Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The music’s playing again tonight, faint strains of fiddle drifting among sassafras and hickory branches which arch over the asphalt. Something slow, mournful, fitting for the empty road. It takes Doug a moment to place it, swaying one foot in time against his pickup’s tailgate. He doesn’t smile when he finally catches it, though he does sing along softly to the last lines--

Oh, come Angel Band

Come and around me stand

Oh bear me away on your snow white wings

To my immortal home

Oh bear me away on your snow white wings

To my immortal home

For a few seconds, he savors the notes which still hang in the air, mingling with his cigarette smoke as it floats heavenward. Even after months, he still winces when the sound cuts off. Like always, it ends with that same screech of metal, muffled scream, and sickening crunch of shattering wood.

***

Early morning light pierces Doug’s eyelids, rousing him from sleep. He groans, rubbing a hand over his eyes and burrowing deeper into the folds of his coat. Try as he might to resist it, watery sunlight still beats relentlessly onto his face through his truck’s window. After a few moments, he gives in and creaks back into a seated position. His back twinges from where it spent the night pressed into a seatbelt. With a grunt, he shoves the door open and hauls himself out into the chilly morning, stretching with a series of pops once his feet touch the ground. At least this late into March there’s little chance of another snow, but he still shivers into his coat as he rummages for the small kerosene stove thrown haphazardly into the truck’s bed. Once he finds it, he reaches for a pan to heat water and the tin of instant coffee.

“Shit.”

He’d forgotten to get coffee yesterday. Dammit, he’d forgotten to get coffee yesterday. Briefly, he contemplates heating water anyway, maybe making tea, just something to warm up his hands. His Nana always talked about making tea out of--what, pine needles? He stares blankly at the forest for a minute before deciding against it. Besides, he can’t actually remember whether the pine needles were for tea or for treating constipation.

Now that he thinks about it, he’s almost out of toothpaste as well. There’s maybe enough for another day or two in the tube, three if he doesn’t use much. And cigarettes. Shit, soap too. Shit, shit. Shouldn’t have driven into the mountains without stopping at a store, he realizes that now, but he just wanted to get out , away from Knoxville. Driving through it, he couldn’t help but remember when Kate had insisted on a family trip to the world’s fair. That week had been hot, and crowded, and overwhelming, and perfect. So when Doug saw the Sunsphere’s golden dome peering accusingly down at him yesterday, he’d forgotten all his plans other than driving away, and fast. He hadn’t stopped until he’d almost hit the North Carolina border, where he’d pulled off of I-40 and onto the smaller road he’d spent last night parked next to.

But now, he needs to find a store. God dammit, he needs coffee. Sighing, he tosses the stove and tin back into his pickup. Yesterday evening he’d seen a sign for a town a few miles away, so maybe that’ll have some kind of store. Hell, even a gas station will do. The prospect of an overbrewed cup of coffee and a cheap donut cheers Doug enough to put a smile on his face as he pulls back onto the narrow road.

This early in the morning, the sunlight still has that almost pink tinge which he’s learned to love since he left Texas three years ago. Used to be he wouldn’t see daylight until nearly noon, so it had been a pleasant surprise to discover that he actually liked mornings. Now, he revels in the golden glow dappling the road and the mist shrouding the occasional vistas which appear between the trees. With wind rushing through his open window and new light all around, last night’s music seems almost like a dream, dissipating a little more with every minute that Doug spends in the waking world. He can almost forget how many nights he’s spent like that, trying to ignore his stomach dropping every time the fiddle cuts off.

He’s humming along to tinny strains of the Indigo Girls drifting from the truck’s radio when he finally sees another sign for the town. Wolf Valley, 12 miles. About time. His lack of caffeine has started up a faint throbbing in Doug’s head, dulling the morning’s beauty. The radio fuzzes out into static as he drives into a dip in the mountains, so he switches it off and drives the rest of the way in silence.

***

Wolf Valley, Tennessee is a larger town than Doug expects, though not by much. Just before mile marker 360, the woods give way to a small scramble of trailers and buildings. Doug pulls into the gravel parking lot next to most promising looking one, a cheerily painted store advertising “Quality deli meats, Postage stamps, Live Bait, ART!” in big block letters across its front window. A smaller sign below it reads “Try our famous pies!”

