Vika inhaled a whiff of sulfur and sharp charcoal. Ben was crouched over the tangled roots in the orchard, oblivious, running his hands over them as if he were looking for a secret compartment.
“Didn’t you hear that?” Vika said, trying not to be irritated.
Ben looked up. “What? Hear what?”
Vika touched the moss again, but it was quiet. “Something happened here. Something violent. I heard a scream and a gunshot when I touched the tree. I think it was a death echo.”
Ben’s brow furrowed, his gray eyes piercing. “Are you sure?”
“I know what death sounds like,” Vika replied flatly.
“Of course,” Ben said quickly. “I only meant… Wow. That would make sense. If someone died violently here, it could be tied to Dahlia, which would explain why she’s afraid.”
When Vika didn’t respond, he continued, “especially if it happened here, at a wyrd knot, where time is all tangled up. That moment could push through… especially if the knot is weakening.” Ben studied the knot. “There’s definitely a binding spell here. See right here?”
He pointed to an empty spot near the tangle of roots. Vika focused, trying to see the threads, but that’s all she saw. Threads, tangled and woven, but nothing that looked like a spell. It made her wonder again what Ben was hiding. He wasn’t just a bar owner. There was something older about him, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
She wasn’t exactly giving him her life story either, but it was curious. Pushing that thought away, her gaze flicked from the bright purple violets to the people taking selfies in the orchard.
“We need to find out what happened here,” Vika said. “The real story. Not whatever those two are selling on t-shirts.”
“Agreed. Let’s get out of here,” Ben said, standing up and wiping his hands on his pants. “I want to check something. The land records. Who owned this property before the Carsons?”
“I thought the Carsons were the original owners?”
“That’s what everyone thinks. But if Dahlia’s last name was Vale...” He trailed off, already pulling something up on his phone.
“Maybe Eileen can find something,” Vika said. “Come on, Millie.”
Millie made a sound that oddly resembled “harumph” as she got to her feet.
Later that night, Vika went back to the orchard. While she agreed it was important to learn its history, if Dahlia didn’t trust her, they wouldn’t get anywhere. For that, she needed to come alone. Well, not completely alone. She brought Millie because those basset hound eyes could break through anyone’s defenses.
Her boots crunched on the gravel path cutting between rows of apple trees. It was a still, clear night, and silver moonlight dripped between the branches. But the air hung heavy. Vika spread a blanket under the oak tree in the clearing near the wyrd knot and sat down. Millie cocked her head, turned three times, and flopped down next to her, taking up most of the blanket.
“Dahlia,” Vika said softly. “I came to sit with you. I’m not here to take you anywhere. Please talk to me.”
Nothing.
The air stirred. Vika pulled her jacket tighter, settling herself on the blanket. If Dahlia was stubborn, she needed to know that Vika could be even more so. She couldn’t ignore Vika forever.
Soon, Millie was fast asleep, snoring softly. The quiet thickened, sending an icy chill up Vika’s neck. She was being watched.
“Dahlia,” she said gently. “I know you’re there. Let’s talk.”
The ghost appeared, peeking out from behind a tree, close enough but not too close. Her pale hands were splayed across the tree bark, and her dark eyes were wide, watching Vika.
“I saw a picture today of you and Misha,” Vika said. “You looked happy. Help me understand what happened.”
Pain flickered across Dahlia’s face, but she didn’t speak.
“If you won’t tell me, show me.” Vika held out her hands.
Dahlia stilled, but she didn’t come closer. Her eyes flicked to the tangled roots of the wyrd knot and back to Vika.
Not wanting to spook her with sudden movement, Vika slowly stood. Dahlia flinched, like she was about to run.
Vika hesitated and placed her hands on the knot. Instantly, the acrid smell of gunpowder filled her senses.
Torches bounced on the horizon, coming closer.
Shouts. “Witch.”
Fear.
The pounding of footsteps. Misha running away. Winged creatures circling. Keres. A bang of a gun firing. Vika yanked her hand away.
The dark shadows overhead bled into a clear sky as the current time slid back into place.
Dahlia was gone.
Someone giggled, and Vika caught a flash of white between rows of trees. Thinking it was Dahlia, Vika moved to investigate. Millie growled low. Instinctively, Vika reached down to reassure her.
Three teenagers darted between the trees, their faces lit by the glow of their phones. One wore a long makeshift veil, cheap tulle from a craft store, and pale makeup with black around her eyes.
