CHAPTER 1
KRISTA
The forest thickens in a way that feels intentional, like the trees have leaned in over the years just to watch who comes and goes. Moss drapes from their shoulders, and bark peels in thin, curling ribbons that flutter with the wind as I guide my tired little Honda up the gravel road. The headlights catch on swirls of low fog, dense and slow-moving, like breath being held. I crack the window, and the scent of wet earth and cedar fills the car—cool and sharp with something faintly sweet underneath. Not rot. More like old herbs and charred wood. Something brewed. Something forgotten.
Mari’s asleep in the back, wrapped in a tangle of blanket and glitter-streaked curls, clutching her stuffed lizard like it might decide to bolt. Her soft snoring has become my metronome for peace on this drive, and I glance at her through the rearview mirror every few seconds like I’m worried she’ll disappear if I don’t. She's all I’ve got. I feel like that might be enough.
The GPS died about thirty minutes ago. Just blinked out without warning—screen frozen on a map that no longer shows our position. It’s fine. The lawyer’s letter said the road would dead-end at a wrought-iron gate, and after that, it’s just the Hollow. I don't know what I expected “the Hollow” to look like—maybe some small New England town with crumbling brick buildings and a persistent fog budget—but this road feels older than any map I’ve seen. The kind of old that doesn’t require permission to be here.
The car coughs. Not a polite, excuse-me kind of cough, but the shuddering, final rattle of a machine that’s given all it has and knows it. I grip the wheel tighter.
“Not now. Come on, girl. We’re almost there.” I murmur it like I would to Mari, soft and coaxing. Like the car can be reasoned with if I just use the right tone. But the dash lights flicker, the engine gives one last wheeze, and we roll to a dead stop about ten feet from the promised gate.
The silence that follows is thick, absolute, broken only by a single drip of condensation from the trees overhead onto the windshield.
“Shit.” It’s quiet, barely more than breath. I stare at the wheel for a moment, then tip my head back against the headrest and close my eyes.
“Okay. Okay. Not a crisis. Just a breakdown. Just a... little magical mystery breakdown at the edge of a probably cursed forest. Totally fine.”
A soft cough behind me tells me Mari’s awake.
“Mama?” Her voice is syrupy with sleep and confusion.
“We’re here, baby,” I say, forcing my voice to lift into something cheerful. “Sort of.”
She unbuckles and climbs between the seats, her oversized sweater bunched around her knees like a dress, eyes wide as she peers through the fogged glass.
“Is this it? It looks... spooky. I like it.”
Of course she does.
“Yeah,” I say, brushing a hand through her hair. “Spooky’s a good word. This is Gristlewood Hollow.”
There’s a pause.
“Is that a real name or one you made up?”
“I think it’s real,” I say, though honestly, I’m still not sure.
We sit there for a beat, the quiet turning into a presence more than an absence. I’m about to tell her to stay put while I check the engine when something shifts in the fog ahead. A shadow, heavy-footed and tall, moving with the kind of certainty that doesn't come from light.
I freeze. Not out of fear, exactly, more out of... not knowing how I should feel yet.
The shape resolves into a figure as it approaches the front of the car. Tall is an understatement. He’s massive. Broad-shouldered and wrapped in flannel, with dark, braided hair and a face made of stone and battle. His skin is deep green, not soft pine or pale mint but old forest moss after rain. Two tusks curve up from his lower jaw—not comically large, not cartoonish, but sharp and real and absolutely unmissable.
“Mama...” Mari whispers, a little awe creeping into her voice. “Is that a monster?”
I don’t answer. Because he stops in front of the car, and for a moment, the only thing I can do is stare back at the golden eyes staring through the windshield.
Then he lifts one eyebrow—just slightly—and gestures for me to roll the window down.
I do. Slowly. Regretfully. But there’s something in his presence that doesn’t scream danger. Just... tension. Like a storm that hasn’t decided whether to rain or not.
“You’re blocking the gate,” he says, voice low and even. It’s not unkind, just blunt. The kind of voice that doesn’t waste time on pleasantries if it doesn’t have to.
“Yeah, I noticed,” I reply, instantly regretting the sarcasm. “The car died. We were just trying to get through to the old Johanna Briar house?”
His eyes flick to Mari, then back to me. He frowns. Not angry. More... measuring.
