Not the way to go.
I’d thought entirely too much about death lately.
I circled the tower, headed for the stairs while scanning for anything out of place. Like Leonard had said, the support beams looked sturdy, and the copper grounding wires—built in lightning rods—appeared secure. The stairs were solid under my heavy boots.
Back and forth, I climbed the switchbacks. I paused on the fifth landing, heaving for air and thighs burning, before ascending the final flights.
If my ass doesn’t look fantastic after five months of climbing all these stairs, I’ll pitch a fit.
Finally, I reached the top and paced along the wrap-around deck, noting the safety railing barely came up to my hip. I’d have to be careful during inclement weather or high winds—the worn planks under my feet would be slippery, and I wouldn’t trust that railing enough to even lean on it, let alone tumble into it.
Windows wrapped three hundred and sixty degrees around the cabin, currently shuttered and secured against the elements.
Well, all except for one.
Huh, odd.
I stopped and inspected the exposed glass. It was a westward-facing window, overlooking what I imagined were stunning sunsets over the far ridgeline.
I pulled on the secured shutters on either side, noting they didn’t lift easily. Glancing up, I saw where the open wooden plank had been lifted and hooked onto the overhanging roof via a metal latch. I reached up and flicked it off the hook, startled by how quickly the whole thing swung down and slammed over the window, landing with a loudthud.
Ok. So they’re really heavy. Good to know.
I’d chalk one or two loose shutters up to the wind, but I doubted one could blow and lift in such a way that it latched itself open.
Someone, orsomething, appeared to have done it intentionally.
My pulse quickened. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and again, I had the overwhelming sensation that I wasn’t alone.
All of the strange stories I’d heard of Dead Man’s Lookout over the years flashed through my mind.
Hikers who’d claimed someone stood at the cracked and disrepaired windows, watching them as they passed. Teens who’d broken into the cabin, dared by their friends to spend the night, told stories of objects flying around the room, followed by loud banging coming from the walls until they left, screaming.
People who’d said they were chased through the surrounding woods by a knife-wielding maniac.
I’d scoffed at all of it growing up. Of course, ghosts weren’t real. It was a combination of a horrific history and an overactive imagination—that was all.
Also, there was probably a lot of alcohol involved on the part of the rowdy teenagers.
But I wasn’t scoffing now.
Casting a look around, I realized I’d left my bag—and my bear spray—forty feet below, on the ground near the trees.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I couldn’t make mistakes like that. Every gut instinct I possessed told me I was being watched,and all I had was the small pocket knife hooked to my belt.
They probably just forgot to close the shutter after it was renovated a few months ago,I thought, trying to calm myself.
Yes, that was it.
Leonard said they’d made repairs to the tower to prep it for the season. I was sure one of the workers simply forgot to close the final shutter.
I shook off the creeping sensation. I’d be a complete mess all summer if I allowed every paranoid thought to rule me. I needed to get hold of it now, before it became a problem.
After a deep breath, I swung the shutter open again, reached up, and latched it. I gave it a good shake to ensure it was secure and took a step back.