A small bell tinkles faintly to announce Doug’s entrance. He’s instantly hit by the smell of cinnamon drifting from somewhere behind a small counter, next to which a short woman with a severe bob stands giving directions to a second woman dressed in a sickeningly magenta sundress.

“...so y’all are going to want to keep on down this road, then hang a left when you get to the bridge. Should be a couple miles down that. Why y’want to go down there anyway? Last I heard there was just--why, good morning dear!” She turns when she hears Doug come in. “What can I do for you?”

“Morning, ma’am.” He nods his head slightly in greeting. “Just looking for a cup of coffee. Nice place you got here.” He gestures vaguely around the shop, which contains a haphazard mix of dry goods, homewares, small carved animals, and a nearly incomprehensible variety of pickles. His gaze lingers for a moment on a quilt pinned to the back wall. It features what appears to be a sasquatch against a field of orange flowers.

The woman nods briskly in acknowledgement. “Thanks, honey. Give me a minute to get Rachel here on the road and I’ll bring you that cup of coffee.” She turns back to the lady in magenta and repeats her directions, then gently bullies her into purchasing a jar of watermelon pickles before waving her out the door.

“Come back soon, honey! And I hope your friend enjoys those pickles! Now, you, sit.” She points Doug to a barstool by the cash register and bustles over to a sputtering coffee pot. Once he’s seated, she brings him a steaming cup and leans across the counter from him.

“What brings you here today, hun? Haven’t seen you ‘round here before.”

Doug sips his coffee, which is hot, strong, and everything that he could have asked for. “Just passing through. Came up through Knoxville yesterday and needed to pick up some stuff.” God, it’s good coffee. He clutches it between his palms, relishing the warmth that’s slowly seeping back into his fingers.

“Well, we got stuff.” She smirks. “Saw you looking at Izzy’s quilt up there. Beauty, isn’t it? Lady who made it claimed she saw that thing coming out at her from the woods one night, scared her half to death. Said she put it on there to protect the store. Can’t speak for anyone else, but me, I wouldn’t want to cross him.” She smiles fondly at the quilt, which Doug can now see has small gold beads sewn into the figure’s eyes. Looking back to the woman, he thinks he can almost catch a sad half-smile on her face before she shakes herself and asks “Want anything besides that coffee, hun?”

Doug considers for a moment. He was fantasizing about donuts earlier...but no. He should buy those other things first, make sure he has still has enough cash after that. He’d meant to busk some in Knoxville, but he fled up the mountain before he had a chance to take his guitar out anywhere. “No thank you, ma’am. Coffee’s fine. Could I actually get a refill, please?”

The woman peers at him as she fills his cup a second time. “Y’sure, honey? I brew this stuff strong, so you might be shaking a bit if you don’t get some food in you too. Skinny little thing like you could probably use a plate of flapjacks or somethin’. Word around town is that I make a ‘righteous’ omelette too.” She grins at the slang for a moment before he waves a hand in dismissal. Up close, she can see deep bags under his eyes, which seem even darker set into his too-thin face. “You know what, you just sit there a second.” Before Doug can respond, she disappears through the door from which the cinnamon smell has been emanating.

When she emerges, she’s holding a plate with a massive slice of apple pie sitting on it. She plops it down in front of Doug. “There, on the house. Just came out of the oven.” She beams at him, waving away his protests. “Nope, can’t turn it away now I’ve cut it for you. Welcome to Wolf Valley. You got a name?”

“Douglas Eiffel, ma’am. My friends used to call me Doug.” He finally relents and takes a bite of pie. “Wow, this is delicious. Thanks.” To be honest, there is no donut fantasy which could have compared to this pie. It’s just the right balance between sweet and tart, with cinnamon and nutmeg dancing little notes of warmth across his tongue.

“No problem, Doug,” she smiles brightly at him. “You can call me Renée.”

***

By the time Doug walks out of the store with a bag full of toothpaste, soap, and coffee in hand, he feels significantly more awake and cheerful about the world. And, he admits to himself, that pie definitely helped. As he’d eaten it, Renée had attempted to quiz him about himself, but eventually relented after his fifth evasive answer. She’d settled for companionably looming over him until every last crumb of pie had disappeared, then drifted off to dust a shelf full of knick-knacks while he shopped.

