Page 11 of The Unknown

The sitting area at the front of the cottage consists of an armchair from Ikea, a small end table, a fireplace, and a bookshelf stocked with paperbacks left behind by the researchers who usually spend the summer here. I spot several John Grishams and James Pattersons, along withHouse of Horrorsby Ewan Holt and a memoir by that Hope woman. A single poster graces the walls, presumably also left behind by theresearchers.A Guide to Waterfowl of Northern Vermont, filled with Audubon-esque drawings of ducks, geese, and loons.

The sleeping space in the back contains a bed-from-a-box, a nightstand, and a dresser. Hurricane lamps and lanterns sit on nearly every flat surface. A further reminder that I’ll be living without electricity.

“The good news is that the island has running water, including in each cottage,” Brad says. “The bad news is that it comes from the lake, so don’t drink it without boiling it first. You’ll be sicker than a dog if you do. But at least you can wash with it.”

He opens a door tucked into the corner, revealing a bathroom straight out of the seventies. The bathtub, sink, and even the toilet are Pepto Bismol pink. When I turn on the sink, the pipes rattle and clank before spitting out water that’salmostclear. While not ideal, it’s certainly better than having no bathroom at all.

“Sorry it’s not the Four Seasons,” Brad says.

“I’ve never stayed in one.”

“Trust me, the others have.”

“What about meals?” I say while looking for—and failing to find—any sort of kitchen. Although a wooden shelf runs along part of one wall, it’s bare except for another hurricane lamp and a box of matches used to light it.

“There’s a kitchen in the main house,” Brad says. “It should have everything you need. Stocked it myself. With era-appropriate food, of course.”

I think he wants me to be impressed. Which I am, to an extent. Preparing this island to meet some long-ago standards couldn’t have been easy. Will all his hard work be worth it? Because I’ve never done this before, I have no idea. I hope so, for Brad’s sake and for mine.

“As for your clothes, everything you need for the week is already in the dresser,” Brad says.

He eyes my suitcase, inside of which is a full week’s worth of clothesthat I packed in a rush this morning. A useless act, I realize now, considering how we’re expected to literally dress the part. Inside the dresser’s top drawer are a pair of black leather boots, a pile of gray socks, a white cotton nightgown, and a single shapeless blue dress that’s somehow less flattering than the one I wore to my audition.

“This is my entire wardrobe?”

“There are some period-appropriate underthings in the drawer below it,” Brad says as a bright pink flush spreads across his face. “Those are optional, I guess, since, um, no one will know if you’re wearing them or not. As for the dress, Ronan would like you to wear it for as long as we’re here, beginning after the table read.” He glances at his watch. “Which we really should be starting soon.”

I touch the dress, rubbing the fabric between my thumb and forefinger. It’s rough. More sack than dress. I get itchy just thinking about wearing it for the next week. Which I understand is the point of all this. After five days in a scratchy dress with no electricity while sleeping in the same place my character slept, I won’t even need to act when the cameras roll next week.

Which sparks a single question that lodges into my thoughts as Brad leads me out of the cottage to the table read.

If Ronan doesn’t want me to legitimately act, why was I given this job?

Three

The table read is to take place in the main house, which is where Brad and I go once we leave my cottage. At the porch steps, I see something carved into the stone foundation.

A circle, inside of which is a rudimentary six-petaled flower.

“Never noticed that one before,” Brad says when I point it out.

“There are others?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve found several in the main house.”

Sure enough, I spot an identical symbol above the front door, almost erased under several coats of paint.

“What are they?”

“I think they’re hex signs,” Brad says. “To ward off evil spirits.”

I study the symbol above the door, uneasy. You’d think one would suffice. “Why are there so many of them?”

“I guess the Semple family was superstitious.”

Apparently so, because there’s another symbol just inside the door. Again, it’s been carved directly into the wall and covered by layers of paint. I keep looking for them as we move deeper into the house, which is a far cry from the mostly spartan cottages. The inside is as ornate asthe exterior—a Victorian mishmash of dark woods, boldly patterned wallpaper, and massive furniture. A fainting couch here. A hutch rising from floor to ceiling there. While I spot a few modern items in the rooms we pass—a plastic trash can, a discarded computer monitor, more paperbacks—the place is mostly dark and dusty. A museum from an era even earlier than the Roaring Twenties.

“I was told that when the state bought this place, they removed whatever could easily be carted away by boat,” Brad says. “Everything else stayed.”