Chapter 6

The fog swallows everything.

I clutch the strap of my bag a little tighter. My breath clouds in front of me, though it’s not particularly cold. Just… damp. Heavy. The kind of atmosphere that seeps into you and whispers into your ears so hushed that you can’t quite make out the words.

I shake my head. It’s just nerves. First-time property owner jitters.

I’m still hungry, but there’s no way I’m stopping to pull that sandwich out now, so I continue on.

I pause when I think I hear something—faint and low. A whisper. No, not quite a voice. More like… the idea of a voice. Almost like the trees themselves are trying to tell me something.

I square my shoulders. Nope. Not doing that.

Even though I can’t see five feet in front of my face, I know the land stretches far beyond what I can see because I’ve inherited hundreds of acres of it.

No wonder no one comes out here. With my luck, I’ve inherited hundreds of acres of permanent fog. I snort unexpectedly at that.

What takes the shadowy shape of an old animal-drawn plow is only visible when I pass right by it. I don’t see much else, but what little is visible through the fog hints at something lost in time.

As the fog thins, a wooden fence, warped with age, appears. A windmill, its blades long surrendered to rust, sits broken and at an angle on one post.

As I reach the end of the path, it disappears into tall grasses and wildflowers, overgrown but strangely beautiful.

My stomach growls. I’d nearly forgotten.

I set my plant down, drop my bag to the ground, and unzip the top flap, fingers curling around the wax paper bundle from Dot’s. The chicken salad sandwich had smelled like rosemary and fresh-baked bread. My mouth waters as I unwrap it.

The scent hits me first—sour, like spoiled mayonnaise and something coppery underneath.

The bread has gone gray. Mold blooms in a halo around the crust, green and black and soft. The chicken looks… wrong. Soggy, almost translucent, like it’s been sitting in the sun for days.

But it hasn’t.

It was fresh. It was fresh. I just bought it.

The need to vomit climbs from my gut into my throat, and I make a retching sound as I hold the sandwich away from me.

Rex. What if there was something poisonous in the fog? That’ll be plant number ten that I’ve killed. I promised myself that this was the last plant, then I was swearing myself off of plants forever in order to protect them…from me.

I toss the sandwich away from me to check my plant over.

Rex is okay. It’s still close to death, but no more than usual.

When I look up in relief, I see it.

Hucow Hollow.

It unfolds slowly from the mist. The land dips down into a shallow valley. There are rolling hills, tangled orchards, and groves. And nestled at the center are the buildings.

The house rises first—a ranch-style estate with gabled roofs and dark wood siding. It’s beautiful in a brooding way. But it’s also tired. One shutter hangs loose, and the wraparound porch sags just enough to make my stomach clench. There are spiderwebs, paint that’s peeled, and the kind of silence that suggests no one’s lived here in years.

A little farther off sits the barn.

It’s massive.

Larger than I expected. With high arching rafters and wide double doors flung open. I take a slow breath of relief and—

Clang.

A sharp metallic sound cuts through the quiet. Then again.

Clang. Clang.

Hammering.

Someone’s here.

I gather my things and walk through the wildflowers, surprised that no roads lead up to the dwellings from elsewhere, and head toward the noise. The fog has pulled back to the treeline I just came through. I step around a stack of split logs and follow the hammering to the side of the barn.

And that’s when I see him.