Outside, the sun has finally risen high enough in the sky for Doug to shuck his coat into his truck. He revels in the warmth for a moment, gazing around him at the forest and scattered buildings. Gold-green clouds of foliage dust the trees, still sparse enough to allow Doug to see through them to the next hill over. It’s beautiful. Nice enough to stop a moment, actually. He’s far enough out of the city that he doesn’t mind sitting around a bit, and here’s as good as anywhere else in town.

He clambors into the truck’s cab to gently remove his guitar from its nest behind the driver’s seat. He places it on his tailgate before hauling himself up next to it. Scratches and dents cover its surface, but it still shines from recent polishing.

He’s just finishing the last chords of American Pie when Renée appears in the parking lot. “Douglas Eiffel,” she calls at him. “That guitar sure sounds nice. No place better to be than my parking lot on this beautiful day?”

“Sorry ma’am, I can move. I’ll go play somewhere e--”

“No, no, you stay right where you are! You don’t know anything from Pirates of Penzance, do you?” She wanders over towards his truck, then stops abruptly when she catches sight of the mound of objects and boxes in its bed. Up close, she can see that Doug is leaning against what looks like an old steamer chest as he strums his guitar.

“What’s all that stuff you got there, honey?”

“Oh, this here’s nothing, ma’am, just some odds and--”

“Lord above, what are all those wrappers in the back seat?” She peers into the back window of his truck. “And dare I even ask about the state of that there blanket?”

“Ma’am, really, it’s ok, you don’t need to--”

Before Doug can finish his thought, Renée whirls around to scowl at him, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Douglas Eiffel, are you living out of this vehicle?”

He sputters at her for a moment. “Well, you see, it really isn’t that bad--it’s just temporary, and I’ve got all this--” he gestures at the clutter in the truck bed “--stuff that I might want, and you really do see some beautiful things out there, and, and--” He flails for words before jumping down from the tailgate and finishing “Besides, Hephaestus is a good old girl. She hasn’t let me down yet.” As he speaks, he pats his hand heavily on the truck’s side, setting off a dull metallic creaking. He and Renée both jump when the car’s bumper crashes onto the ground.

“So, uh, ma’am, you see I’m fine.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there staring at him with a look halfway between rage and compassion. When she finally speaks, her drawl has hardened into short, clipped words. “You are going to wait here for the next two hours until I close for lunch. You will help me if you can, or you will play that guitar. Then, when that is done, you will come with me--uh-uh, no talking, no arguing. When that is done, you will come with me to my home, where my husband and I will get you a decent, god-fearing meal. You will take a shower, because, bless your heart, you stink --again, no arguing. You will take a shower , and then I will get you sorted out.”

“Ma’am, that really isn’t necessary, I’m great, I’m tubular, I’m excellent, I’m--”

“Going to wait. Right. There.” And with one last menacing glare, Renée subdues Doug into sitting back down on his tailgate before moving back towards the door of the store. “And you will be there, waiting for me, when I close up in two hours.” Thoroughly cowed, he picks up his guitar and resumes strumming. He can’t remember any of the songs from Pirates of Penzance, so he settles for his best approximation of the opening theme from Cats.

***

As promised, when Renée returns at noon, Doug is still sitting in the parking lot, absentmindedly fussing with his car’s radio. He springs out of the cab as she approaches. “Ma’am! Sorry, I should have come to help.”

“No problem, at least you had the sense to stay put like I said. Now, is that thing road-worthy enough for you to follow me in it?” She eyeballs the bumper which has now been added to the pile in the truck’s bed.

“Hey, she gets me from point A to point B, don’t see why she’d stop now. Though speaking of sense, doesn’t it occur to you that it might not be the wisest to just invite a strange, car-dwelling man into your home?” He grins at her. “I might be dangerous.”

