The Hook

The Hook

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

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The Hook

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Also by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

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The Hook

When my daughter heard the story, she was ten. Her first sleepover, far from home, at her friend Anne’s cabin on Lake Nebagamon.

I’ve been there; I can picture it.

Eight girls clustered together on the screened-in porch. Carly is tired; she has spread out on the porch swing, her back against the slates, a musty blanket pulled over her legs. Nights on Nebagamon are cool, the rusty smell of the lake nearly overpowering. Moths bat against the screens, and mosquitos squeeze through the tiny square holes. Buzzing and absent-minded slaps accompany the crickets harmonizing outside. The girls are armed with two buckets of popcorn, s’mores, and three brands of sugared soda that my wife and I don’t allow at home.

They use a flashlight because Anne’s mother won’t allow a campfire on the lawn. The girl with the light shines it on her face, close so that her features are distorted, and tells a scary story. Most, in