A genderqueer hillbilly and a haunted woman must break a generational curse that has entwined their lives in the abandoned coal-stripped mountains of the Pennsylvania Wilds.
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Desperate to flee a dark past, Finley drives off a cliff and prays to...
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04. || as it was.
River would never admit that the lynx had clawed his way under their skin, but they buttoned and unbuttoned four flannels before finally settling on one that was hunter green. They tucked the front shirttails into a pair of umber trousers with worn out knees, then buckled a leather belt around their hips; its design hand-beaded by an Onödowága woman from the Rez just north a piece, and the leather tooled by River themself. For safety's sake, they left their hunting belt and hatchet hanging in the bedroom corner with the rifle. The bone-handle knife in the pocket of their jacket would do just fine in a pinch.
There was no specific plan for tonight, but River preferred it that way. As always, the only goal was to uphold their end of the bargain. And being that the moon was full, the demon was hankering for something far tastier than the occasional pine squirrel that scampered across her branches.
But the Ghost Cat's warning about the gas company weighed heavy on River's mind, along with, yes, the comment about not remembering how to talk to a woman 'cause sure, it'd been awhile. So River swept their hair back as neatly as they could and tied half into a bun. If luck would have it, they'd be able to kill both them birds with one stone tonight.
As River drove down the dirt road, they slowed when the strange woman's cabin came into view. In the daylight, you'd only know it was there if you already knew it was there with the way it blended in with the pines. And at night, it just seemed like empty black space, a hole through the trees. But for the first time in a good many years, amber light glowed through the windows and River could see right inside.
They knew they should keep their foot to the pedal and not rubberneck, but they did anyway 'cause there was something about that woman that rubbed them some kinda way. It wasn't a particularly bad feeling, though not quite good, just... familiar. Which is why River insisted on continuing to refer to her as the strange woman to quash any of those kinda thoughts from their head.
There was a stir of movement inside the cabin as the woman dragged an old tin wash tub over to the wood burning stove. Huddling close, she reached back to unbutton her dress and River knew then it was past time to go. Their foot hit the gas a little too hard, kicking up mud and gravel and surely the woman heard it, but River didn't take their eyes off the dirt road 'til they were twenty minutes down the mountain, turning onto Triple 6 and into town.
The Deer Jaw was the kind of mountain-town tavern where no one looks up when you walk in, but everyone notices you all the same. Local folks filled most of the seats at the bar while the crystalline voice of Emmylou Harris crooned through the speakers, singing how the bottle let her down, offset by the crack of billiards along the back.
River shrugged out of their dark suede jacket and draped it over their usual stool in the corner. But before they could take a seat, an Old Fashioned slid across the maple bar-top in front of them; its ice clinked softly against the glass.