“Did you guys see that?” a young teenage girl asked. “I swore I saw a man with a lantern. Just over there. But now he’s gone.”
“There’s nothing there. This is so stupid,” a tall boy in a blue hoodie said. No jacket.
“It’s not stupid. It’s content,” the girl in the veil said. She leaned dramatically against a tree trunk. “Okay. How’s this? Do I look like a ghost bride?”
The third teenager, a girl with dark hair falling out of a messy bun, sighed heavily. “This is super disrespectful. I’ve heard this ghost has given people heart attacks. That she squeezes your chest until you can’t breathe.”
“There’s no ghost, Lexi. It’s just a dumb story the owners made up to sell cider,” the girl in the veil said.
Vika stayed in the shadows, debating whether to intervene or just wait for them to get their footage and go. Millie whined, her hackles raised.
The temperature plummeted.
“Did you guys feel that?” Lexi’s voice came out in shaky, cloudy puffs. “We should get out of here.”
“I don’t know about this,” the boy said, lowering his phone.
The girl in the veil spun around. “Keep filming. This is perfect. Super creepy.” She glided through the trees, arms outstretched, the veil billowing.
Dahlia appeared, her jaw clenched as if she were fighting to hold back words.
It was time for these kids to go. Vika stepped forward. “All right. You all are trespassing, and you need to leave.”
The girl in the veil spun around. “Who are you?”
“I’m the one telling you it’s time to leave,” Vika snarled.
“If you’re here, you must be trespassing too.” The girl turned to the boy. “Film me by the flowering tree, the one everyone’s talking about.”
Vika’s hands clenched into fists as the kids pushed past her toward where her blanket was still spread under the oak.
“No,” Dahlia whispered. “No, no, no.”
At the knot, the roots under Vika’s feet vibrated with an unsettling energy. Vika had the fleeting thought that she wished Ben were here. He would probably have a spell or some explanation that these kids would listen to.
Branches rattled as the girl with the veil tried to climb the blossoming apple tree, but the branches were too thin to get very high. She balanced precariously between them.
“Hurry up, take the picture,” she ordered before striking an awkward pose.
A frigid breeze rattled the branches. Shadows lengthened and twisted, reaching out like fingers. The voice came out in a chorus from all around them as if on the breeze.
“Witch.”
One of the girls screamed.
“Dahlia, stop it,” Vika hissed, but she knew it wasn’t Dahlia.
“Come on.” The boy tried to help his friend out of the tree, but the tulle was caught on a branch. He worked it free, and she jumped into his arms.
A loud crack overhead, like the sound of bone shattering, echoed through the orchard. The kids froze. Millie barked a sharp warning as a branch from the top of the oak tree broke free, crashing toward the three teenagers below.
Vika lunged forward, shoving the boy and the veiled girl out of the way, just as the branch hit the ground.
Wide-eyed and terrified, the kids stared at her for a moment before they ran. The white tulle veil snagged on branches before the girl tore it from her head and left it behind. For a moment, Vika wondered if they were still filming.
The shadows had retreated, but the air still held a charge. Millie stood protectively in front of Vika, her eyes with just a hint of the red glow that indicated she was close to changing into her hellhound form.
“It’s all right, Millie. I’m fine. See?” Vika bent down so her face was near Millie’s. An angry hellhound was the last thing this orchard needed. Vika petted Millie’s head until her tail thumped on the ground and her eyes were back to their normal rich amber color.
“Dahlia,” Vika called. “Explain yourself. What is happening here?”
The ghost flickered near the fallen branch, but she wasn’t paying attention to Vika. She was looking in the direction the kids had fled.
“They’re fine,” Vika said. “Please. Tell me what’s happening. Please.”
Dahlia’s head snapped to Vika, as if remembering she was there. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened, but she turned and drifted into the forest.
“Wait.” Vika followed, weaving a path through the trees with Millie at her heels.
Dahlia kept moving, once looking back to check if Vika was there, but also careful to keep her distance.
Vika stopped trying to talk to her and followed. They moved through the length of the orchard until Dahlia paused beside a small, scraggly tree. She looked back and then disappeared.
Vika darted forward, but it was too late. The ghost was gone.
This was an older part of the orchard, wilder, less manicured. In the silver moonlight, metal glinted. Vika moved closer, stepping through overgrown brambles to where broken fence rails slumped in the tangle of plants. An iron nail stuck out of a broken fence post. Around it was a carving that matched the symbol they’d seen in the apple blossoms. The boundary marker.