“Douglas Eiffel, we may have just met this morning, but I like to consider myself a good judge of character, and I judge that you could only maybe hurt a fly if you took a moment to cry afterwards. And, if I happen to be wrong about that, I’ll have you know that I’ve got a loaded 10mm tucked in my glove compartment and I know damn well how to use it.” She smiles sweetly at him as she continues “So, you ready to go now?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Doug follows Renée’s significantly nicer pickup out of the parking lot and through Wolf Valley’s meager downtown. A few miles past the last building, she turns down a dirt road leading into a small cove. Doug’s truck rattles ominously as he drives over potholes and loose stones, and at one memorable moment, an overflowing creek. Shit , he thinks. Maybe I’m the one who should be worried about the crazy person, not the other way around. Lady said she had a gun, now she takes me way out in the woods, I could be done for.

But, eventually, the trees give way to pastures and a welcoming row of white fence posts appears on the side of the road. Once their trucks crest a small hill, a squat white farmhouse comes into view, flanked on either side by azalea bushes dripping with white flowers. A couple of chickens peck around the base of a massive hickory tree which rises above the house’s front lawn. Renée pulls her truck onto a small patch of gravel in front of the house, so Doug follows suit. She gets out, stretches contentedly, then yells:

“Nik, honey, I’m back! Got another one for you!” She beckons Doug out of his truck. “And you, get on inside. Body needs more than pie and coffee to keep itself going.”

As she’s gesturing Doug into the farmhouse, a lanky bearded man appears through a gate next to one of the azalea bushes. “Renée Minkowsky, if you keep bringing strays into my home, I swear to our lord Jesus I’ll--”

“Love me dearly, till death do us part.” She smirks for a moment, before jogging over to him and kissing him on one dirt-smudged cheek.

“God dammit woman, you’re right I will. But I thought the first chicken was going to be the whole of it. Folly of man will be the downfall of us all.” He heaves a long-suffering sigh before catching his wife in his arms and returning her kiss. Smiling, he adds “But I suppose I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

After a moment, the two of them break apart and Renée waves Doug over from where he’d been shifting from foot to foot on the porch. “Doug, this is my husband Dominik. Nik, this here stray happens to be called Douglas Eiffel.”

“Nice to meet you, Douglas!” He clasps Doug’s hand in a calloused handshake. “Sounds like you’ve fallen victim to my wife’s bleeding heart, so welcome to the club.” He grins fondley at Renée.

“Hey, nice to meet you too. Doug’s fine.”

The three of them trek into the house, which is furnished in a ragtag collection of heavy wooden furniture and mismatched fabrics. On the way into the kitchen, Renée restures for the two men to sit at a large oak table. She emerges with several plastic containers and three plates, which she sets between them.

“There, leftovers! Most of it should be fine cold, but if you want a microwave there’s one in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

As they eat, Dominik asks Doug a few cursory questions about himself, which he answers with the same short or evasive answers he gave Renée earlier. Dominik seems accustomed to this, and doesn’t press for more, but instead turns the conversation towards his garden.

“Just put in another row of peas today, and we can probably dig a few of those new potatoes in a couple of weeks! And, of course, these” he gestures proudly at one of the deviled eggs sitting in front of him. “Are from the chickens! That new batch just started laying, so we should be all set for the market on Saturday.” He chatters on for a few moments more before his gaze fixes on Doug and he pauses, thinking. “Actually, I could use some help out there this afternoon. Ever worked on a fence row before, Doug?”

Doug hasn’t, but thinks he can learn quickly. Least he can do, given the couple’s hospitality. He agrees, and after lunch he follows Dominik outside. They walk along the edges of the pasture in companionable silence, punctuated by Dominik’s instructions on how to mend fences. It’s a pleasantly mindless task, and Doug appreciates how the other man avoids prying too much into his life story.

By the time the sun starts to sink low in the sky, both men’s backs are aching from bending to replace and mend fence rails. Before going back inside, they pause so Dominik can gesture proudly at tidy rows of potatoes and baby pea plants rustling gently from a huge garden behind the house.

“Don’t those look great out there!” He grins at Doug. “There’s this old coot down the road who Renée keeps bringing pies to. Gave us some seeds this year, so I guess the pies are paying off. Said they’d sprout faster and stay longer than any pea we’ve seen before, and I can’t say I’m disappointed with them!” They stand admiring the garden for a few minutes before Renée appears from inside the house and beckons them inside.

