1984

Hazel flings herself upright in bed, desperate breaths escaping her burning lungs. Her dark eyes widen as she notices the partially open window ahead and the translucent drapes swaying in the breeze. Crickets chirp and a few owls hoot in the distance, but not nearly as loudly as her heartbeat in her ears. She raises her trembling hands to her chest while wheezing and feels her heart pound against her fingers.

It was only a dream. Try to relax.

She wipes the sweat from her brows and kicks her legs off the bed, landing on the off-white crochet blanket she wrapped around herself. She pushes herself to her sock-covered feet, then trudges toward the ajar bedroom door, running her left hand's fingers through the parts in her bra-length cornrows. She walks down the dark foyer until she reaches the spacious kitchen, lit by the pale blue stove light. A mahogany island, similar in style to the rest of the cabin, sits in the center of the room, and Hazel's friend, Christopher, is leaning against it, elbows pressed to the surface. His hands are resting on his brow, and his shoulder-length dreadlocks are draping over his wrists.

"You okay," she asks as she approaches him, taking a deep breath. When he turns his head to her, she notices dark circles around his inflamed, puffy eyes. As she comes to a stop near the island, he straightens his posture with his hair covering his clammy face.

"Yeah." He inhales, then exhales while running his right hand's fingers through his hair. He's dressed in a white tank top that emphasizes his athletic physique, grey sweatpants, and black socks. "DeeDee said she came in here for water and saw someone looking in through the back door." Christopher shakes his head.

Hazel shifts her gaze to the left, and he follows it, peering over his shoulder. They can see trees swaying in the breeze and a dirt path leading deeper into the woods through the sliding door.

"So, you came in here to see for yourself?" She meets his eyes with one of her brows raised. "Chris, we agreed if some weird shit happens, we're just gonna go home."

"Haze, I know." He crosses his arms and rests his hip against the island, his six-one height dwarfing her frail five-one size.

"Then why're you acting like GI Joe? I mean, what would you even do if you came in here and saw someone?" She waits with her lips agape for an answer. When he looks at her black yoga shorts, she shakes her head and darts her gaze to the blue shadow under the stove hood. "I'm gonna go back to bed. If it wasn't for the fact that we took forever to even find this place, I'd say let's leave tonight. Just — don't stay up too late — please?"

"Alright." He inhales deeply again and purses his lips. Christopher watches her turn around with her gaze fixed on the sliding door, and he turns to face the island as she walks toward the dark hall of rooms.

***

Hazel slowly opens her eyes, her gaze locked on the wood ceiling, and the mouthwatering smell of bacon pouring in through the crack of her door. She tilts her head to the left, furrowing her brow at the gap between the door and the frame.

She looks at the digital clock on her nightstand which reads eight-thirty in red, broken font, and slides her hands upward with her elbows bent beside her. She pushes on the sheet, its silky texture compelling her to return to sleep, and sits with her back slouched. It's the first official day in Griffon, Minnesota, and despite the events of the night before, she vows to make the most of it.

Hazel gets out of bed and stretches her arms above her head, her eyes squeezed shut and her stomach exposed by her white cropped top. A long, wooden dresser is placed against the wall next to the door, and it's adorned with a small Ficus plant and dusty books. She moves her gaze to the foot of the bed, where her crochet blanket is curled beneath the frame.

Hazel exits her spacious room, past the sound of grease sizzling, and enters the hall bathroom. It's the size of a standard walk-in closet, but it features mahogany and porcelain Victorian plumbing, wood paneling and flooring, and a small window between the toilet and tub. She stands in front of the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. She, like Christopher and Cindy, is the color of nutmeg, and her heart-shaped face is painted with pimples, resembling the starry sky.

Hazel turns the red and blue knobs on the faucet until warm water flows down the drain. The pipes rumble as if they haven't been used in decades, and she knits her brows and turns her head slightly to listen. She opens her mouth and inhales, expecting to call Christopher's name, but the sound abruptly stops.

"Okay," she mumbles, taking a deep breath. She dismisses the occurrence, blaming it on the cabin's age and she approaches the stream with her hand, cupping the clear liquid in her palms. She leans in closer and splashes the water in her face, then as she repeats the action, a man in a dark trench coat and flat cap takes floaty steps away from the door, stopping behind her. He stares at the mirror with his black, beady eyes. His face is ruddy, and he has a three-inch silver beard and sideburns.

After the third splash, Hazel gasps for air, her head dangling and her face dripping water into the sink. Her forearms are pressed to the sink's surface, her fingertips near the faucet and running water. The man floats toward the door, and when he crosses it, the sudden sound of a dog yelping fills the air, and Hazel flinches upright.

What the hell?

She looks at herself briefly before shifting her gaze to the window. Nothing can be heard from the trees except the singing of blue jays and robins. She hears the brash voice of Christopher and a monotonous one she recognizes as Cindy's in the kitchen, both as faint as a whisper.

"I just wanna get out, Chris," his twin sister whines to him. Hazel takes a deep, shaky breath, then backs away from the window and sink. She steps into the well-lit hall and walks toward the kitchen. Cindy is dressed casually against the island, wearing a denim skirt, white sneakers, and a puffer coat while he's in his pajamas. Her hair is crinkled and pulled back into a ponytail. "Like what're we gonna do? Just stay in here and listen to the house fall apart?"

Christopher turns away from the stove holding a skillet in one hand and tongs in the other, his eyes trained on the slabs of bacon. To the right of the room, behind Cindy, is an arch separating them from the spacious living room of potted plants, a dark brown bookshelf, and crème-colored Victorian furniture and portraits.

When they first entered the cabin, they were taken aback by how modest the interior is in comparison to the grandiose exterior. They anticipated winding stairs in the living room with a polished, wood railing sturdy enough to lean against and gaze down at those below. A castle devoid of marble, gold, and diamonds, but containing hand-crafted wood and vintage furniture. Cindy was the first to make her false assumptions known before running to claim her room out of the four in the hall.

"I said we can go later. I haven't even unpacked my bags or got fully settled in the house," he sternly reminds her, and she rolls her eyes onto Hazel. He picks the sizzling slices off the skillet of their grease, dropping them on the white plate set before him, and heaves a weary breath. Sweat is trailing off his temples, easily flowing since his hair is tied back.

"Haze, I heard there's a lighthouse nearby and since Chris," she raises her voice when she says his name, nudging him with her palm and knocking him off balance. He stumbles on his feet, shooting a dark look at her while she does the same. She breaks the glare to look at Hazel as she continues, "doesn't feel like going, will you go with me to check it out?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll go get my Polaroid." Cindy nods with a toothy grin and Hazel bounces her eyes between the twins before turning to the hall.