Chapter 2
Olivia
The grass was still damp when I checked.
I told myself I was being thorough. Clinical, even. I had every reason to verify the physical evidence. That was being professional.
What I wasn’t doing was standing in my backyard at seven in the morning, staring at flattened grass like I’d lost my grip on reality.
I crouched at the edge of the patch. Up close, everything came back sharper. The man’s sudden heartbeat. The force of him pinning me down. His gaze…
I shook the thought from my head and took a deep breath.
I moved carefully along the edge of the yard.
Even more condemning than the grass was a huge footprint just over the cottage’s fence. It wasn’t a standard footprint either.
The dirt dug deep into the ground, the mud at the edges curled up from being pushed upward by an intense force. It was too deep to be anything made with a simple, quick leap. Let alone plain running.
Okay, so last night was real.
What was that guy? Some kind of Terminator?
I went back inside and stood in the kitchen for a long moment with my hands wrapped around a glass of water. I ran through the situation as slowly and calmly as I could.
Fact One: I found a naked man (with the exception of a blanket) face-down in the grass with no pulse and inexplicable hyperthermia.
Fact Two: I performed CPR and revived him.
Fact Three: His eyes were red.
Fact Four: Said man pinned me to the ground with a strength that a person without a pulse shouldn’t have. He said something about seven years and ran off.
I drank the water slowly.
I ran through the rational explanations. Disorientation. Adrenaline. Maybe hallucination.
Or I was losing it.
I would laugh if it didn't sound so depressing.
Once I was in the living room, I flipped through the local channels. No news about naked men running, unfortunately.
As the morning settled in more, I found myself thinking about something else as well. I didn’t know where the man went. That meant he could be anywhere. More importantly, that meant something bad could happen to him.
Maybe I was crazy. But he could still be in trouble.
Even if he was… “alive”, that didn’t mean he was safe. An irregular heart condition meant that he could pass out again. If he was delirious, he might stumble into someone less calm and get into an altercation.
He needs to be okay. The thought came back, sharp and insistent.
I dragged my hands over my face.
I should have called someone last night. I knew that. It said something about the state I was in — just completely out of my element. But I was steady enough now.
“I can at least ask about him around town,” I said to myself.
That way, I could flag it with someone who knew this town and its people better than I did. Give the relevant details to the right person and let it become someone else's problem.
I might regret going further down the rabbit hole, but it was better than being sorry.
I dropped the mug into the sink, swung on a canvas jacket, grabbed my keys, and made my way to Greyhollow proper.
I didn’t know what I was going to find there. I only hoped it meant no more surprises.
I reached Greyhollow around noon. From the town square, I could finally see the place for what it was. It was the kind of small town that looked best in low light. In daylight, the fog just made everything feel off.
Ambiance aside, I perked up a little. I had a routine for new places. I developed it over seven years: coffee, walk, map exits.
Main street was quiet the way small towns were quiet on weekday mornings.
People moved in and out of buildings with the ease of having nowhere to be in particular.
Some of the standout buildings included a hardware store with hand-lettered signs in the window, a diner with a fog-stained window (perfect for the coffee), and a post office wedged in the corner.
After grabbing a to-go cup at the diner, I spotted the local clinic just a few more steps down.
Could be a good place to check, I thought. If the man passed through town, they would know.
I entered.
The air smelled of old wood and antiseptic. A woman sat at the front desk in horn-rimmed glasses, working on a local crossword. Based on the harsh eraser marks in some of the squares, she was probably stuck.
“You here for something?” the receptionist asked, still focused on her crossword.
“Yes, actually,” I said. “Were there any medical emergencies last night?”
Her brow raised at the word “emergencies.”
“Why would there be?”
I really didn’t want to tell her about a man pinning me down in the grass. I decided to give her the short version of it.
“I found a man unconscious yesterday,” I explained. “He ran off before I could fully help him. Tall. Dark hair. Unclothed?”
The receptionist’s brow rose even higher. I ignored it.
“Did anyone like that come around here?”
“No.” She went back to her puzzle. “Not in here.”
“Do you think he showed up anywhere else?”
“It was dead all night in here.”
“Do you know if there’s anywhere else I could find out?”