“Hoo-ee, and I thought you needed a wash before!” She wrinkles her nose at Doug. “You best get clean, then I’ve got some food in the oven. Fixed up the spare room for you too, though I hope you don’t mind a few boxes stacked around. Figured it would treat you better than another night in that truck of yours.”

Chapter Text

That night, tucked into Renée and Dominik’s guest room, Doug can’t help tossing and turning until his legs feel trapped in a snare of tangled sheets. He still expects music to come piping through the window at any moment, but hours have passed since when it usually plays. Until now, he hadn’t realized how much he relies on it to mark each night’s end. Even with its chilling conclusion, he feels uneasy drifting off to sleep without hearing it.

After the clock radio ticks by another fruitless half hour, Doug sits up in defeat. He creeps out of the room, praying that he can avoid waking his hosts on his way outside. Maybe stars over his head will help him finally feel tired. God, he’d gotten so used to them winking above him, it feels strange to have a real roof over his head at night. He’ll just take a quick cigarette break, then get back to bed. When he makes it out onto the back porch, he releases a sigh that he didn’t realize he’d been holding in. A cool breeze kisses his cheeks, drying sweat gathered on his temples. A contented moo drifts from a nearby pasture, accompanied by soft chewing noises.

Doug wanders towards the garden, relishing each brush of damp grass against his bare feet. As he pushes open the gate between the potato patch and the backyard, a faint shiver runs down his spine, then dissipates almost before he can register it. He settles onto a log sitting haphazardly near the row of pea plants, which seem almost to glow in the moonlight.

Settled on his log, Doug can finally feel his eyelids starting to droop when he hears the first faint notes of music. It’s harsher than usual, as if its musician resents waiting for their nightly serenade. A few more abrupt notes sound before the fiddle launches into a leaping, restless jig. The music grows in volume until he feels as though it has enveloped him, before it suddenly drifts farther off. Doug remains sitting, simply listening, when it returns to enfold him within a cloud of sound. Again, it plays for a moment, then floats away.

“What you doing, fiddle-man?” he asks the empty night. “You want something?”

As if in answer, the music drifts to him and away once more. He stands, spinning around to follow it. Nothing to lose , he thinks to himself. Might as well see where it goes. As he decides, the sound swells in response. It floats around Doug again, then moves towards a patch of woods across the garden. He follows it, picking up his pace in time with the racing beats as they move faster and faster away from him. Soon, trees engulf him, brambles tearing his feet as he fumbles through the underbrush. Still, fiddle music surrounds him, turning his madcap rush into a sort of dance.

Then, suddenly, it stops. No crash, no scream, no wooden shatter, just a rush of silence. Without his musical companion, Doug becomes acutely aware of how far out into the woods he has run, without even thinking to bring a flashlight. His heel throbs from where a particularly nasty thorn has lodged itself

“Hello? Fiddle-man?”

He staggers forward, blindly brushing his hands through the surrounding foliage. With only cold moonlight filtering down, each branch becomes a skeletal limb reaching out to tear at his clothing and face. Panting, he pauses, gasping with a combination of exhaustion and terror. God dammit, Doug, you idiot. Of course, follow the stupid music. You’ve always thought you might be crazy, but now I guess we know for sure.

When he sees the light floating towards him, he can’t help but let loose a faint squeak of fear. His Nana’s stories of mountain spirits and monsters come flooding into his mind, broken loose from the dam of disbelief he had carefully constructed that first night the music started playing. He crouches down into the underbrush, praying that he goes unnoticed by whatever it is coming towards him. He squeaks again when the light turns on him, freezing him in its golden beam.

“You there, stand up.”

The voice is human, but Doug still can’t find strength in his knees to listen to it. As far as he can tell, they have been replaced by jelly, jiggling and shuddering more than his Ma’s jello used to.

“I said get up!” The light winds through the woods towards where Doug crouches. Finally, it turns on him, blinding him with its glare. He freezes until a warm hand reaches down and pulls him to his feet.

“You absolute idiot, what are you doing out here? Without a goddam flashlight or a lick of sense, looks to me.” Once the light turns away slightly, Doug can see who’s speaking, a tall woman bundled into a thick sweater with a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. “Where the hell did you come from? You staying with Renée over that hill?”

