07/05/2025
New excerpt from my currently untitled book.
Happy reading
The plane jolted slightly, and she closed the book, fingers resting over its worn cover. Something heavy and nameless had begun to settle over her shoulders.
By the time she landed in Medford, it was afternoon. Gray mist crept down from the hills like a tide, curling around pine limbs and roadside signs. Marin rented a nondescript SUV and plugged the cabinâs address into her phone. The drive took her northwest, away from the urban edges, into terrain that grew steadily wilder and more indifferent to time.
She rolled down her window. The air smelled like damp earth and woodsmoke. Occasionally, the trees opened up to reveal meadows stitched with blackberry vines or long-abandoned sheds slowly surrendering to moss.
A hand-painted sign welcomed her into Alder Hollow.
It wasnât much of a townâjust a bend in the highway with a general store, a diner, and what looked like an old library built of river stone. A mural above the post office caught her eye: a procession of stylized animals ringed around a stone circle. Their bodies were painted in warm ochres and soft greens, each animal with a glowing mark between its eyes.
Marin parked and stepped into the general store. The doorbell jangled overhead.
The woman behind the counter looked up from a crossword. âCan I help you, hun?â
Marin hesitated, then held up the book. âIâm looking for the Delorme cabin?â
The womanâs eyes flicked to the title and lingered. âRobertâs niece?â
âGreat niece.â
âThought so. Youâve got his jawline.â She set down her pencil. âFollow the east road past the creek. Turn off at the stump with the old horseshoe nailed to it. Cabinâs about a mile in. Just donât try to find it after dark.â
âWhyâs that?â
The woman gave a tight smile. âSome places turn around on you if you donât already know the way.â
The road narrowed until it was barely more than a rutted trail. Branches brushed the roof of the car. Eventually, she spotted the stumpâbarely visible beneath a fan of wet fernsâand turned off.
The cabin appeared as if grown from the forest floor.
It was cloaked in moss, rooflines softened by time, wooden steps sinking slightly at the edges. Wild foxglove grew beside the porch, and a raven tilted its head, croaked and took off from the railing as she approached. The door creaked open with the weight of years.
Inside, the air was still. It didnât smell mustyâjust old. Like bark and candlewax and ink.
The furniture was sparse but sturdy. Bookshelves lined every wall, their spines faded. A fire ring waited cold in the hearth, and above it hung two overlapping maps: one of Oregon, and one of Western Europe. Red thread connected Alder Hollow to places with names like Carnac, MontsĂŠgur, and BrocĂŠliande.
She exhaled slowly. A familiar shape hung just beside the doorâsomething she hadn't noticed on her way in.
A charm.
