Latham's Landing by Tara Fox Hall

launched the boat, yet there
had been none on the water.
    When she’d finally managed to get on the
right side of the island, she’d run out of gas. Bewildered, she’d
checked the tank to see it was empty. In the lightening sky, her
suspicion was proven true. Her watch revealed that the night had
passed in what seemed to her several hours. So she’d turned for the
shore with the oars, cursing, figuring to come back the next
night.
    That was when the wind had begun to blow.
    At first it was a soft breeze, lightly
tickling her neck with wisps of her hair. Then it became stronger,
the force intensifying until the boat was rocking in the choppy
waves, her hair plastered to her skull from water and wind.
Determined, she’d filled the tank with the spare marine gas she’d
brought, then cranked the engine to life.
    Where the rocks had come from, she wasn’t
sure. But the bottom of the boat had peeled away like a can opener
had rent it, water spilling in to cover her feet. She’d jumped and
began swimming, sure that she’d end up on the rocks herself,
another victim of the island. Instead, she’d made it to shore,
disheveled but alive, gas containers bobbing beside her in the
waves.
    She turned to stare at the house, its red
granite rock sparkling in the new dawn. “You haven’t beaten me,”
she hissed, shaking her fist at it. “I’ll be back.”
     
    Bitter cold frosted the barren, leafless
trees, making them shine in the afternoon sun. Drifts of snow lay
piled in odd patterns, driven by the wind. There was the whine of a
small engine growling louder.
    A lone figure appeared on the white
landscape, its gloved hands clutching the steering wheel of the
lightweight snowmobile, the sled behind moving slightly from side
to side as the skis hit buried stones and sticks.
    Without pause, the snowmobile rocketed off
the shore and went out on the cracked and pockmarked ice, its
crusted surface cracking dangerously under the weight. The throttle
whined as the speed increased, the craft closing the distance to
the mount of ice and snow that was Latham’s Landing. The house was
covered in drifts of snow and sheets of ice, the only discernible
features trees, a large main house with several floors at the
highest point, its entrance a lone small building perched at the
far point of the isle.
    With a sharp pull, the figure eased back the
accelerator, the skis skidding as the brake slammed down. The sled
came to a stop, the machine rocking slightly.
    The figure checked its watch, then dismounted
and began loosening the tarp on the sled.
    “ Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
    The figure stopped, then slowly put up its
hands, turning to face his attacker.
    “ Who are you?” Carolyn said with
gritted teeth, pointing the handgun in her gloved fist at the
strange man. “What do you want?”
    The figure awkwardly pulled off its helmet
with his raised hands to reveal a short blond ponytail, and dark
brown eyes. “I’m Helter.” He flashed a smile that didn’t reach his
eyes as he moved toward her. “You’re not supposed to be here—”
    “ You move an inch closer, and you won’t
be here,” Carolyn snarled, holding her ground. “I said, what are
you doing here?”
    “ The same thing you are,” a hollow
voice intoned. “You’re here to destroy us.”
    Carolyn whirled, pointing her gun at the
slight figure approaching. But before she could sight in, the
blonde man drew and fired his own pistol, shots speeding toward the
small figure. The bullets passed through it harmlessly and hit the
granite, small chunks ricocheting.
    The small figure laughed. It was a boy about
ten years old. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said with a wide smile,
his eyes alight with some inner fire. Then his grin split,
revealing long pointed teeth. “Winters are desolate and we get so
very lonely—”
    Carolyn fired, the shell bursting from the
short barrel of her gun. Though her bullet also passed through the
ghost, the malicious spirit screamed