But here I was, parked on the shoulder of some backroad in rural Georgia, armed with a quarter-charged phone, a lukewarm coffee, and a growing suspicion that I’d made a terrible mistake. The GPS had crapped out twenty minutes ago. My car had started making a noise I could only describe as “skeptical.”
Of course, all of this would’ve fine, manageable at least—if I hadn’t also just seenitin my rearview mirror.
Again.
Not that I believed in that shit…not really. I was a podcaster, not a prophet. Paranormal wasn’t personal—it was content.
At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
…though it was getting harder to believe the darker it got.
My gas meter had dwindled to just below empty by the time I saw any sign of civilization—in this case, a literal sign reading:
WILLOW GROVE — EST. 1834. WHERE THE ROOTS RUN DEEP.
Beneath it was a fluttering banner advertising the town’s annual Cryptid Festival, a coincidence that may have made for a great episode if it weren’t for the fact that I was pretty sure I would have to buy a new car before I made it out of here. Also? I was going to miss the actual event I was meant to get paid for—arealcryptid convention up in Atlanta, with folding tables and overpriced merch and dudes in Mothman cosplay asking if I’d sign their Yeti mugs.
Instead, I’d be lucky to find a mechanic who didn’t also sell bait worms and Confederate flags.
I coasted down the hill, holding my breath like it would help the gas tank. There were cars everywhere, lining the streets, parked in every possible spot…so I guessed it was a pretty big event. I saw the usual: satellite dishes on campers, the requisite bumper stickers advertising that these folks believed. On the surface, these were my people; but what they didn’t realize was that my moon worshipping bumper sticker was ironic, and that they were about to have a big problem with me.
Because I was the host of the top-charted paranormal skeptic’s podcast in the US.
I scanned for a mechanic shop anywhere…but I was coming up empty, and the car was starting to make this horrible noise. “Come on,” I muttered, stroking the dashboard like the car was a live animal. “Come on, honey…you’ve got this…”
But she didnotgot this. She was not going to make it.
So I turned into the closest parking lot: a diner swarming with people, a sign readingMabel’s Tableflickering in pink neon overthe door.
I’d just barely made it into a parking space…then my car promptly sputtered out and died.
I sat there for a second, gripping the wheel. People were milling around the lot, festivalgoers in cargo shorts and crop tops, kids with face paint, someone in a full-body bigfoot costume. Of course—because my life was a comedy written by a cryptid-obsessed god. I took a deep breath and tried not to cry, praying to said cryptid-obsessed god that no one here would recognize me.
Then I popped the hood and willed myself to get out of the car.
I could already see the smoke seeping out of the engine when I came around the front, could smell the acrid stench of overheated metal. I waved a hand in front of my face as I reached inside to open the hood—yanked my hand back because it was too warm. I had to give it a second before I could get it open, trying to survey the damage.
And…well, I had no fucking idea what I was looking at.
What was I even doing right now? I barely ever left Austin; a roadtrip had been athoroughly bad idea.I didn’t know the first thing about cars, didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to do. I pulled out my phone and held it up to my lips, frowning down at the engine like it had personally insulted me.
“Siri?” I muttered. “Where is the nearest mechanic?”
The phone thought about it. Thoughthard. A loading screen appeared…but nothing was happening.
“Siri,” I tried again, louder now, as if volume had been the problem. “Where is the nearest mechanic?!”
“I’m right here.”
The voice came from behind me—deep, smooth, and just amused enough to make my spine straighten.
I turned sharply and found a man standing there, tall and broad-shouldered, with sun-kissed skin, a baseball cap tuggedlow over a mess of dark curls, and green eyes so absurdly pretty they should’ve come with a warning label. His T-shirt was worn soft with time, the kind that clung in all the right places, and his jeans looked like they’d been painted on by a very respectful god.
He raised both hands slowly, like I was a skittish animal he didn’t want to spook, then offered a sheepish little wave. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, voice just gravelly enough to make my stomach do something it shouldn’t. “I promise I don’t bite.”
I blinked. “You—uh. Sorry, I’m a little tense right now.”
He glanced around at the festivalgoers, catching sight of the guy in the bigfoot costume. “Is it all the monsters?” he asked. “Because don’t worry…they aren’t real. Not these ones, anyway.”
