4. Wren
WREN
brING ENOUGH GEAR TO INVADE LUXEMBOURG
I file the extremely tall, grumpy conservationist under Problems to Deal With Later, right between the leaky faucet in Cabin Six and the fact that we’re down to our last three rolls of industrial toilet paper.
His lecture on the sanctity of the forest was impressive in a theatrical way, but unless he’s hiding a checkbook under that flannel, he doesn’t get a vote in how I keep this lodge running.
The Bigfoot Hotline is staying on. It’s the only thing keeping the bank from taking the porch right out from under my feet.
By noon, the gravel parking lot is no longer an empty stretch of gray.
It has become a tactical staging ground.
Four black SUVs are parked in a jagged line, their roofs packed with enough antennae and satellite dishes to communicate with another galaxy.
A group of men in cargo pants with so many pockets they probably need a map to find their car keys are unloading crates marked with neon-orange tape.
One of them is holding a thermal imaging camera like it’s a holy relic.
I lean against the lobby desk, watching a guy who looks like he’s stepped out of a survivalist catalog struggle with a tripod.
He has a patch on his vest that says Cryptid Response Unit in gold embroidery.
I pick up my ledger, tracing the familiar dent in the cover where my father used to tap his ring.
The ledger tells the only story that matters: ten check-ins today, twelve tomorrow, and a waitlist for the weekend.
The fear of failure, usually a cold weight in the pit of my stomach, is momentarily replaced by the frantic, giddy math of room rates and cleaning fees.
Marge steps into the lobby. “Wren, they’re asking if we have a decontamination shower.
” She’s wearing her apron with the faded floral print, and her hair is pinned back with a ruthlessness that suggests she’s already had words with the toaster.
“I told them we have a communal bathroom with a showerhead that whistles, but that didn’t seem to satisfy the man with the EMF meter. ”
“Tell them it’s part of the authentic wilderness experience, Marge,” I say, not looking up from the ledger. “The whistling is just the forest’s way of saying hello. Did they pay the early check-in fee?”
Marge snorts. “Every cent. The one in the tactical vest tried to pay in crypto, but I told him I only take things that actually exist, like paper money or high-quality chocolate. Walt’s out there now trying to explain that the gravel lot wasn’t designed for vehicles with reinforced blast-plating.”
I finally look up, catching her eye. There’s a frantic energy in the lodge today, a buzz that goes beyond the usual hum of a failing business.
It’s the sound of money, yes, but it’s also the sound of a world I don’t quite recognize encroaching on the one I’m trying to keep alive.
The lines around Marge’s eyes are deeper than they were yesterday morning, but she’s also standing a little taller.
The kitchen is fully stocked for the first time in months.
“We’re going to be fine, Marge,” I say, and I almost believe it. “Just keep the coffee hot. I think these guys are the type to drink it by the gallon while they talk about wood-knocks and solitary males.”
“I’ll make an extra pot,” she says, disappearing back into the kitchen. “But if one more person asks me if I’ve ever seen a ‘hairy giant’ near the dumpster, I’m putting a lock on the pantry.”
The bell on the front door jingles, and a man walks in carrying a Pelican case the size of a small coffin.
He sets it on the rug with a thud that makes the floorboards vibrate.
He has a headlamp and a pair of binoculars that probably cost more than my car around his neck.
He looks at me with the kind of intense, unblinking focus usually reserved for a rare bird sighting.
“Checking in?” I ask, pulling up the reservation screen. “Name?”
“Barnaby Jones,” he says, his voice a low, dramatic rumble. “Lead investigator for the North Cascades Cryptid Initiative. We spoke on the phone about the hotspot near the northern ridge. The one with the reports of the Crocs thief.”
“Ah, yes. The Crocs,” I say, keeping my face perfectly neutral as I slide a waiver across the desk. “Standard liability. If you’re carried off by a legend, the lodge isn’t responsible. Also, please don’t use the EMF meters after ten p.m. They interfere with the birdwatchers in Cabin Four.”
Barnaby signs the paper with a flourish, his eyes darting toward the gift shop. “I see you’re low on plaster-casting kits. I brought my own, of course. Industrial grade. You never know when you’ll find a print in the soft mud near the spring.”
