by A. J. Vrana
Mason raised both eyebrows. He definitely wasn’t in the city anymore. These rural folks were quite precious, he decided. He dropped the paper in the garbage bin and dusted off his hands. The welcome sign on the door was beckoning him inside.
Barrelling in, he stopped only to absorb the interior décor: floral patterns, lace framing almost every piece of fabric, antique wooden furniture, and a grandfather clock behind a makeshift reception desk crowding the narrow entry hall. The accoutrement added to the charm of the lodgings.
The house was silent save for the ticking of the giant clock. As the hand struck half-past eight and the bell chimed, a woman seemed to float into the room. She looked about fifty, wearing comfortable-looking jeans and a loose, chequered blouse. Her auburn hair was tied up in a messy bun, and she tucked the loose strands behind her ears after freeing her hand from an oven mitt. She flashed Mason a bright, dimpled smile that spread wide across her heavily freckled face.
“Gooood evening!” she greeted cheerily, and a little out of breath. “Welcome to Annabelle’s Bed and Breakfast. I’m Annabelle!”
“Oh—is that what it’s called?” Mason joked, extending a hand, “Mason Evans, a pleasure.”
“That’s right! Apologies for the lack of signs. Bad storm took out the last one.” She squeezed his hand, then opened a three-ringed binder and flipped through the pages. “Mr. Evans, yes? I believe we exchanged a few emails just the other day. You were interested in renting a room on a weekly basis, if I recall?” She glanced up at him for confirmation.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s right,” he replied, wondering if she could smell the city on him.
“Please, call me Annabelle.” She waved him off with a chuckle. “No need for formality here.”
“Right. Sure. Got it.” He paused before continuing, “You mentioned there was no need for a reservation?”
“Yes, that’s right!” she remembered suddenly, shutting the binder before groping around the desk for her glasses. “Well, you’re in luck! It’s slow this time of the year, so you’re the only one around. You can have our best room! Bathroom’s fully loaded with a brand-new toilet and showerhead we just installed, and there’s a memory foam mattress we threw on the bed just last week.” She winked.
“Sounds great, ma’—Annabelle.”
“Oh! And there’s a TV, too. Nothin’ fancy, but it’s got basic cable if you like watching the news. There’s also this nifty little phone cable that you just plug into your laptop for the Internet!”
“A LAN cable?”
“Oh, is that what it’s called?” She smiled with a hint of mischief, returning his jest from earlier.
Mason smiled back, feeling more at ease.
“We’ve also got a laundry room you can use any day except Sunday when I do the linens,” Annabelle gestured down the corridor, then pulled out a brass key attached to a tag with the number four on it. “Let me show you to your room.”
Mason followed her through the entrance hall and up the stairs. The room was larger than he’d expected, with a broad window facing the forest. There was also a connecting bathroom, just as Annabelle had said.
“That reminds me!” She clapped her hands together. “If you’re interested in learning more about the town, my son Mathias had an online blog about this area. He absolutely loved Black Hollow and was an avid photographer. Might be more interesting than visiting one of those dreary tourist centres.”
Loved? Did he not care for the town anymore? Not wanting to be rude, Mason took down the blog’s URL, and the lady of the house left him to his own devices.
He didn’t have much to unpack: enough clothing so that he’d only have to do laundry once a week, toiletries, a novel he’d intended to read for years, his passport, and a laptop. Once everything was where he wanted it, Mason stripped off his belt and the beige khakis it held in place. He’d lost nearly fifteen pounds during his residency, the long hours melting the meat right off his bones. Once an avid frequenter of the varsity gym, his career had demanded more paperwork and fewer squats—a trade he'd happily made. As Mason undid his pinstriped shirt, one of the buttons caught on his hair, making him yelp as he yanked it free. His blonde curls were getting fluffy and in need of a trim. After changing into flannel pants and a t-shirt, he pulled out his laptop and plugged in the LAN cable poking out from behind the bed. To avoid the temptation of checking his email, he instead went straight to Mathias’s blog.
