“We’re not—” I started.
“Yet,” Shane muttered.
I stared daggers at both of them, but they were already moving on—Shane zipping up his bag, Delilah checking her lip balm like it was survival gear. Beau gave me a wink as he held the door open and Milo trotted out first like a soldier on patrol.
“Alright,” Whit said, clapping his hands together as we filed out. “Let’s go hunt a monster.”
Holden, who’d been sipping from a travel mug, muttered, “We’re not hunting a monster. We’re looking for a misidentified—and very likely sick—deer.”
Whit grinned. “That’s just nerd for ‘he’s scared too.’”
“I’m not scared,” Holden said flatly. “I just believe if something’s out there, it’s probably got a scientific explanation. Escaped exotic pet, migratory anomaly, heightened mass suggestion due to environmental pressure—take your pick. When I was in Guatemala, we?—”
“Okay, no offense,” Shane cut in, “but you do realize starting half your sentences with ‘when I was in Guatemala’ starts to rub people the wrong way after a while, right?”
Holden gave him a look like he was deciding whether or not to respond.
“He does that a lot,” Whit offered helpfully. “Talks about Guatemala. You just learn to nod.”
“Maybe because it’s relevant,” Holden said, voice dry. “You know—different ecosystems, local folklore, tangible overlap between myth and animal behavior?”
Delilah breezed past them with her duffel slung over one shoulder. “And there he goes again. Now—are we going or not? It’s an hour drive and I don’t want to miss out on all the good camping spots before someone else takes them.”
Everyone filed into the cars—me, Beau, Shane, and Milo in the truck; Delilah, Whit, and Holden in the Jeep. We had a vague caravan strategy worked out over text the night before, but given who was involved, I fully expected it to dissolve within fifteen minutes of hitting the road.
Shane was already rummaging through his bag again. “You wanna test the mics on the drive?”
“No,” I said.
“Too bad,” he replied, and before I could protest, he’d clipped his onto his hoodie and held mine out expectantly. “We’re doing intro audio. Might as well take advantage of the ambiance.”
I groaned and took it from him, clipping it to my collar. “Fine. But if you get forest static or the sound of me panic vomiting into a patch of poison ivy later, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Milo let out a yawn and rested his head on Shane’s knee, bandana askew.
Beau gave my thigh a squeeze. “You know you don’t have to go if it’s too much.”
“I know,” I said. “But Shane wants me there, and I owe him for missing that panel and making him think I was dead, so…I think I’m locked in.”
Shane adjusted the gain dial on the recorder, then held up one hand like a director about to call action.
“Alright,” he said, lowering his voice into that rich, polished tone he used when we were recording. “This is Shane Maddox, and you’re listening toWhispers in the Dark, the show where we investigate the strange, the unsolved, and the stories that keep you up at night.”
He gave me a look. My cue.
I sighed, leaned a little closer to the mic clipped to my hoodie. “And I’m Noelle Kinney, professional skeptic, folklorist, and woman being dragged against her will into the Gloam.”
Beau laughed softly, shaking his head.
Shane grinned. “Today’s episode marks the beginning of a brand-new series we’re callingInto the Gloaming. We’re headed to Foggy Creek, just outside Willow Grove, Georgia, a place locals say is home to strange lights, missing time, and a creature they call the Gloamstrider.”
He paused for effect.
He always paused for effect.
I picked up the thread. “The Gloamstrider is said to be tall, antlered, and shrouded in mist. Some say it walks like a man. Others say it doesn’t walk at all—just glides between trees without ever touching the ground.”
“Sounds hot,” Shane teased.
