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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07. || someone new.
Finley watched through the window above the old apron sink as River knelt at the fire, strategically arranging the logs within. Alongside the crumbling stones of the pit, they'd stacked a half-dozen pine rounds—more than enough wood to keep the cabin warm tonight if Finley could figure out a way to sneak it inside instead. As silly as it would seem, she didn't want River to see how ill-prepared she was because she already knew they'd offer to help. And getting help always led to questions. And there was still the dress to tend to inside.
But ever since Finley had slithered out of its lace scales and into the arms of River's flannel, her mind had settled some and she got to thinking maybe it wasn't smart to burn your only clothes, even if they did reek of gasoline, stained with mud-that-wasn't-mud. She'd have to return River's flannel at some point and that cursed dress would have to get put back on.
Closing the kitchen cabinet, she set a pair of pink Depression-ware cordials down on the counter. Their cut crystal edges were chipped and their floral etchings worn smooth after nearly a century of usage. Not so much from drinking, but they held the perfect amount of ice cream according to Gram. Outside, River huddled close to the fire, holding their palms out to its flame. They must be cold, seeing as they had stumbled onto the patio without their suede fringed jacket, no coyote hooded cowl. So Finley hurried to the bedroom and dusted the seeds from the woolen blanket, draped it over her arm, and grabbed the glasses from the counter.
But really, River was just double checking that the blood beneath their fingernails had rinsed clean in the stream and any remaining brain yolk stains on their hunter green flannel had dried to an ambiguous brown that probably just looked like old car grease. It even had a little sheen to it in the fire's glare so who would know the difference? Likely not some strange woman who showed up out of nowhere.
Finley tried to step out onto the porch quietly, but the heels of her boots clicked across the floorboards and down the steps like the hooves of a timid doe crossing a blacktop road.
River's head tipped at the sound, but they didn't turn around. "The strangest thing just happened to me," they murmured as they dusted their hands off and stood up from the fire. "I was walkin' over to a line of trees that I've started to clear out, and as I grabbed my axe, I coulda sworn I heard a voice."
"A voice?" Finley laid the blanket over the back of her wooden chair and took a few steps closer to River. A breeze from over the hill carried that same smell of rot that had plagued her earlier, but she just bit her lip and told herself it was all in her head. Delusions and hallucinations were all to be expected. Her foot had healed months ago, hadn't it? And if the mud-that-wasn't-mud wasn't her own, well, it'd still be too soon for a dead body to be smelling.
A voice though, that could be a problem.
With a smirk, River finally pulled their eyes from the edge of the woods. "Now Boots, you didn't have to dust off the fancy crystal for a backwoods lush like me." Picking up the mason jar, River twisted off the lid and poured out a couple ounces of moonshine as Finley held the glasses.
