. Above each door is a number: 1 through 4.

The house sits at the far end of the rectangle, directly across from the archway. Unlike the single-story cottages, it’s a three-story Victorian that looms over the green, all ornate gables and gingerbread trim.

It would look even bigger if not for the oak tree sitting directly in the center of the green. A massive, gnarled thing, the oak appears to have been split almost in two. There’s a vertical gash in the center of its trunk, about two feet wide at the top and narrowing as it gets closer to the ground, making it look like someone had taken a giant axe to it.

Because of this, the tree forms a large V, a deformity that hasn’t kept both sides from growing until it’s as wide as it is tall. Its limbs, heavy and thick, seem to reach for the nearby cottages, straining to grab them. An unsettling thought that’s made worse when I realize the significance of the tree in New Avalon lore.

“Is this—”

“Where the dresses were found,” Ronan says with a solemn nod. “Amazing that it’s still here after all these years.”

I continue to stare at the oak, disturbed and fascinated in equal measure. Yes, I suppose it is amazing that it still stands after a hundred years. But it’s creepy, too. Because the last traces of five women were found in its branches, the oak also serves as a kind of final resting place. A grave for those without one.