The lady sighed. “Look, honey, I’ll be honest. It was probably just a town loonie.”
“But —”
“People get drunk off their asses here all the time,” she said with a shrug. “They wander. They pass out. They wake up embarrassed. Happens.”
I considered arguing, but she was already back at her crossword puzzle.
I thanked her and went back out into the fog.
I spent the rest of the afternoon asking around town. Similar to the receptionist, people saw nothing or passed it off as something harmless. They said it was probably someone who'd had too much, sobered up, found his way home, and was currently embarrassed about the whole thing. Probably.
By the time the sun was setting, I was done circling the town.
I considered heading back up, but I noticed a cluster of people heading to one area in particular.
It was a large bar at the end of the road’s incline.
It looked far more polished than anything else around here. The sign: The Blackwater Tap.
What better way to pick up on hearsay?
I beelined for it.
The entire bar glowed with the orange of the lamps and the fireplace on the side.
The Blackwater Tap looked like it had been built with genuine intention.
Plush leather booths on the side, round wooden tables in the middle with easy room to pass through, a pool and darting area far enough that the competitive shouting didn’t bother the rest of the customers, and, finally, a grand wooden bar counter acting as the centerpiece at the back wall.
I sat at the bar. A door leading to a back kitchen swung open. A woman around my age tied her hair up in tight swirls and slid behind the counter.
“About time, Stella,” a local man said at the very edge of it. “Beer’s running out.”
The woman smiled.
“Come on, Ted,” she said. “Beer’s always running out so long as you’re concerned.”
Several people laughed.
I watched her make the rounds — smiling, chatting up customers, reading the room between pours. There was something else about her, too, however.
Her eyes moved around quickly. She wasn’t just serving. She was observing who entered the bar, which tables needed what, what a customer was apt to say or do. It was the behavior of someone who knew her territory and would make you play by her rules.
“Making an order anytime soon?”
The voice caught me off guard. I looked up and noticed Stella somehow made her way right in front of me. She was still smiling.
“Sorry,” I said. Heat crept up my neck. “I was just taking in the scenery.”
Stella laughed. “Don’t worry,” she said. “No one here’s going to bite you. At least as far as I’m concerned. Ain’t that right, boys?”
The last part was directed to the men, who regarded her with a nod.
Stella leaned over the counter a little more and gave me a once over.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts,” she said. “You new?”
“Yep,” I replied. “Temporary assignment. Travel nurse."
"How temporary?"
"A few weeks, maybe. Depends on the case."
She nodded, the way people nodded when they were filing information away. "You get used to that? Moving around?"
"It's what I do." I said it the way I always said it — practiced and detached.
“Well, I’ll be,” she said with a smile.
Stella looked around and lowered her voice. “Why don’t I set you up with a drink? On the house. It’s the least I can do for a new guest.”
“Oh, there’s no need for that —”
“I insist,” Stella said as she waved her hand dismissively. Her smile turned into a playful grin. “Just don’t tell anyone.”
I smiled despite myself.
I told Stella I was driving, but Stella said that was what mocktails were for. After she tended to a few tables, she hurried back to me, handed me the drink, and we chatted.
Stella gave me the lay of the land: the diner was good for breakfast and terrible for dinner. The general store owner knew everything about everyone and wasn't above sharing. The family clinic was decent for basics but if anything serious came up, you wanted to drive to the bigger clinic.
I asked about the town.
Stella considered it. "Small," she said. "Strange, in a way nobody really talks about."
"Strange how?"
“Werewolves, for one!” the man Stella called “Ted” cried out in the background.
People in his corner buzzed in agreement.
I chuckled. “Werewolves?”
Stella rolled her eyes. "People here like to believe in local legends.” She noticed my glass emptying and refilled it. "There's a whole history of it, apparently. Mountain spirits, wolves that guarded the area, things that went through the forest at night. Old stories. You know how it is."
I finally remembered why I came here in the first place. “Speaking of stories, did you hear about anything strange happening the other night?”
Stella scanned her memory. “Aside from Derek not getting a bullseye in darts, no.”
“Hey!” a person who was most probably “Derek” yelled at the back, offended.
“Something bothering you, honey?” she asked me.