“Um, yes, ma’am.” Doug’s voice squeaks again as he first speaks, so he clears his throat before he continues. “Must have, ah, gotten lost.”

“Like hell you did. You got anything to do with why my head’s been pounding all night? Don’t answer that, you probably have no idea what you’re even dealing with. How about any weird noises, sights, I dunno, tingly feelings?”

“Well, uh, there has been this, like--ah, shit, you’re not gonna believe me, never mind. Probably think I’m going full Jack Torrance on you. You know the way back to the road?”

She ignores his question and simply responds “Try me.”

“Well, there was this music, and I, um, followed it? Please don’t tell me I’m crazy, I’ve already thought it myself. Who are you, anyway?”

“Mothers have mercy on us all for the actions of idiots. Douglas Eiffel, I think I’ve been hearing about you. My name is Isabel Lovelace, and you are coming with me.”

***

Isabel leads Doug along a series of deer paths, nimbly stepping around rocks and logs he doesn’t see until he’s already slamming his toes into them. Every so often, she scowls back at him, lips pursing each time he stumbles. He tries to ask her where their path leads, but whenever he opens his mouth to speak Isabel shoots him a glare and hisses at him to shush. Occasionally, Doug thinks he can hear a faint waft of fiddle music drifting through the woods, but it vanishes quick enough that it might as well just be wind.

After what seems like an eternity, they burst from the woods into a small clearing where moonlight etches each form into sharp relief. A small cabin hunkers on the grass, smoke curling gently from its chimney. Isabel gestures for Doug to follow her inside, wordlessly locking the door behind him. Inside, the cabin smells vaguely of woodsmoke and spices, cumin and something Doug can’t quite place. Sandalwood? At Isabel’s poking, flames flare to life within a small woodstove, illuminating a cramped, sparsely furnished room that looks to be serving as bedroom, dining room, and kitchen of the cabin. Drying bundles of plants dangle from the ceiling and from a set of antlers mounted on one wall.

“Tea?”

“Um?”

“I said tea.” She rolls her eyes at him as she repeats herself. “Mountain mint or chamomile, you pick.”

“Uh, chamomile?”

She nods curtly, then sets a cast iron kettle on the woodstove to heat. Once it boils, she adds a handful of dried flower buds to a chipped teapot and pours water in. She places this on the table, alongside two earthenware mugs. She pours tea into both of them, then pointedly gestures to one of the chairs.

“Sit. Drink.”

At a loss for any other response, Doug complies, sipping gingerly at the apple-scented beverage. Isabel settles into the other chair. At the first sip from her own mug, her shoulders visibly relax.

“There, that’s better. Now, talk. And before you hold back out of some sort of idiot want to keep me thinking you’re a perfectly sane Normal Person, don’t. You’re not the first that’s seen something strange in these woods, and damned if you’ll be the last. And against my best wishes and better judgement, you goose-brained will-o-wisp chasers keep washing up right where I’ve gotta come fish you out.” She punctuates these last words by tapping her half-empty mug hard on the table. “Now, talk, boy!”

Doug swallows hard, then takes another sip of tea to fortify himself. “Like I said, there was this music. Like someone playing a fiddle, but there wasn’t anyone there, y’know? Real Twilight Zone. I mean, it’s been going on for a while, but I guess I got used to it. Didn’t really question it. Why bother, anyway?” He laughs bitterly, staring down into his mug of tea. He hadn’t realized his hands were shaking, but faint ripples shiver across its surface. “It’s not like my life wasn’t a total shitshow already. What’s another bit of bizarre mumbo-jumbo? Anyway, I was listening tonight, like usual, and it started, like, moving. Like it wanted me to follow it. And, well, I did, because I’m--what was it, a ‘goose-brained will-o-wisp chaser’? And then it stopped and you showed up, and now I’m here. There, happy? Go on, tell me I’m cracking up, I’m already out in the ass-end of nowhere, telling some creepy lady in the woods about the magic music that isn’t there.” He laughs again, soft and low. “Probably scared the hell out of some genuinely kind people there, too, running off in the middle of the night like that. Par for the course, Dougie-boy.”

