4. Wren #2
I look at the chirping device, then back at his earnest, sweat-beaded face. “That would be the old generator, Mr. Jones. It’s been localized and disturbed since the nineties. If the vibration gets too loud, just give it a kick. It’s a very temperamental piece of equipment.”
His brow furrows as he tries to reconcile ancient machinery with cryptid presence. “The generator? Are you sure? Because the cadence of the pulse is remarkably similar to the infrasound vocalizations documented in the 1974 Patterson-Gimlin audio analysis.”
“I’m reasonably certain,” I say, guiding him back toward the door.
“But if you find any physical evidence that the generator is a misunderstood primate, please let me know. I’d love to see the footage.
In the meantime, complimentary cider is being served in the common room.
It’s locally sourced and entirely free of vibrations. ”
He wanders off, still staring at his screen, and I take the opportunity to slip back outside. I need a moment of air that doesn’t smell like desperation and cargo shorts. Steering clear of the main entrance, I head toward the side stairs where the woodpile creates a small, quiet alcove.
The grump is still there. He hasn’t moved an inch from his spot at the end of the porch.
Up close, the sheer scale of him is even more daunting.
He’s wearing a heavy work shirt that’s seen better days, and his hands, resting on the railing, are scarred and stained with what looks like pine resin.
He looks like he’s standing guard over a crime scene.
I stop a few feet away, leaning my hip against the railing. I should be professional and welcoming. Instead, I find myself mirroring his expression of distaste. “You’re still here. I thought I told you the lodge wasn’t looking for more conservation advice.”
He doesn’t turn his head. His profile is sharp, his jawline beneath his beard looking like it was hacked out of the same mountain he’s so protective of.
“You’re inviting a plague of locusts and calling it a harvest,” he says.
His voice is that same low, resonant rumble, a sound that seems to bypass my ears and go straight to my ribcage.
“Do you have any idea what these people are doing to the soil? To the silence?”
“They’re paying the bills,” I snap, defensiveness surging through me before I can check it.
“Soil doesn’t pay taxes, and silence doesn’t keep the roof from collapsing.
I’m doing what I have to do to keep this place standing.
My grandfather and his father before him didn’t spend years building this lodge just so it could be reclaimed by the brush because I was too pure to use a marketing gimmick. ”
Finally, he turns. His eyes are a strange, deep amber-brown, and for a second, I feel a weird sliding sensation, like my brain can’t quite hold onto the image of him.
He’s too big, too still, too... much. “Your grandfather understood that there are things in this forest that cannot be bought or sold,” he says.
“He knew that some doors, once opened, cannot be closed with a ledger.”
“Well, my grandfather isn’t here,” I say, my voice trembling slightly. “I am. And I’m the one who has to explain to the bank why the Cassidy Lodge is still a viable business. So unless you’re here to help me fold brochures or park a tank, I really don’t have time for the cryptic warnings.”
He looks at me for a long beat, his expression unreadable.
There’s no anger in it, which is somehow worse than if he’d shouted.
There’s just a profound pity in his eyes.
It makes me feel small, and I despise feeling small.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to be the biggest person in the room just to survive.
“The mountain doesn’t care about your ledger, Wren Cassidy,” he says. He uses my name like he’s known it for a hundred years, even though I’m certain we’ve never met. “But it will care about the noise. And when the mountain answers, it won’t be in currency you can spend.”
He steps off the porch, his boots making a sound on the gravel that is somehow heavier and more definitive than the armored personnel carrier.
He doesn’t look back as he walks toward the tree line, his tall frame disappearing into the shadows of the cedars with a fluidity that shouldn’t be possible for a man of his size.
One moment he’s a looming presence of flannel and judgment, the next, he’s just... gone.
I stand there for a long time, the sun hot on my neck, watching the spot where he vanished.
The parking lot is still a circus with Barnaby shouting about a thermal spike near the dumpsters, and Walt trying to negotiate the turning radius of a vehicle designed for a war zone.
The world is loud and chaotic. And through the chaos, I see the profits.
I pull the hotline phone out of my pocket when it vibrates. Someone has sent a blurry photo of a large, bipedal figure near the northern ridge—probably the grump himself, caught in some tourist’s lens. I should be thrilled about the engagement, since it’s the fuel that keeps the fire burning.
I stare out at the forest. The trees are a deep, impenetrable green, standing in silent defiance of the ring lights and the EMF meters.
For the first time since I launched the hotline, the victory feels hollow.
The money is real, the survival is real, but the air feels thin, as if I’ve sucked all the oxygen out of the valley to feed the flame.
I tuck the phone back into my pocket, the cold thread of unease tightening into a knot.
I’m saving the lodge, one ridiculous guest at a time.
But as I head back inside to deal with the man who wants a refund because the “energy” in his room is too purple, I can’t shake the feeling that the grump was right.
Some doors don’t have locks, and I think I just kicked mine wide open.