02. || shiver.

This wasn't the first time Finley had stared down the barrel of a gun, been told not to move. But the first time, she'd been foolish enough to listen. To not move. To not run. Still wound up taking a bullet to the foot, ensuring that she could indeed not run for the next couple weeks, and by then she'd missed her chance.

She'd sworn to herself she'd be smarter; that she'd hightail it head over haunches next time, 'cause there'd always be a next time, but this time, those damn woods had other plans for her.

As she turned to run, she tripped over the knotted tree roots, and a shot cracked through the forest, splintering against the gnarled trunk she fell in front of. Her chest heaved for breaths as the spoiled flesh of some unseen carcass filled her nose. Its rank odor burrowed through her, putrid like the black tissue that had rotted and cracked away from her pus-filled foot all those months before.

Her fingertips dug into her temples to purge the smell from her mind. She was sure that's where it was coming from. She needed to get up. Move! Her head shouted through the static buzz left from the gunshot. But the smell, whatever the hell it actually was, held her down. Her feet were more useless now than they'd been all numb and shot to shit before. Over the ringing in her ears, a low voice hummed through.

"You still in one piece?"

Like an unspoken command, the weight of the smell lifted with the voice's inflection. Uncurling her body, Finley looked up. The stranger lowered the butt of the rifle to the ground and leaned it against another tree. Their eyes continued to search the black branches above before finally falling back down to meet her own. Kneeling next to her, they removed the coyote head that hooded their face and tresses of dark auburn hair spilled over their shoulders.

"You all right?" they asked again, gently rubbing Finley's bare arm.

The echo of the gunshot still rattled through her chest, rot still clung to her throat, but Finley nodded. "I thought you were trying to kill me."

"Not much meat on ya, certainly wouldn't do me no good." Their eyes creased with a smile, still shifting between Finley and the hemlock behind her. "But that uh, wild cat thought otherwise. Fool, he is."

"A mountain lion?" Finley pushed up with a wince and slid closer to the stranger. The pain in her shoulder returned, radiating deep beneath her skin.

"Oh, he'd like you to think so," they laughed softly. "But nah, just a damn ghost cat." There was a smooth grit to their voice, both warm and raspy like the crackle of a fire. The coyote hood and its hide draped down their back, layered over a dark suede jacket with fringe. As they continued to look past Finley over her shoulder, she followed the sharp line of their jaw to the curve of their lips. But their eyes darted back to her, sharpening beneath a scarred brow as they looked her over. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine. Just tweaked an old injury when I fell." Finley rubbed at her shoulder, but the stranger stared hard at her.

"Your face is bruised. Right eye."

With a half-hearted laugh, she reached up to her cheekbone. Tender and swollen, her skin throbbed as she let go. "I got caught in a little fender-bender on my way through town earlier. Must have hit my head or something. Everything happened so fast."

"I see." The stranger nodded, maybe not too convinced. Reaching into their jacket, they pulled out a bone handle hunting knife. Its blade sprung open with a flick and the stranger leaned towards her. Finley tried to pull her legs back, but a tangle of eroded roots trapped her ankle. With a kick, she wriggled her foot free from the boot and skidded back, grasping through soggy leaves and pine needles for the walking stick.

The stranger chuckled and shook their head as they cut the roots away one by one to free her boot.

"Well, I don't suppose you're out here for an evening hike." They snapped the blade shut and held Finley's boot up, turning it around in their hand to examine its heel. "At least, judging by your choice of attire. Though, that dress looks mighty nice on ya-respectfully."

Finley went to snatch her boot back, but the stranger held tight to it and jerked her closer.

"So what might you be doing in my woods?" The sweet smell of cinnamon threaded with raw leather lingered between the two of them. Finley's lips pressed tightly together, but she made no move to back away again. This seemed to please them. A twitch of a smile tugged at their lips. "You see, liars I do not mind. I'm certainly not entitled to your truth, neither you beholden to mine, but trespassers-"

"I wasn't trespassing. Not intentionally, at least. I was looking for the springhouse," Finley explained. "My cabin doesn't have water so I thought I should check the reservoir. My grandfather used to maintain it before he passed, but it's been awhile since I've been back to the forest."

The thick scar that cut through the stranger's eyebrow quirked with intrigue, but they remained quiet.

"I have deeded access to the spring," Finley reiterated, her eyes fixed to theirs.

"So you do." With a smirk, they let go of her boot and watched over her shoulder as she hesitantly slipped it back on. Helping her to her feet, they picked up the walking stick and returned it to her. "You don't wanna stray too far off path once that sun disappears behind the mountain. One wrong turn in these woods and the trees start moving. You'll never find your way back."

Finley knew that to be true. Any sliver of gold that had tried to remain in the sky had since melded into steel twilight, cutting through the canopy. Surrounding them, a low fog crept up from the forest floor to entwine their legs. She tried to hide a shiver, but it racked her shoulders.