The contents were vast, ranging from articles about the town’s history to ethnographic research Mathias himself had conducted. Some of the posts were critical, while others raised questions about folklore in the study of history. There was plenty of lore on wolves, and several times he referenced a specific legend about a figure known as the Dreamwalker. The whole thing felt very National Geographic. The legend had a long history and held remarkable sway over the villagers’ customs and beliefs. Mason skimmed the posts for some kind of summary of the story but found nothing. He figured the blog was mostly intended for locals—people who already knew this Dreamwalker myth.
However, he discovered that the legend also featured an ancient willow tree nestled somewhere in the forests surrounding Black Hollow—a tree which people claimed could not be found at will. Yet many residents reported having seen the tree when they least expected it. The willow was allegedly the real-life site of the legend, and as proof of its existence, those who did encounter it often took pictures. Somehow, though, its exact location remained a mystery.
At the bottom of the page was a scanned photo of Mathias with his hand resting on the willow’s trunk. Who had taken the picture? Mason surmised this was the willow from the story in question. Was it truly impossible to find at will? The claim struck him as a challenge—perhaps a ploy to give tourists something to do. According to the sources on the blog, the tree was somewhere in the woods near the local farmer’s market. The market itself looked interesting, so it wasn’t difficult for Mason to decide where he would head first.
With his room in order, Mason wandered out to explore Annabelle’s farmhouse. As he traipsed down the stairs, he saw her seated in the living area. She looked up from her book and smiled.
“This is my lounge, as I like to call it. Feel free to come down any time for a chat, or if you just want to hang out.”
It was a decent-sized room with high ceilings and a brass chandelier above a wooden coffee table. There were two leather armchairs and a suede, burgundy couch, and each was adorned with pillows swathed in knitted covers. Separating the living area and the kitchen was a thick brick wall with a fireplace that looked well-worn.
Mason noticed a photo collage mounted on the wall above the hearth. A portrait of a young man in his mid-to-late twenties hung at the top. He had Annabelle’s mischievous eyes, catlike as he smiled. With his reddish-blonde hair, button nose, and fully freckled face, the resemblance to her was striking.
Under the portrait was a collection of pictures. In each, he either posed alone or with Annabelle. In some, he was a child running through a sprinkler or eating cupcakes, and she a young woman—perhaps in her twenties. In one candid shot, he looked to be in his late teens, tinkering with an old Buick and smiling to himself, like he knew the photographer was lurking nearby. He was stout but athletic, like he might have been a starter on his college rugby team. One photo in particular caught Mason’s eye; it was the one from the blog—of Mathias standing next to a magnificent old willow tree with his hand resting on the trunk. His smile was serene, perhaps a little sad, his muscular body visibly thinner and his face gaunt and pale.
“Your son?” Mason asked, engrossed in the little shrine.
“Yes, my son, Mathias,” she said quietly. “He was a good kid. Grew up to be a wonderful man.”
“Where is he now?”
Annabelle’s shoulders dropped. “He passed away several months ago. A long battle with leukaemia. He struggled with it for nearly eight years, since his university days.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,
” Mason fumbled. His face was hot with embarrassment, but underneath his flustered exterior, he felt chilled to the bone. Was this a cosmic joke? Amanda had been nineteen years old, in her second year of university. After losing nearly twenty pounds and visiting clinics for a series of unusual infections, weeks of fatigue, and unexplainable bruises, she was brought into the hospital for testing. It was Mason who had diagnosed her with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia, and the prognosis was poor, just as it must have been for Annabelle’s son.
But there were so many people with cancer. Statistically, this was nothing to be surprised about. He tried imagining how the doctors might have broken the news to Annabelle and how she might have coped. Mason remembered Amanda’s parents tumbling through four of the five stages of grief during her treatment: denial, anger, bargaining, then back to denial before the depression set in. He wasn’t sure if they ever reached the final stage: acceptance. He certainly hadn’t.
“Do you have any help here?” Mason quickly changed the topic, banishing the memory of Amanda’s lifeless face.
