Page 3 of The Girl Who Cried Bigfoot

I pull up the latest report. It’s a video file, three seconds of shaky, pixelated footage of something brown moving through the brush. It’s almost certainly a deer, or perhaps a particularly large dog, but the caption from the sender reads: I FELT HIM WATCHING ME. THE EYES WERE RED.

I could tell them it’s a trick of the light, and that red-eye is a common photographic artifact. But then they wouldn’t book a room.

Instead, I type: Interesting. The local legends often mention the “glow” in the deep brush. Where exactly were you standing?

My heart does a little stutter-step, a mix of adrenaline and exhaustion, as I hit send. This bit is the only thing keeping the lights on, and there is no plan B. I’m the guardian of a ghost story, and as long as I can keep the world haunted, I can keep the Cassidy Lodge alive.

2

WREN

CROCS, DAMN CROCS, AND STATISTICS

The kitchen smells like high-grade Arabica and low-grade desperation. It’s six in the morning, and the air is thick enough to chew. Outside, the Cascades are just a jagged silhouette against a bruised purple sky, but in here, the fluorescent lights hum with a clinical, unforgiving persistence.

Marge Halloran is currently wielding a cast-iron skillet. She doesn’t look up when I slide onto the stool at the prep island, completely focused on the sizzling bacon. The apron she’s wearing once had sunflowers on it, now it mostly has the ghosts of a thousand Sunday brunches. Marge has been the heart of this kitchen since before I was born, and the woman treats recipes like suggestions and my personal life like a public works project in need of immediate intervention.

“You look like you slept on a heap of gravel, Wren,” she says in lieu of a greeting. As always, she delivers her observation with the flat, heavy weight of an indictment. “I saw the office lights on at midnight. Again.”

“The hotline doesn’t sleep, Marge. Apparently, neither do people who believe they’ve seen a nine-foot primate in the middle of a suburb.” My hand trembles as I pick up the coffee pot, some of the liquid sloshing over the rim of my mug as I fill it. Swearing under my breath, I mop it up with a paper towel. “Marketing is a twenty-four-hour cycle. If I don’t respond to the glowing-red-eyes crowd within thirty minutes, they take their engagement to the Flat Earth forums.”

Marge flips a strip of bacon, her lips pursed in disapproval. “Engagement doesn’t put meat on the bones. Walt says the gravel in the south lot is shifting. The drainage is shot. He spent two hours yesterday trying to patch that hole by Cabin Four before the birdwatchers fell in.”

I wrap my hands around the chipped mug, the one my dad favored, letting the heat seep into my palms. The lodge is a collection of things that are slowly falling apart, held together by Marge’s cooking and Walt’s stubborn refusal to admit that wood eventually succumbs to rot.

“Walt’s a saint,” I say, taking a sip that scalds my tongue. “Tell him I’ll get a load of crushed rock as soon as the check from the outdoor gear sponsorship clears. They want a ‘Bigfoot-approved’ footwear segment.”

Marge snorts, and somehow the sound manages to convey both fondness and a deep skepticism. She turns away from the stove to lean against the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes narrow as she scans my face, and I know something’s coming. Marge doesn’t do subtext. She does reality, usually served at a high velocity.

“We need to talk about the numbers, Wren. Not the hotline numbers. The real ones.” She reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. It’s the yellow carbon copy of a supply invoice. “The dry goods delivery came yesterday. I had to tell them to put it on the tab again. Ben over at the warehouse was nice about it, but he’s got a boss who doesn’t care about forest legends.”

I set the mug down. The porcelain makes a dull thud on the butcher block. “How much?”

“Fourteen hundred. And that’s before we talk about the heating bill for the common room. The fireplace only does so much, so we’ve been supplementing with the electric heating. Guests expect heat, even the ones who come here looking for a monster that lives in a cave.” She doesn’t raise her voice, which makes it worse. “Walt and I don’t need much, you know that. But the lodge is hungry. It’s always been hungry.”

I pull my phone from my pocket and open the app for the hotline. The red notifications are still there, a digital pulse of potential revenue. “I booked three more for this weekend. Thermal camera guys. They’re paying the premium rate for the High-Frequency package. That covers the dry goods and half the insurance.”

Marge watches me, her expression softening into something that looks suspiciously like pity. “Your father would have hated this, you know. Turning his woods into a sideshow.”

“My father didn’t have to deal with a six-figure debt and a roof that thinks it’s a sieve,” I snap. The words come out sharper than I intended. “I’m not turning it into a sideshow. I’m reviving the business. There’s a difference.”

Marge doesn’t flinch, just reaches over and taps the screen of my phone. “Is there? You’re selling a myth, Wren. Eventually, people stop paying for myths if they never catch a glimpse of them.”

She’s right, of course. That’s the problem with Marge. She has a way of stripping away the marketing layers until all that’s left is the cold, hard truth of a failing bank account. I swipe away a notification from a guy who thinks he found a “Sasquatch nest” in his backyard in Ohio. I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s probably just a flattened patch of tall grass.

“Look at this one,” I say, pivoting the conversation toward the safer ground of the hoax. I pull up a photo sent in at three that morning. It’s a blurry, low-light shot of something dark and hairy leaning against a tree. “Scale of one to ten. Believability?”

Marge leans in, squinting at the screen. “That’s a black bear with a skin condition, Wren. Or a very large man in a shag carpet. Look at the shoulder line. Too narrow.”

“I gave it a four,” I say. “I told the sender it was ‘compelling’ but required further environmental context. I’m hoping he’ll buy a trail map and a Hide & Seek World Champion shirt when he checks in next Tuesday.”

Marge shakes her head, but I catch the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. This is our ritual. I curate the nonsense, and she provides the reality. It’s the only way we keep from drowning in the sheer absurdity of our daily lives.

“Speaking of sightings,” Marge says, moving back to the stove. She starts cracking eggs into a bowl with a rhythmic, one-handed snap. “Walt saw him again yesterday. Near the north tree line. Just standing there, watching the survey crew near the old trailhead.”

I freeze, my mug halfway to my mouth. “Walt saw who?”

“The guy. The one the locals call the guardian or just ‘that hermit.’ Tall. Rarely speaks. Helps out around here sometimes but never stays long enough for me to start a conversation.” She whisks the eggs with a vigorous clatter. “Walt says the man was already around when he started working for your grandfather, but that he hasn’t aged a day. Just one of those fixtures of the forest. Like a particularly stubborn cedar.”