But he’s already moving, boots thudding away, shoulders squared against the fog.
I’m left standing on Main Street, heart racing as the mist thickens around the lamplight.
A few more rounds with him and he’ll crack—I can feel it.
Grinning, I jam my hands into my coat pockets.
Why did Declan warn me not to go to the Widow’s hill? And what’s more dangerous? Whatever waits in the cemetery or the man who warned me to stay away?
CHAPTER FOUR
Declan
Some nights,my apartment above the tattoo shop is less of a place to rest my head and more of a prison—but it’s still better than staying at Sterling House, the massive home on the edge of town that I inherited.
The back stairs creak under my boots, the old wood complaining with every step. A subtle reminder that iron and oaths hold me here in Crowsbridge Hollow, whether I want to stay or not.
No matter how much I want to forget Emery and her nosy questions, I can’t stop thinking about her voice and her sass. Is she foolish or fearless? Why is she so determined to dig into the town’s legends?
I unlock the door. The deadbolt—cold-forged iron—slides free with a heavythunk. I prefer my space simple. Couch, a worktable where I spend my nights sketching, TV, bookshelves that hold stacks of sketchbooks. The only decorations are pieces I’ve forged myself—intricate shapes of twisted iron hanging in the windows, framing the doorway. Anchors. Every piece is a scrap I’ve collected. They hum with a low, familiar frequency, a constant pressure against my temples. Without them, the Rider stirs and causes chaos.
I toss my keys on the counter, peel off my flannel, and kick off my boots. Restless, I pad into the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge. With the first sip, foam bites at the back of my throat. It doesn’t do a damn thing to settle me. Few things ever do.
Outside the frosted kitchen window, Main Street glows faintly—strings of red bulbs blinking weakly through the fog. A few fat snowflakes drift from the sky, turning the view into a snow globe.
The tack under my skin shifts as I sink onto the couch. The Rider pulls at my ribs like reins tugged by an invisible hand. Always the Rider first. Always hungry. The horse on my shoulder flexes against the ink, hooves itching for ground.
I grit my teeth, ride out the flare until it fades to a dull gnaw. My eyes shut, and of course—there she is. Emery Corbin. Blue eyes, beautiful and haunting. Crow pin glittering against velvet. Her stubborn laugh, refusing to give me the satisfaction of scaring her off.
“Christ,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.
I don’twantto think about her. She’s trouble wrapped in velvet and snarky comments. While I enjoyed the snark more than I want to admit, I don’t have the luxury of trouble.
Still, I sit forward and reach for the laptop resting on the short, heavy wooden table in front of me and flip it open.
Her name drops easily into the search bar.Emery Corbin.
The Curious Crow comes up first. Thumbnails full of her smiling face visiting cemeteries, churches, old buildings, vacant lighthouses, haunted hotels, and wooden bridges. I click one, telling myself it’s for research purposes. Her voice fills the speakers—steady, husky, and calm. Serious. Not like the ghost-hunting clowns who shriek at every cold draft. She treats the camera the way she would a friend she’s sharing a juicy story with. She’s curious but skeptical. Open to listening but always landing on the same conclusion. Doesn’t she understand,people with real gifts—supernatural or otherwise—don’t talk to “investigative journalists.” It’s not safe.
I click on a video titledThe Vanishing at Raven’s Point: Debunking the Lighthouse Ghost.
Her pretty face fills the screen. She’s younger here, her hair shorter. But her eyes are the same. Intelligent. Slightly cynical. She’s standing in front of a storm-lashed lighthouse, speaking to the camera with a wry smile.
“...and while the story of the captain’s ghostly foghorn is a great way to sell keychains,” she’s saying, her tone dry, “the real tragedy isn’t a ghost. It’s the collapsed cliff face that the local council has failed to repair for a decade, a safety hazard that claimed two lives the officials would rather you forget about in favor of a spooky story.”
Before I know it, I’ve watched several in a row. She dismantles myths with forensic precision, but she does it with surprising empathy for the people affected. Talkative girl too. Loves to use lots of big words. But from her mouth, it’s not off-putting. Something about her…she’s magnetic in a way I’ve never encountered.
Easy there.Not magnetic.Dangerous.
Unlike her other cases, the curses haunting Crowsbridge Hollow are real and deadly.
Enough videos. I click out of YouTube and return to searching for information. Old articles, archived. Her byline stamped in black and white. City council corruption, environmental pollution, interviews with different subjects. Even won a few awards. Not a whiff of the supernatural in her reporting. Her writing isn’t just good—she has a gift for painting a picture for the reader without injecting her own opinion. A solid journalist, before her paper went bankrupt.
So why pivot to writing about folklore and debunking ghost stories?
I keep digging. Past the bylines, past the YouTube success. My search turns more specific.
Then I find it.
