3. Callum #4
“Not at all,” I say, leaning my head back against the worn headrest. “It’s cool. Fits you.”
“Thanks. It’s actually Winifred, but I hate it.”
“Why?” I turn my head slightly to watch her. “Winifred’s a good name. Pretty.”
She scrunches her nose—a quick reaction that shifts the damp hair sticking to her cheek. “It’s a grandma name.”
“Winifred is not a grandma name,” I counter, a dry smile touching my lips. “Grandma names are like…Bertha. Or Greta or something.”
A loud laugh bursts out of her, filling the small space of the cab. “Bertha?” She shakes her head, a wide grin splitting her face. “God, Callum. That is just plain cruel to grandmothers everywhere.”
I chuckle and nod toward the backseat where the shadowy creature hasn’t moved an inch. I wasn’t entirely convinced yet that it was actually alive. “What about the cat? What’s its name?”
“Jett.” She pats the cracked vinyl of the dashboard with an affectionate slap of her palm. “And this is Mercury.”
I let out a short laugh, turning full-body as much as the footwell allows to look at her. “Really? Freddie and Mercury?”
“I had to!” she says, no shame in her voice, that deep dimple reappearing. “Don’t tell me that it isn’t genius.”
“Fair enough.”
She clicks the heater up another notch, and the vents blow a wall of warm, dusty air over my damp jeans. “So, Callum McKinley,” she says, settling her hands at ten and two on the wheel. “Where are you from? You’ve got a bit of something in your voice. Like Irish, maybe?”
“My parents are from Scotland,” I tell her. “My siblings and I are the first generation born here. Grew up in the Appalachians.”
“Wait. The Appalachians?” Excitement flashes across her face, totally unguarded this time. “Aren’t those mountains, like, deeply cursed?” She grips the steering wheel tighter, her eyes wide and practically glittering. “Like ancient woods, don’t-whistle-after-dark, Mothman-is-watching cursed?”
Blue. Her eyes are definitely blue. Light, almost silver even.
I lean my head back against the worn headrest. “I’ve seen some strange shit,” I admit.
“Found a set of stairs once. Just wooden steps leading to a landing that went nowhere, thirty miles deep into national forest land. No foundation, no scorched earth, no sign a cabin had ever been built around it. Just pine needles and a staircase.”
She shivers, but a little grin tugs at her mouth. “See? Cursed.”
“And I spent twelve hours on a search-and-rescue call near Black Mountain where two grown deputies swore they heard a woman calling them by their first names from deep down a ravine,” I add.
“When we finally got down to the bottom, the only tracks belonged to a mountain lion. So yeah. You definitely don’t whistle in the woods at night unless you want company. ”
She takes that and runs with it, launching into a rambling string of local rumors, cryptic theories, and ghost stories. I let her chatter, only half-listening as I turn my head to stare out the fogged passenger window.
We’re rolling into a town now.
Old brick storefronts line a narrow main street, their dark windows reflecting the wet gleam of the rain.
The architecture looks almost preserved—heavy timber beams, wrought-iron light posts, stone chimneys rising off sloping slate roofs.
It looks cozy, like the kind of postcard mountain town people pay too much money to visit in October.
Except there isn’t a single soul on the street. No parked cars along the curb. No neon open signs flickering in the shop windows. Not even a stray dog seeking shelter under an awning.
A familiar prickle starts at the base of my neck, the fine hairs standing up along my arms. It’s the same gut instinct that usually tells me a traffic stop is about to go sideways or a suspect is waiting behind a closed door.
I shift in the tight leather seat. “What state are we in, anyway? North Carolina? Tennessee?”
Freddie doesn’t answer immediately. She bites her lower lip, her teeth catching on the soft skin as she slows the hatchback down and turns into an empty, dark parking lot beside a large two-story structure.
Above the driveway, a heavy wooden sign hangs from a wrought-iron arm, flapping and groaning against the wind in the storm.
In the sweep of her headlights, I can make out the deeply carved lettering: Everfall Inn.
It looks well-kept, surrounded by manicured hydrangeas that are taking a beating in the rain.
She cuts the engine, the sudden silence in the cabin broken only by the heavy thump of water hitting the roof.
“You’re not really…in a state, so to speak,” she says quietly, staring straight ahead through the windshield.
I blink, turning in my seat to look at her profile. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re not in a state.” She exhales a slow breath, finally cutting her eyes over to me. “You’re in more of something that’s…in between, I guess.”
I just stare at her, blinking.
Great.
I should’ve seen it coming from a mile away. She’s funny, she knows her way around an engine, she’s pretty as hell.
And she’s a total fucking wackadoodle.