Annabelle shook her head. “I’m afraid not since Mathias. It’s always been just the two of us. Still in the habit of saying we, even though he’s gone. This whole business was his idea, really.”
Mason’s heart sank. How could life take a good son from his mother? Especially when he was the only one she had. Mason didn’t know what to say, so he just stared at the photos, trying to keep himself together.
The relief he’d felt running from Amanda’s death faded as doubts tugged at the corners of his mind. How long would it be before his family started to worry? Would he really be okay to go back to work after six months?
You don’t have a choice, something in him chastised. You haven’t come this far for nothing.
He bit down on his resolve and swept away the doubts; there could be no failure. Staring down Mathias and the willow tree, Mason seared the image into his mind. Soon, he would be his old self again. Whether it was overcoming grief or debunking small-town superstitions, there was no problem Mason Evans couldn’t solve, no mystery he couldn’t unravel. And tomorrow, he was starting with that willow.
4
Clustered around the main road of Black Hollow were boutique shops, pubs, indie cafés, and independent grocers. Thick-chimneyed Edwardian homes, a quaint Anglican church with white-rimmed windows and a pointed black roof, and a red-brick firehouse flaunting a giant brass bell framed the central square. More recent buildings peppered the sidewalks, but nothing past the 1970s, with painted wooden panels and large, colourful signs that exuded quintessential country flare. It was all quite charming, with large maple trees lining both sides of the tarmac and open patios accompanying the eateries.
Upon arriving at the farmer’s market, Mason was astonished to see how crowded it was. Lines of vendors selling fresh produce, antiques, artwork, and handmade crafts were spread across a large, open field bordered by endless forest. Mason resolved to take his time and examine every trinket, but something tugged at him. He wanted to know more about the mythology he’d read. This was his chance to ask about the infamous willow. He stopped by an empty stall and pulled out his map from the large pocket in his beige khakis.
“Excuse me,” he unfolded the glossy sheet, “I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find your famous willow tree.”
“The what?” the vendor barked, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing Mason up and down.
“I...I heard this town is known for an ancient willow. I was wondering if you might know where it is?”
“No idea what you’re talking about, kid.” The vendor waved him off.
Mason withdrew from the table, the map still resting in his palm. Wasn’t this supposed to be the town’s selling point? The stuff that drew in tourists? But this pattern continued. No matter who he asked, the answer was always the same. No one knew where the tree was. Mason wondered if they were lying, which dispelled his earlier notion that the willow was a ploy. On the contrary, the townsfolk appeared rather protective of something.
“Shush,” he heard a woman whisper to her nagging teenage daughter. They exchanged a foreboding glance, and the girl quickly backed down. Their secrecy spurred his curiosity, and the rationalist in him burned for an explanation.
As he made his way across the market, he noticed a playground at the edge of the woods where a girl sat alone on the swing. She looked about twenty with warm, olive skin and dark, ash-brown hair flowing past her collar bone. She stretched her long, coltish legs and fixed her eyes on him, her expression mostly bored save for a spark of inquisitiveness that shone through even at a distance. He wondered if she recognized him but knew that wasn’t possible. He’d only been in Black Hollow for a day.
As Mason strained to get a closer look, he collided with another shopper. Several potatoes cascaded to the ground.
“I-I’m so sorry,” Mason stuttered as the shopper grunted, clearly annoyed. Scrambling to pick up the loose produce, he forgot all about the spectre on the swing, his heartache taking a back seat as embarrassment took the wheel.
He returned the potatoes and scuttled to the nearest vendor, drawn in by the sprawling white doily draped over a large oak table with filigreed corners and smooth curves carved into its aging legs. Mason poked around the stall, inspecting the wares: crystals, amulets made of bronze and amber, wooden carvings, and a large, purple, iridescent rock shaped like a fang. Speckles of gold and meadow-green bled into the purply hues as tiny black veins streaked across the stone’s surface. Never having seen anything like it, he lingered on the shimmering gem, holding it up to the sunlight and tilting it left and right, admiring the deep violet and emerald lustre.
