Chapter 1 - Signal on the wind

Date: August 3rd – Time: 6:42 AM

The Appalachian Mountains are ancient, older than bones, older than trees, older even than the continents themselves. It takes a certain kind of person to live in these mountains. The kind who knows how the forest speaks, and how to answer when the time is right.

The mountains hold their own terrors. Creatures that outsiders have never seen and never will. The kind of monsters only Appalachian folk know.

Haints.

Spooks.

Wraiths.

They go by many names and come in many shapes and sizes. But one thing is certain: they don’t care for humans.

Not. One. Bit.

That’s not to say they’re evil. Haints are just that: haints. They’ve never been human. They don’t understand human morality. They see themselves as something else entirely. God’s other children.

And witches aren’t exactly what folks think either, especially not the Appalachian kind. Appalachian witches blend old-world magic, new-world mysticism, and modern technology in their craft. It’s not as powerful as the old ways, since belief makes a difference, but it still gets the job done.

Or at least, that’s what Tara’s grandma used to say.

Tara and Micah had grown up on the mountain, raised by their grandma and grandpa, who taught them the ways of the hill folk. They taught them how to live off the land, respect it, and give back so it would keep giving in return. As Granny Hale always said, “You can live and die on these mountains and never have to leave ’em.”

This morning was as much about survival as it was tradition. Fog lay thick as a wool blanket over the treetops. Tara looked up toward the hidden ridgeline and sighed.

Give us this day, our daily bread.

She struck a match, and the sharp scent of sulfur cut the damp morning air. She touched the match to the bundle of sage she’d pulled from her trunk and blew softly until smoke curled from its tip. Holding the smoldering sage, she began to circle the small stone altar in the clearing above the house, murmuring her morning prayer.

Keep the haints away, keep the debt collectors away, and keep the hunger away.

The modern-day millennial prayer.

Keep the ghosts of my past away.

Keep the creditors off my back.

And keep food in our bellies.

THUNK!

“Ugh…”

THUNK!

“MICAH!” Tara shouted, blowing out the sage and tucking the bundle back into her trunk.

“What?”

“It’s not even seven in the morning! Why are you chopping wood?”

THUNK!

“Because unlike you, someone’s gotta do the work to keep the stove burnin’.”

Beau looked up from the notebook he’d been scribbling in on the porch, just far enough away from the noise. “Hey, I work.”

THUNK!

Micah brought the axe down hard on the log balanced atop the old hardwood stump. That stump had been there as long as he could remember, and his grandpa Ezekiel, or Pappi, had split wood on it for decades. Micah looked up at his friend and shook his head.

“You used to work,” he said, bringing the axe down again.

THUNK!

“I still get paid. I’m on vacation.” Beau grinned.

“You sure about that? From what I’ve been hearing, society’s meltin’ down. That’s why you’re up here with us.”

THUNK!

“Can you please stop with the wood chopping?” Tara asked as she carried her small trunk back from the altar space.

“Morning, Tara. How are the fae folk?” Beau teased, grinning over the edge of his notebook.

“Morning, Beau. The fae are fine. Micah, the chopping—”

THUNK!

“Ugh!”

Micah laughed as Tara let out a frustrated grunt.

“Why don’t you ever wear shoes out there, Tar?” Beau asked as she climbed the porch steps toward him. Her muddy footprints tracked up the weathered boards and across the porch until she reached the old mat just outside the door. There, she dipped a ladle into a bucket of water and rinsed the mud from her feet before stepping inside.

“It grounds me,” she said, matter-of-fact. “The longer your bare feet stay in contact with the earth, the better the ions flow. Good ones in, bad ones out.”

Micah mock-snored loudly behind her as she explained.

“You should try it, Micah. Might keep your ass from having so many fucking nightmares,” she shot back as she disappeared inside.

“My nightmares are because I went to Ass-cracka-stan, thank you very fucking much!” Micah barked, slamming the axe head into another log with extra force.

Beau laughed, watching as Micah struggled to free the axe from the log. “I think we only have…” He flipped a page in his notebook and scanned it briefly. “Maybe two weeks of food left? We might need to head into town for some supplies.”

“Nobody who’s sane is going into Brevard right now,” Tara said as she stepped back out of the house with her golden retriever, Roxy, trotting close behind. “Not with the roads full of restless spirits and all the craziness going on.”

“Did your witchy smoke tell you that?” Micah teased, finally wrenching the axe free. “Or have you actually been listening to the radio again?”