The stranger untied a navy checkered flannel from around their waist and held it out to her. "Come on, I'll get your water back on."

Finley eyed them up carefully before deciding to take the flannel. As she raised her arm to slip into its sleeve, thousands of tiny pricks spread from her shoulder the way a pine must feel when new needles pierce through its bark. Swallowing the pain, she concealed it with a tight-lipped smile and murmured a thank you. The stranger slung their rifle onto their back and stepped around the raised tree roots, disappearing behind the mangled hemlock.

Finley glimpsed over her shoulder, trying to retrace her steps. The stream was now to her left. But that didn't seem right. She hadn't crossed it on her way up the mountain.

"You comin'?" The stranger tapped her arm.

"Yeah-yes." She spun back around. "I just don't remember crossing the brook."

The stranger looked down at the stream then back up the hemlock. "These woods'll have that effect on ya. Spin you 'round til you're ass over tea kettle."

Despite her confusion, Finley bit back a smile. The old mountain talk had long been scraped off her own tongue after years of schooling and ridicule from kids back home. But it'd be a lie to say she wasn't finding comfort now in the lilt of the stranger's voice. Or yeah, maybe she had hit her head a little too hard.

"You were pert near there." The stranger tipped their head a nod. With a hand on Finley's back, they guided her over the roots and away from the trunk. "See?"

As soon as they rounded the hemlock, the springhouse appeared. Its stone walls rose out of the ground like some kind of castle remnant from Great Grandad's old country, at least that's what Finley had always thought as a child. It was smaller than she remembered; the castlesque memory now dwarfed by her adult perspective. Blankets of moss covered the exterior and ivy wound its way along the rocky crevices. The slate roof was pitted and missing tile in places, but it glistened with a glow where twilight met the mica minerals along its surface.

The stranger lifted the wooden arm that held the door shut and propped it open for Finley. Darkness engulfed her as she stepped inside. The crunch of gravel beneath thick soled boots followed and the door fell softly shut behind them both. Even through the thick ply of the stranger's flannel, dampness dewed her skin, rose up her back to frizz her hair. Just as her eyes began to form shapes in the dark, the hiss of a match struck out behind her, crackling against the wick of an oil lantern.

With a hum, the stranger hung the lamp on a nearby nail and turned to a corner. The flame filled the interior with a warm glow, spilling over the stone retaining wall and dimming at the edge of the reservoir. Finley knew its basin to be shallow, but the darkness gave it an abysmal illusion.

She leaned her walking stick against the wall and took a seat on the ledge to stare into the black pool below. The water mirrored the entire room; the amber light in the far corner where the stranger stood, inspecting the pipes; the stone arch of the iron-barred, open air window that overlooked the crick; a narrow wooden door directly behind Finley that was always locked. But only a faint outline highlighted her own reflection.

Leaning closer to the water, Finley turned her face to assess the bruise the stranger had pointed out, though she'd already known it to be there. The golden glow gleamed across her skin as she traced the swollen edge of her eye socket down her cheek. She tucked a wild lock of dark hair behind her ear and tilted her chin, craning her neck to follow the faded green and brown tracks that mottled the skin to her collar bone. Behind her, the stranger shifted the light in the corner. Finley adjusted to the angle of its shine, leaning closer still towards the black mirror.

She slid the flannel off her shoulder and lowered the strap of her dress to feel for any breaks along her collar bone, but it seemed she'd lucked out. Of course, luck had little to do with it. Too soon she'd forgotten her airborne plea to the hemlocks. Indebted to their boughs, she'd be reminded soon enough.

As a gust of wind swept through the iron-barred window, traces of decay carried with it, just enough to twitch her nose. The water rippled beneath its breeze and the shadows began to move. Again, the light shifted, this time pouring across Finley's distorted reflection.

Before the ripples could settle, a shadow rose up behind her. Her heart lurched in her chest as icy fingers wrapped around her mouth, stifling her gasp. Another hand seized her throat. Their knuckles bulged until they split raw, snapping like branches to tighten their grip. Thousands of tiny legs beneath black shells crawled over her, spewing from around the splintered bones, giving way to white maggots that fell in clumps down her chest. Their bodies writhed blindly against her skin, hungry for entry to any open wound they could find.

Finley fought to pull away, but the faceless shadow yanked her backwards, only to release her off the stone ledge. Before she hit the dirt floor of the springhouse, two hands caught under her arms and grasped at her waist to steady her upright.

Finley turned into the stranger, heart hammering against her chest and theirs, afraid to look back at the reservoir; afraid the stranger had both seen and not seen what she had in its reflection. Warm breaths of cinnamon slipped around her neck, taking the chill from her body as they held her in silence. There she remained until the itch of a thousand legs no longer scrawled over her skin.