Isabel peers over her mug at him, contemplating. After a moment, she sets it back on the table with a deliberate clack. “Douglas, I know it might seem hard to believe, but I truly don’t think you’re making that music up. And I don’t think you’re hearing things that aren’t there, neither.” She fixes him with an unexpectedly gentle look. “Like I said, you’re not the first this sort of thing’s happened to. You’d be amazed at what I’m prepared to believe.”

“Yeah, well, if you know so much, mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

“I can’t say for sure without hearing it myself, but it sounds like some kind of spirit, something trying to talk to you. You’re staying at that farm down the way, did you hear it when you were in there?”

Doug gapes at her. “How did you--? Never mind. No, I didn’t. Couldn’t sleep, so I went out to get some air, that’s when I heard it. Why?”

“I’ve got wards thrown up ‘round that place like Saturday washing, there’s no way something could have gotten in unless you invited it. Makes me think you really do have something sitting on your shoulders there. No, I don’t think you’re crazy, Douglas Eiffel, I think you’re haunted. Don’t look so insulted, happens to the best of us. And close your mouth, flies’ll get in.”

“But, ma’am, ghosts aren’t real.” Sure, his Nana had told stories, but he also knew for a fact that most of them drew more from old radio dramas than from any reality she’d actually lived. But then, he supposes there always were those few others… You never really knew with Nana, but he had always just assumed that she was part of the ancient and noble mountain Bullshitting tradition. He’d always admired that about her.

Isabel snorts. “Sure. Well, guess there’s no point arguing with that. Alright, get on home then.” She makes to stand up from the table. “I’ll leave you to it, enjoy never needing a radio again.”

“Hold on, wait, just like that?”

“Yep, just like that. Go on, git.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re not going to do anything?”

“Nope,” she says, popping the last letter. “No use trying to tell a body something believes in them when they don’t believe in it.”

“But, um, what if I did? Like, just a little? Hypothetically?”

She smirks. “And what if you did?”

“Well, um, could you do something about it then?”

Her grin grows, wolfish in the flickering firelight. “Might could. Sit yourself back down if you feel like making a believer of you tonight then.”

***

“A ouija board? Really, Linda Blair?”

Isabel glares at him as she positions the battered board between them on the table. “You want answers or what? This’ll get you answers.”

Doug laughs incredulously. “Doesn’t it just seem a little, I dunno, Witchboard to you? Didn’t end so well for Zarabeth. But hey, if you insist.” He grabs the plastic pointer from the box sitting next to him and places his fingertips on it.

Isabel swats his hands away. “This isn’t the Exorcist, you idiot. Put them like this.” She holds her hands in the air a few inches away from the board. “I’ve seen too many jackasses try to spell words for their anatomy to trust any of y’all with doing this the old-fashioned way.”

Doug follows her example. “Now what?”

“Now, we wait. Say something to it, if you like. Let ‘em know you’re actually listening this time.”

“O-kaay.” He pauses, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Uh, hey fiddle-man. How’s it going?” He glances at Isabel, who nods encouragingly. “Wanna come chat?” He glances up again. “How’s that?”

“Good, you done good. Now, we just gotta give them time. Imagine trying to move something without hands, it might take a tic.” She closes her eyes and breathes deep, stretching her fingers above the board. “Here,” she breathes. “Take some of mine.”

“Hmm?”

“Not you. Shut up, give them time.”

Doug gapes at her for a moment, then shrugs and returns to staring at the board. His wrists are just starting to cramp when the mover finally twitches. He jumps, then flaps his hands at Isabel. “Did you see that? Did you see that?!”

“Yes, I did! Now stop that flailing, let it talk.” She leans closer as the mover slowly comes to life. “There we go, love, you can do it,” she murmurs. “You’re doing great.”

“N...Oh my god, it’s spelling something.” Doug’s hands shake faintly where they hover over the board. “Oh my god, there’s more. O...T...A...M...Not a man? What?”

Isabel laughs softly. “Douglas, you seem to have been wrong about your ‘fiddle man.’ You a fiddle girl, love?” The mover twitches in affirmation. “Alright, well that’s a great start. What should we call you then?” It pauses, as if whatever has been moving it is pondering Isabel’s question. Then, it turns to point at the H, E, R, and finally A before coming to a rest.

