CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Chief Morgan's eyes narrowed, the fluorescent lights of his office casting harsh shadows across his weathered face.
“So, Sheriff Graves,” he said, leaning forward with his forearms on his desk, “before I tell you why 'huntsman' rings a bell, maybe you should tell me why you think it's important. Aside from it appearing in those two fairy tales.”
“Just following a hunch,” Jenna said. The emphasis on the word huntsman had come directly from her sister—not something she could share with Morgan without inviting ridicule or worse.
Morgan expelled a long breath through his nose.
“You and your hunches,” he said, shaking his head.
The words carried the weight of their history—her intuitions that had proven correct too many times to dismiss, yet remained inexplicable in ways that frustrated him.
“They're damned unnerving, you know that?”
He rubbed a hand across his jaw, the sound of stubble against palm audible in the quiet room.
“There's a man who lives out past the eastern ridge, maybe fifteen miles from town. Named Ernest Chase. Hermit type. Hunter.” Morgan leaned back in his chair, which protested with a squeak.
“Locals call him 'Mr. Huntsman' because that's what he insists on being called. Seems to fancy himself some kind of storybook character.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Not much,” Morgan admitted. “Keeps to himself mostly. Has a cabin out in the woods. Hunts deer, sells the meat in town sometimes. Bow hunting season's been open since mid-September, so he's probably active right now.” He hesitated, then continued, “Thing is, he's a bit... off.”
“Off how?” Jake asked.
Morgan gestured vaguely. “Talks about being abducted by aliens. Swears Bigfoot lives in the woods near his cabin. That kind of crazy.” He shrugged. “Harmless, in my opinion, though some folks around here call him a 'ticking bomb.' He's never hurt anybody that I know of.”
Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake. The nickname could be a coincidence.
A man who chose that title could have gotten it from the same kids' books, movies, comic books, and video games that lots of people grew up with.
But her sister had said the voices in her mind repeated "huntsman" with great urgency.
“We need to talk to him,” Jenna said, already rising from her chair.
Morgan's expression soured. “Based on what? A fairy tale reference and a nickname? That's thin, even for you, Graves.”
Colonel Spelling cleared his throat. “Chief Morgan, I believe Sheriff Graves' instincts warrant our attention in this matter.”
Morgan's jaw tightened, resentment clear at being outnumbered. “Fine,” he conceded, pushing himself to his feet. “But I'll approach him first. Chase can be skittish around strangers, especially law enforcement he doesn't know. Might spook him if you all go charging up to his door.”
He pulled out his phone, tapping at the screen.
“I'll text you the GPS coordinates. But follow my vehicle—the road gets tricky about three miles in.” His eyes found Jenna's.
“And for the record, I'm doing this under protest. If we're wasting my time and department resources on another one of your 'feelings,' I won't be happy.”
Jenna turned toward the door, not bothering to argue. The results she expected would speak louder than any defense she could offer now.
Outside, Spelling told Jenna and Jake, “You two can ride with me.” When they reached his SUV, he gestured for Jenna to take the front passenger seat and Jake climbed into the one behind her. Spelling started his vehicle and followed Morgan's as they pulled onto the main road.
“Somebody want to tell me what's really going on?” Spelling asked. “Morgan's right about one thing—this connection seems tenuous. We can’t chase down everyone who calls themselves by a name from a children’s story—”
Jenna explained, “My sister... she kept repeating 'huntsman' over and over. It felt significant to me even then.”
Spelling face betrayed no surprise. “That's difficult information to share with someone like Morgan,” he observed as they left the town limits behind, the landscape opening into rolling hills.
“I appreciate you running interference,” Jenna said, watching the scenery blur past her window. The trees grew denser as they traveled east. “Not everyone would put their reputation on the line for hunches they can't explain.”
Spelling was quiet for a moment, only the hum of tires on asphalt filling the space between them. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a note of caution.
“I don't know how long I can effectively play mediator, Graves. Sooner or later, either Morgan's going to demand answers I can't give, or my superiors are going to question why I keep backing your unorthodox methods. Just something to consider.”
She accepted the warning for what it was—not a withdrawal of support, but a realistic assessment of their precarious alliance.
As they followed Morgan deeper into the woods, the trees closing in around them, she couldn't shake the feeling that they were heading toward something inevitable, a confrontation written long before they arrived.
This was definitely a trip worth making.
The road narrowed, became unpaved. Gravel pinged against the undercarriage of Spelling's SUV. Ahead, Morgan's brake lights flared red as he slowed, turning onto what barely qualified as a road—more of a clearing cut through the underbrush.
“This has to be it,” Jake murmured.
Jenna felt it too—the sense of boundary crossing, of entering a space apart from the ordinary world.
The vehicles crawled to a stop in a small clearing where the trees reluctantly gave way to human habitation.
Before them stood Ernest Chase's cabin—a weathered structure of dark timber and stone that seemed to have grown organically from the forest floor.
Moss crept along the northern edge of the sloped roof, and a thin spiral of smoke rose from a crooked chimney.
The electric line connected to the cabin seemed out of character, but even so the place had a fairytale quality to it, Jenna thought.
A woodpile stood against one wall, meticulously stacked.
Nearby, a collection of antlers hung from a bare oak, bleached white by sun and time.
The forest pressed close on all sides, as if waiting to reclaim the small territory ceded to human presence.