"Sorry," the word scraped against her throat as she finally found the courage to look up, "I don't know what-"

The stranger pulled away to grab the lantern and thrusted the metal handle into Finley's hand. "Hold that."

The light trembled in her grip, but she raised it, eager for any distraction from the vision in the reservoir.

"I uh, flushed the lines this spring." Turning back to the wall, the stranger knelt down next to a valve that piped into the ground. A tangle of thick vine and ivy snaked around it. With a screech, the valve twisted until water groaned through the pipe. "Musta forgot to open it back up." Their eyes followed the length of the vine that crept around the reservoir and through the iron-barred windows; the roots of it earthed somewhere beyond. "Anyways, you oughta be set now."

"Thank you," Finley sighed, letting the lantern hang below her hip. "And again, I'm so sorry about trespassing and-"

"Don't worry about it." The stranger stood up and dusted their hands off on the thighs of their trousers. "Let's get you back to your cabin before you catch cold, hmm?"

The walk was silent, save for the trees that continued to creak and groan with whispers as they passed. The hoot of an owl called out to claim its territory from any would-be intruders, and in the distance a pack of coyotes did much of the same with their yips and yowls. Another fifty feet, and they were at the edge of Finley's property.

Land was a funny thing for a human to claim. Even if a line in some ledger down at the county office had your name scribbled across with a number attached, you never really owned it. Ownership only went so deep out here. Some sought to challenge that depth by prying the mountain open like the mouth of a beast. Should've been no surprise of course when the mountain snarled, sunk its teeth, and swallowed them whole.

The heel of Finley's boot clicked against the slate patio that led up to the cabin. She turned around to find the stranger had stopped a few steps back. "Do you mind if I borrow this lantern for the night? I didn't get a chance to have the electric turned on."

"Not a bit," the stranger replied. "Seems I'm the one's been borrowing it anyhow. It's your grandpappy's, likely. Or maybe his pap's from the old mine."

Finley's thumbnail scratched against the metal handle in her palm. "The old mine..."

"Ol' Lucky Number Seven. Long since abandoned now. Bad accident pert near wiped out-"

"I know. I remember the stories." Finley held the light out between them. "You should take the lantern, actually. So you can see to get back to yours safely." Before the stranger could protest, she'd let it slip from her hand. If they hadn't wrapped their fingers around its handle and caught its tank, it would've shattered against the slate. "I just remembered there's a couple oil lamps in the kitchen. So, no worries. You can hang onto it tonight. And well, for as long as you need. So you can see..."

The stranger looked from Finley down to the lantern that was now in their hand and wiped the grin from their face with the other. "You know, sometimes seein' is worse than not seein' in the dark. Sometimes you think you're the one seein' when really it's everything else seein' you."

As if on cue, a pair of golden eyes caught the glare of the lantern only a truck's length behind the stranger. Finley tugged their arm to pull them onto the patio. The stranger's hand went to the strap of their rifle as they scanned the darkness. The eyes stared them both down before turning with a flash of white tail to bound away. Together, they laughed and Finley's grip on the stranger's arm relaxed, but she could feel their muscles still tight as she let go.

The stranger glanced down at their feet and took a half-step back until the toes of their work boots cleared the patio. "See what I mean? Neb-nosin' deer." They chuckled again, looking around the perimeter of the lantern's glow before back up at Finley. "The name's River by the way, River Hawthorne." They outstretched their free hand and Finley placed hers in it.

Their palm was worn smooth like tanned leather, but their knuckles were weathered and cracked beneath Finley's thumb. As she went to introduce herself, her voice caught with caution. Meeting someone hadn't been part of the plan. Wordlessly, she held River's hand as they waited for her to respond, but not even a nickname came to mind. Which was fine because River gave her one anyway.

"Well, that's all right, Boots. Like I said, you don't owe me plumb nothing. I'll keep to my side of the crick and you to yours." River gently squeezed her hand. "Welcome back to Hemlock Holler."

As they went to pull away, Finley clasped their hand tight. "I'm only here for the weekend. Just passing through."

"Aye, no more than a nameless, wanderin' haint in the wind, hmm?"

With that, Finley released their hands, only then realizing how cold hers were. She tucked them around her sides and under her arms, hovering at the porch steps. The idea of being alone now crept up her spine like a revenant hell beetle from the vision in the pool. But any invitation for River to stay a bit longer died on her tongue.

"Well, I'll uh, leave you to it, Boots. I'm sure you've had a long day. Mine's only just begun." River pulled the coyote hood up over their head and readjusted the rifle strap around their chest. "If you need anything, why, give a holler. I'm just up the road yonder."

Finley nodded then turned to grasp the handle of the screen door. "Goodnight, River."

Lifting the lantern to salute, River fiddled with its knob to lower the wick and raise the globe. With a wink, they blew out the flame and descended into darkness. "Goodnight, Boots."