“Hera?” Doug asks. “Like the goddess?” A look of surprise passes over Isabel’s face. “What? I like myths. Ok, Hera. What the heck you want? Why the midnight serenade?”

This time, the mover swings immediately. It twirls away from the letters on the board and shuffles almost to its edge, pointing outwards.

Doug’s eyes widen as he glances from the mover to Isabel and back. “Me?” He squeaks. “What do you mean, me?” He swerves to and fro, trying to escape the mover’s pointing as it swivels in synch with his motion. “Isabel? What the hell?” He yelps as a particularly violent twirl sends the mover off the board and nearly into his lap.

Isabel laughs. “You really do have some kinda bone to pick with this one, don’t you. Now, what you want with him so bad? Sounds like you’ve been after him a while now.” Before Doug even begins to speak again, she waves a hand at him and snaps “I said shut up!” Gingerly, she picks up the mover and returns it to the board. “Feel like telling us what’s going on, love?”

The chunk of plastic sits still for a moment before shivering back to life. When it does, it moves slowly, sluggish compared to its earlier antics. It creeps back to the H, then to the E, then L, and finally P.

“Help?” Doug leans closer to the board. “You need help, fiddle m--Hera? What do you need help with?” The mover swings towards the “no” marked on one corner of the board, then turns to point at the letter U before lying still.

Doug and Isabel stare at the board as silent moments tick by, but the plastic triangle remains motionless. Eventually, Isabel sighs and lowers her hands.

“Well, Douglas Eiffel, sounds like that’s about all we’re gettin’ out of her tonight. Not a word, that last one. I think she meant ‘you’. Something ‘bout you, Douglas, sounds like it needs helping. Got any insight on that one?”

Doug shakes his head, wordless as the board. Isabel stares at man and mover in turn, before sighing and pushing her chair back from the table.

“And I guess that’s all we’ll be getting out of you too. You done with that tea?” She deposits both of their empty mugs in the sink, then turns back to him. “You don’t have any more questions, I’ll show you on back to Renée’s.”

Doug clears his throat. “Thank you, ma’am. For the tea, and uh, the--”

“Don’t mention it. You got any more questions, ask ‘em now before I decide I don’t want to listen no more.” She crosses her arms as Doug shakes his head and stands up. “Well, alright then. No questions it is. Grab that lantern and we’ll be on our way. Looks like I’m going to have to lead your sorry self back, way you bumbled getting here. Go on, out!” She banks the fire, then follows him out the door.

***

By the time that they crest the last hill before Renée’s farmhouse, the first grey tinges of dawn have begun to creep over the horizon. A few cows lift their heads to gaze placidly at Doug and Isabel as they make their way down through the field. Just outside of the garden fence, Isabel pauses.

“Alright, you go on in then. Might still be able to creep in before anyone wakes up, avoid disturbing them.”

“You’re not coming? Sounds like you know Renée too, I’m sure you could come get a cup of coffee or something.”

“No, best not. Renée and me, we go on back, but I don’t think she’d want to be seeing me right now. Come to think of it, why don’t you just keep our meeting tonight to yourself, hmm? No need to be worrying those nice folks talkin’ about will-o-wisps and spirits, they got plenty of stuff to worry about. And me, well, they got plenty to worry about without old Izzy in there too. Now go on, get. Nik will probably up to feed the hens before too long, so you best be getting in if you want to make it before he wakes up.”

Isabel waves away Doug’s last protests as he clambors back over the fence. He realizes that the night before he must have jumped it in his race after the music, though he can’t recall ever consciously deciding to. This time, the hop sends a shudder of pain up from his battered feet. “You sure, ma’am?”

“Yeah, don’t worry ‘bout me.” She flashes a lopsided grin. “I’ll be just fine out here by my lonesome. Now get on in, and don’t be telling them, alright?”

He nods his assent as she turns to leave, the first ray of sunrise reflecting for a split second in her irises and making them glow golden. Then she breaks into a run to dash silently away from the farmhouse. In moments, the woods swallow her, leaving Douglas alone in the early light.