“Good thinking,” I say. I hand him his key—the one for the smallest room, the one with the drafty window—and watch as he hauls his coffin-case toward the stairs.
I wait until he’s out of sight before I exhale slowly.
My marketing instincts are screaming at me to document this, to post a photo of the “investigators” to the hotline’s feed, but there’s a flicker of something else.
A low thrum of unease that I can’t quite name.
I step outside to find Walt currently engaged in a standoff with a man trying to park a literal armored personnel carrier next to the woodpile.
Walt is leaning on his shovel, his face a mask of rural patience.
When he sees me, he tilts his head toward the vehicle, and it tells me everything about the absurdity of our current situation.
“Move him to the overflow lot, Walt. Near the old trailhead. If the ground is soft enough to sink him, that’s on him.”
Walt nods, the movement slow and deliberate, and turns back to the driver. I head to the gift shop. I need to count the HIDE & SEEK WORLD CHAMPION shirts. They’ve been flying off the shelves since the Crocs story went viral, and every shirt sold helps plug a hole.
As I reach the door, I see a figure loitering on the other end of the porch.
It’s the grump. The conservationist. The man who looks like he was carved out of an old cedar tree and then dressed in flannel.
He’s standing perfectly still, watching the chaos of the parking lot with a sneer of disgust as if he just discovered a termite infestation in his living room.
His seven-foot frame casts a shadow that seems to swallow the sunlight.
He hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked. He’s just...
loitering. It’s irritating. It’s also inexplicably strange.
Most people in this lot are moving with a frantic purpose, but he’s a pocket of absolute stillness in the middle of a storm.
I should march over to him and tell him the porch is for guests only, or ask him if he’s lost his way to the hiking trails.
But then I remember our earlier confrontation, remember the vibration of his voice that seemed to be part of the air itself, and the way his eyes didn’t seem to acknowledge the modern world at all.
I file him away again. Another odd local with a grudge against progress.
Opening the door, I step into the gift shop, the smell of cedar and cheap rubber floor mats calming me.
A group of teenagers are huddled around the bin of Bigfoot plushies, debating the merits of the one with the sparkly eyes.
I move past them to the shirt rack. We’re down to an XL, two large, and a single small.
I make a note on my clipboard, my mind already jumping to the next task.
I need to call the supplier, place an order for the shirts and the mugs.
I need to figure out if we can charge the guys with the satellite dishes a “technical equipment” surcharge.
My gaze drifts to the window. The bright sunlight hits the chrome of the SUVs and the tactical gear of the hunters.
From here, it looks like a glimmer of victory.
We’re fully booked. The shop is busy. The bank will leave me alone for another month.
It’s exactly what I wanted when I started that stupid hotline, a digital spark that turned into a financial fire.
But the unease is still there, a cold thread weaving through me.
A man in a ghillie suit walks past the window, looking for all the world like a sentient bush, and for a second, I see the forest behind him.
It looks dark, deep, and entirely too close.
It doesn’t care about room rates or marketing hooks.
Sighing, I look back at my clipboard, at the numbers and the lists and the desperate, necessary math.
I can save the lodge. I have to believe that.
But as the hotline in my pocket pings with another notification, I find myself wondering if I’m the one who started the fire, or if I’m just standing closest to the flames.
The numbers don’t lie, though. If we maintain this occupancy rate through the end of the quarter, I can finally stop dodging the calls from all the debtors.
I can pay Walt and Marge the bonuses they’ve earned a dozen times over for sticking by us when the lodge was a graveyard with a view, and I can keep the Cassidy name on the deed. That’s the mission. The only mission.
I’m halfway through a mental inventory of the pantry when the bell over the gift shop door jingles again.
This time it isn’t a teenager or a man in a tactical vest. It’s Barnaby Jones again, and he looks like he’s just witnessed a miracle.
He’s clutching a handheld device that’s chirping like a caffeinated cricket.
“Miss Cassidy,” he says, his voice hushed and urgent.
“The static energy in the lobby is off the charts. Are you aware that your structural foundation is currently emitting a high-frequency vibration? My readings suggest a localized atmospheric disturbance centered roughly fifty yards north of the main porch.”