The October breeze carried the mingled scents of wood smoke, decaying leaves, and something else—the metallic tang of blood.
At the sound of their approach, the cabin door swung open.
A man stepped onto his porch, one hand resting on the doorframe, the other holding what appeared to be a freshly skinned rabbit.
He was tall and lean, his frame suggesting wiry strength rather than bulk.
A gray-streaked beard reached halfway down his chest, and beneath a prominent brow, his eyes were startlingly clear and alert.
He wore canvas pants tucked into worn boots and a flannel shirt that had seen better days.
Morgan was first to exit his vehicle, raising a hand in casual greeting. Jenna watched through the windshield as the Pinecrest chief approached with deliberate slowness, his body language open and unthreatening.
“That's our cue,” Spelling said, killing the engine.
Jenna gazed around as the three of them stepped out of Spelling’s vehicle and stood their quietly, giving Morgan space to make initial contact.
“Look,” Jake whispered, and she followed his gaze. Vultures were circling over the woods a short distance away from the cabin.
“That’s not good,” she replied softly, remembering the vultures that had led them to Claudia Kingsley’s body hanging inside a bag made up like a wolf.
“Morning, Mr. Huntsman,” Morgan called, his voice carrying across the clearing. “Hope we're not disturbing you too much.”
Ernest's gaze traveled slowly from Morgan to the others, lingering on Jenna with uncomfortable intensity. His expression remained unreadable, but something in his posture shifted—a subtle tensing, like an animal registering potential danger.
“Police,” he said, neither a question nor a greeting. His voice was surprisingly soft, incongruent with his wild appearance. “I suppose you're here about the lady.”
The statement froze Morgan mid-step. Jenna felt a cold certainty washing over her. Jake moved closer to her side, his hand drifting instinctively toward his weapon.
Morgan recovered quickly. “What lady would that be, Mr. Chase?”
Ernest tilted his head, considering the question as if it puzzled him. “The sleeping one,” he said simply, as though the answer should have been obvious. “Would you like to see her?”
Jenna exchanged a glance with Spelling, whose face had hardened into a mask of professional caution.
“I think we would,” Morgan replied evenly.
Ernest turned back toward the open door. “Follow me, then. But be quiet. She needs her rest.”
Jenna's hand moved to her holster as they approached the cabin. The wooden porch creaked beneath their collective weight, the sound unnaturally loud in the forest stillness.
Inside, the cabin was a single large room with a partial loft overhead.
A stone fireplace dominated one wall, its flames casting dancing shadows across rough-hewn furniture.
Animal pelts adorned the walls alongside an impressive array of hunting equipment.
Bows, arrows, knives, and traps hung in careful arrangement, each item meticulously maintained.
A small table near the window held a collection of books, their spines cracked and worn—fairy tales, Jenna noted with a shiver, alongside survival guides and texts on taxidermy.
The air was thick with the scent of wood smoke, animal fat, and herbs hanging in bunches from the ceiling beams.
“This way,” Ernest said, moving toward a door at the rear of the cabin. He set the rabbit down on a wooden counter, wiping his bloodied hands on a cloth before reaching for the door handle.
Morgan signaled for Jenna and Jake to hang back while he and Spelling followed Ernest through the doorway. Jenna ignored the directive, moving forward with Jake at her side. Her heart pounded against her ribs, each beat a warning she couldn't ignore.
The back room was darker and cooler than the main living space. A single window let in a shaft of dusty sunlight that illuminated what appeared to be a workshop. Animal hides in various stages of preparation hung from hooks. Tools lined the walls—skinning knives, scrapers, tanning solutions.
And against the far wall stood a large chest freezer, its white surface incongruous among the rustic surroundings. A soft hum revealed its connection to that power line.
“She's in there,” Ernest said, gesturing toward the freezer with a reverent expression.
The room fell silent. Morgan looked back at Jenna, uncertainty written across his features for the first time since she'd known him.
Ernest moved to the freezer, his movements careful and deliberate. “I've been taking good care of her,” he said softly, his hand resting on the freezer's lid. “Keeping her safe until the right time.”
He lifted the lid.
Cold vapor billowed out, swirling like ghostly serpents. As it cleared, Jenna stepped closer, steeling herself for what she knew she would see.
Rebecca Hartley lay inside the freezer, arranged with care. Her pale skin had the blue-white sheen of frost, her dark hair spread around her head like a mourning veil. Her hands were folded primly over her chest, fingers curled around a bright red apple with a single bite taken from its flesh.
Jenna recognized her immediately from her dream. The same delicate features and long black hair, dressed in the same ordinary clothes. The sight hit her with physical force, a verification of her lucid dream that brought no satisfaction, only hollow confirmation.
“Looks almost like Snow White, doesn’t she?” Ernest said. “With the apple and all. I guess that’s what she’s supposed to look like.”
“My God,” Jake whispered beside Jenna.
“Rebecca Hartley,” Morgan said, his voice thick with shock and anger. “What have you done to her, Chase?”
Ernest looked genuinely confused by Morgan's reaction. “Done to her? Nothing. I'm just protecting her.”
Spelling moved forward, placing himself between Ernest and the freezer. “Step back, Mr. Chase.”
Ernest complied without resistance, his eyes never leaving Rebecca's frozen form. “You shouldn't disturb her,” he said, his voice taking on a childlike quality. “I don't think it's time for the lady to wake up yet.”