“That’s a labradorite,” the vendor said, watching Mason play with the stone. “Beautiful piece, ain’t she?”
“She?” Mason lowered the rock and looked at the seller, a tubby, middle-aged man with a hand-carved pipe and a Russian ushanka on his head.
“That’s right, she,” he nodded, chewing on the end of the pipe. “All labradorites are women—sorceresses and shamans.”
Mason’s eyebrows shot up, his mouth twisting. “It’s a rock,” he tried to suppress a laugh, but the vendor burst into a pirate-like cackle in his stead.
“It’s also a metaphor,” he shot back. “They call it the dream stone. Separates the waking world from…hidden realms.”
Mason believed in only one realm: the one called reality. It was an objective, physical fact. Only people’s personal perceptions made things murky. He turned the rock over in his hand. When it didn’t catch the light, it looked pale and grey. “Any relation to the Dreamwalker?”
The vendor’s face darkened, his teeth clamping around the edge of his pipe as he regarded Mason. “Tell you what. I’ll give it to you for a special price. Fifteen bucks. And if you’re lucky, you may just find out yourself.”
In other words, the answer was yes. Mason frowned, but this was more than he’d pulled out of anyone else. Nodding, he dug through his back pocket and paid the man.
“She liked labradorites,” the vendor remarked just as Mason turned to leave with his rock. “Helped her find her way.” His lips pulled back and revealed a wide, toothy smile. Sliding the pipe from his mouth, he tapped it against a stone ashtray on the table—once, twice, and finally a third time. The chimes hung in the air, stark against the noise of the bustling market.
Helped her find her way? The heck was that supposed to mean? Mason smiled in acknowledgement and turned away, eyeing the rock in his palm and angling it so he could admire the fiery gleam.
“Ah, a detective.”
The raspy whisper came from behind, so close Mason could feel the breath against his neck. He spun around, only to find a man who looked to be in his seventies with slicked, silvery-black hair and pallid skin. Oddly, he was nowhere close enough to have breathed down Mason’s neck. Standing several feet away, he held a rigid posture, yet his shoulders hunched forward. He canted his head to one side, and it appeared to lis
t as though he was jointed only at the neck.
“A detective,” the man repeated in a flat voice. His eyes were eerily pale, set so deep in his skull they almost appeared to glow. Short in stature, he was lanky with long, slender fingers.
“Excuse me?”
The man didn’t respond, his lips drawing back.
“Sir?” Unnerved, Mason stepped to the right, checking to see if the old man’s eyes would follow.
His pupils flared. “I see you,” he intoned in a raucous voice.
“T-that’s good, sir,” Mason stammered, thumbing the labradorite in his fist.
“I know what you seek, detective.”
“You know what I’m looking for?” asked Mason.
“That which finds but cannot be found,” the man rasped under his breath, a faint gurgling accompanying the words like there was something stuck in his throat. “I can take you to it.”
Although his response was arcane, Mason was certain he was referring to the willow. He was tempted to take the bait, but his rational mind screamed that this man was mentally ill and would only lead him in circles. Mason smiled politely and shook his head. “I’m fine, thank you.”
The old man’s grin didn’t falter. He pointed a bony finger at Mason’s hand closed around the dream stone. “Come when you have the courage to seek the way.”
The stone hummed to life against Mason’s palm. Clenching his fist tighter, he watched as the old man walked towards the forest.
Only when the trees swallowed him up did the stone go still in Mason’s grip.
5
Miya
During the day, it was difficult to believe this was where the missing girls reappeared. Miya could see the entire market from her place on the swing, watching people flood from one stall to the next. One guy in particular screamed tourist with a lost city-boy look to him. She could tell he was searching for something but wasn’t having any luck. As he turned to leave a disgruntled vendor, he noticed her and stared back across the field, ogling until he collided with someone carrying a basket of potatoes. His previous swagger shattered as a few of the spuds toppled out and rolled off. Miya watched, amused, as he chased them down and was swallowed up by the crowd.
