As Finley let go of the steering wheel, she prayed to the hemlocks below to catch her fall like they'd done many years before. See, she knew damn well praying to the Christian God wouldn't do her no good. These mountains were far older than Him and He certainly had no authority once you crossed the river border. No, she needed something far mightier than some negligent Christian God, but such a request always came at a price.

With a screech, the rear tires tried to grip the last bit of gravel on the curve, but it was too late. For a moment, the white Mercedes seemed to hang suspended in the air, weightless, like the underbelly of a roadside hawk catching the updraft. A perfect panoramic view of the dam stretched across the windshield identical to the photo that'd started it all. A laugh nearly escaped Finley's lips, choked back instead by her heart lodged in her throat. Keeping her eyes on the incoming trees, she reminded herself this was the plan.

Live or die, this was the plan.

She gripped the door handle and braced for impact. But as the branches scraped and snapped against the windshield, the Demon sitting beside her tore at her hair, yanking her over the center console and away from the door.

Yanking her to black.

"Finley."

"Fin..."

With a gasp, she jolted awake, inhaling a lung full of fresh pine and wet earth. Searing pain shot through her shoulder as she pushed up. Her elbows threatened to buckle, but she ignored every throbbing nerve to gain her bearings. Beneath her, rotted porch floor beams creaked as she shifted weight off her arm. Rough hewn siding that had once been a golden amber now camouflaged the cabin before her in deep shades of brown, darkened from age. Nothing but rows of the old familiar hemlocks stretched out beyond.

Somehow, she'd made it.

But after the fall from Devil's Elbow up til this moment, her mind was blank. Other than a couple inches of mud up the pointed heel of her boots, she was dry. She hadn't hit the dam. And from the bridge to here at the cabin, even the easiest trail spanned fifteen miles. There was at least four hours missing from her memory, but for all she knew it could have been days since the wreck.

Pink hues from the setting sun reflected in the brook that ran alongside the porch. It trickled steady with a quiet purl as it always had every October. Pain began to burrow its way back into her bones, invited by the cold mountain air. As Finley stood up to check the door, a metal jingle sounded against the floorboards. Reaching down, she picked up a pair of tarnished brass skeleton keys on a ring; their edges worn smooth with use. She rolled the ring between her finger and thumb, glancing around the woods once more before walking to the door.

The screen opened with barely a creak, but the heavy wooden door had grown far more stubborn over the years. Pulling the knob tightly towards herself, she lifted up as she twisted the larger key into the lock. Satisfied with her effort, the lock gave way and Gram's little bells from the old country chimed above her head as the door pushed open. She tugged the key loose from the lock and pocketed the ring inside her boot.

Faint light trickled through the windows, painting the four cabinet kitchen in a blue monochrome. Finley ran her fingers along the chipped laminate counters as she walked towards the dining nook. The old slag glass chandelier still hung in one piece above the slab of burled walnut that had tabled thousands of meals.

Somewhere nearby, a rodent scurried to a corner. With a shudder, she walked into the living room and over to the claw-footed, wood burning stove to open its door. A few pieces of charred firewood remained; maybe just enough for an hour or two.

Beneath an inch of dust and cobwebs and god knows what else on the stone hearth, she found a box of matches. And a paperback copy of Walden.

Sorry, Judge.

Splitting the spine, she struck a match and held its head to Brute Neighbors, then tossed the book into the belly of the stove. Flames licked the ink from the tobacco stained pages, further souring the already stale cabin air.

A hollow bang from behind tore her eyes away from the fire and sent her spine rigid. Her hands fumbled backwards, reaching to find the iron poker next to the stove. Gripping its handle, she listened and waited for the pad of footsteps against the oak floor.

But the cabin was silent. Her fingernails dug into the fleshy heel of her palm as she tightened her grip around the cold metal handle. She raised it to her good shoulder, inching her way towards the dining nook, ready to swing. With a deep breath, she rounded the corner into the dark kitchen.

Nothing.

Wind whirled against the cabin and the screen door slammed shut with a taunt. Setting the poker down on the counter, she leaned against the cabinets to catch her breath.

Fifty thousand acres of wilderness now separated her from her past. The plan had worked, or so she tried to convince herself, but she couldn't shake the haunting chill from her body.

As the rest of the book ignited in the stove, the cabin flickered alive. Dust covered frames lined the wood-paneled walls and the rich smell of cedar began to overtake the dankness in the air, wrapping her in a nostalgia she couldn't afford to get lost in right now.

Check the water, a voice urged from the back of her mind.

The old faucet creaked as she turned its handle, but not a drop spilled into the cracked porcelain basin. Checking the valves underneath the sink, she made sure they were open and hadn't rusted shut, but still no water flowed.

It was a short hike to the springhouse, if it still stood of course, but autumn's gloaming came quick in these woods. Even so, by no means would she risk a drink straight from the crick after last time. Grabbing a walking stick from a crock in the corner, she headed out the kitchen and down the creaky porch steps to follow the brook up the mountain.

The bite of the northern breeze nipped at the high-low hem of her dress and she regretted not searching the closet for a jacket before leaving. As the wind pushed her forward, the branches of the pines rustled together, whispering amongst themselves. She could have sworn she heard them murmur her name. A tree leaning into another let out a sigh as she walked past. Fine, yellow needles fell like raindrops with each gust, pattering against the forest floor. Looking over her shoulder, she could no longer see the cabin.

As she turned back around, a branch snapped.

Her fingers tightened around the walking stick, but she continued up the path. The forest seemed to grow more quiet with every step towards the springhouse. The birdsong of the day's end faded. Even the babble of the brook lowered to a hum; the wind stilled.

Another branch snapped-closer, this time. And this time Finley whipped around. Her eyes darted along the rows of maples, straining to look for movement in the autumn leaves, but a gnarled hemlock caught her attention instead. Massive roots twisted above the eroded ground, stretching out to coax her closer. Carefully, she stepped around them and walked towards its base.

The tree's trunk curved and split to the ground, mangled and hollowed out by invasive insects it would seem. Pods of fungi grew every couple feet, extending out to branches where the needles were neither green nor yellow, but black to match the sap that seeped out in heavy gobs. Hemlock heartwood was always more susceptible to disease in this area; Finley had learned that the hard way as a child. But there the tree stood, both dead and undead, a black, gobby mass of rotten diathesis in a copse of golden maples and green pines.

A howl of wind swept through, but only the hemlock swayed. Or rather, its branches seemed to expand like a breath, exhaling with a groan against the gust that threatened to send it to the forest floor. The echo of its tired resilience faded long after the wind, sending a shiver down Finley's back, but she ventured closer and farther off the path to the springhouse.

As she came within reach to the tree's hollow trunk, something hard fell against her head and bounced to the ground. Raucous chattering erupted from the limbs and a red squirrel scampered along the rough bark, sending another pinecone her way.

With a smile, she turned her back to the hemlock and glimpsed up towards the springhouse, at least where it should've been, but she stopped hard. Her knuckles whitened, knees tightened. Camouflaged in the brush and the brambles, a figure stood less than ten paces away.

They wore the head of a coyote like a hood that shadowed their face, but as the wind shifted, the last streak of sunlight pierced through the trees to set their dark eyes ablaze.

For a moment, Finley held their stare, but as her mouth opened to speak, she was met with the muzzle of a rifle. They cocked the lever and took sight. Finley's hands shot up, dropping the walking stick as she began to back away.

"Don't move," the stranger warned.

But Finley didn't listen.

thnkuuu