“Is that all?”
I raised my eyebrows. “My apologies, Mr. Ward,” I said. “Didn’t realize you had 60 Minutes standards.”
Whit grinned like I’d handed him a trophy.
Beau groaned. “Don’t encourage him.”
“Too late,” I said, settling back in the booth and folding my arms. “Alright, spotlight’s yours. Let’s hear it.”
Whit leaned forward, hands wrapped around his coffee mug like he was about to deliver a ghost story at a campfire. “Foggy Creek. Six years ago. October, just before the first cold snap. I was leavin’ a girl’s house out in the boonies, sneakin’ out before her husband came home. It was maybe four in the morning, pitch black, fog thick enough to?—”
“Of course you saw something while you were busy getting laid,” Delilah interrupted.
“Hey, like I said—I have a nice ass,” he muttered. “Someone should appreciate it.”
Beau snorted.
“Anyway…I’m halfway up the ridge when I hear this sound—like breathin’, but not human. Deep. Wet. Like something draggin’ air in through the back of its throat. Gave me goosebumps straight through my jacket.”
Delilah made a face. “Disgusting.”
Whit ignored her. “I turn, and there it is. This shape—long limbs, all bent wrong, with these glowin’ eyes. Not red. Not yellow.White. Like headlights cutting through fog. It was crouched on a rock, just starin’ at me.”
“Did it move?” I asked, totally enraptured.
“Oh, it moved,” he said. “But not like walking. Itglided. No sound. I don’t even think it touched the ground. Just…slid across the ridge like smoke. And I swear, it looked right at me and smiled.”
Beau exhaled sharply. “Jesus, Whit.”
I nudged him. “You scared?”
Beau shot me an accusatory glance, a blush creeping up his neck. “Hell no.”
“Don’t worry,” I teased. “I’ll protect you.”
Beau’s blush deepened, but I turned my focus back on Whit, fascinated. “How long did it watch you?”
“‘Til I blinked,” Whit said. “And when I opened my eyes again, it was gone.”
I glanced at Beau. “You really don’t believe him?”
“I believe Whit sawsomething,” Beau said carefully. “I just don’t think it was the Gloamstrider. Probably a shadow, a sick deer, or his own reflection.”
“Or he was stoned and saw absolutely nothing,” Delilah said.
Whit flipped her off. I had more questions. “You ever see it again?”
Whit tilted his head. “Once.”
The table went quiet.
“I was drivin’ home from a job upstate. Pulled over near Foggy Creek to take a piss. It was raining. Fog again. And I saw it in the trees. Just…standing there. Same eyes. Same stillness. Ididn’t stick around to find out if it wanted to say hello.”
I nodded, frowning. “So…that’s twice in the same spot,” I said. “Is that where it’s most commonly sighted?”
Delilah answered before Whit could.
“Yeah,” she said. “If you look at the local maps with pins for all the cryptid sightings, it’s always in that triangle: Foggy Creek, Devil’s Ridge, and the old stone quarry. Locals call it the Gloam.”