“Ha ha. Laugh all you want, Micah. But if the haints come knockin’, don’t come beggin’ me for salt or iron. The trees are too quiet, and the air’s all wrong today,” she warned, scooping dog food into a metal bowl and setting it down. Roxy dove in without hesitation.

“What exactly is a haint again, hon?” Beau asked, his curiosity sincere.

“A haint is a restless spirit,” Tara said, easing down into the wooden rocking chair and gently running her fingers through Roxy’s coat as the dog ate. “Something with unfinished business, or tied to tragedy or injustice. Or maybe just one of the old mountain spirits. Depends who you ask.”

“So… a ghost?” Beau offered.

“Yeah, something like that,” Tara agreed, letting him draw his own conclusion. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was close enough for a man from Charlotte.

“Hmm—” The sound came more from Beau’s throat than his mouth, a noise of thought, not words.

Beau was a journalist with the Charlotte Observer. He’d gone to school with Tara and Micah, raised up as “one of their own.” After high school, Micah had joined the Army. Tara went off to nursing school, got married, got divorced, flunked out, and came back home. Beau headed to college in Charlotte, interned at the Observer, landed a full-time gig after graduation, and quickly made a name for himself. He never really looked back until now.

With everything going on, from the riots that tore through Charlotte to the chaos that left the city nearly abandoned, Beau came home.

He still technically had a job, but payday had come and gone over a week ago. So… did he really still have a job? Or had the Observer folded like the city it covered? Beau chose not to dwell on that just yet.

He rose from the porch swing where he’d been sitting for the better part of half an hour, crossed to the table near the door, and flicked on the old general-coverage ham radio the trio kept there. The dial buzzed to life with a warm hum, and soon the familiar crackle of WSQL spilled through the speaker.

“Transylvania County Sheriff’s Office confirms that Route 276 near Looking Glass Falls remains closed this morning due to what they’re callin’ an ‘infrastructure disturbance.’ Officials won’t say more, but local hikers are urged to avoid unmarked trails and report any unusual wildlife behavior. That includes—you guessed it—those damn screech owls that’ve been active all night again.”

“In other news, we’re still waitin’ on clarification from emergency management about those late-night fire reports near Balsam Grove. Residents say they saw ‘silent lightning’ and columns of smoke, but no responders were dispatched. When asked for comment, Brevard Fire simply said, quote: ‘We’re stretched thin. Use common sense.’

“Finally, we’ve had another report of pets goin’ missing overnight. This time from the Little River area. That makes six since last Thursday. No signs of struggle. Fences undisturbed.

“One caller, Miss Delia Crank from up on East Fork, said she woke up to find all her wind chimes tangled in a perfect circle, and her front steps coated in red clay. She lives on a gravel ridge, so… you tell me.

“As always, if you see somethin’, say somethin’. And if you hear whisperin’ in the woods, well... best keep to the porch tonight.”

Micah huffed at the broadcast. “Same crap as always. Crisis keeps the system running. It’s all propaganda. I don’t know why y’all listen to that noise.” He brought the axe down hard- THUNK- splitting another log cleanly.

“It’s good to keep your ear to the ground,” Tara said, shooting Beau a knowing look. “Ain’t that right, Beau?”

“It’s better than listening to you two argue.” He laughed and gave Tara a playful nudge. “I’m gonna start breakfast. What do y’all want?”

“Shhh!” Tara hissed suddenly.

Roxy’s ears perked up. The hair on her haunches bristled.

A low moan drifted through the fog-laced air, not close but not far enough away to ignore. Beau and Micah froze, instinctively turning their eyes down the valley. Tara reached for the stone pendant that hung around her neck, fingers wrapping tight.

“That ain’t thunder…” she whispered.

“There shouldn’t be anyone down there,” Beau said quietly. “Brevard’s ten miles off.”

Micah didn’t hesitate. He disappeared into the house and returned moments later with his scoped Remington .30-30, the same rifle he used during deer season. He stepped beside Beau, scanning the valley below.

Without a word, Micah turned to the nearby radio, flipped a switch, and began scanning the ham frequencies. Static bled through the speaker, broken by bursts of faint noise until a voice cut through.

“Alpha collapse confirmed. Civilian harvest in progress. Citadel designation: incomplete. Repeat—Alpha collapse…”

Then the voice cut out. Static reclaimed the channel as the moan from the valley faded along with it.

The trio stared at one another, brows furrowed.

“Alpha collapse? Civilian harvest?” Beau asked, voice low.

Micah slung the rifle over his shoulder and spat into the dirt. “Let’s get breakfast going. I’ll keep watch.”

As Micah settled into the chair Tara had been using, she and Beau quietly stepped inside to start breakfast.