Kevin Provance

Presenting a sneak peek of the Prologue and first two chapters of Fairlight, which will be released on May 25, 2026. Preorder now, and don’t forget to meet the characters!

Prologue

Friday, August 14, 1987

I

The rumor of a haunted house in the woods was how it started.

Whispers placed it south of Taneytown, Maryland, somewhere in the stretch of land separating the old antebellum gristmill estate, Trevanion, from the twentieth-century Otterdale Mill.

A recently graduated student from Westminster High School, Victor Merrick, heard it from a friend at Francis Scott Key High, who claimed to have heard it from Old Man Marlowe’s eldest son, Ephraim. That alone was enough to give the story weight, given the landholdings and longevity of the Marlowe family in Carroll County. Supposedly, the house stood on Marlowe land, hidden deep within dense woods. No matter the route taken, at least a mile lay between the road and the destination.

Victor shared the story with his two closest friends: Martin Wexler and Walter DuMont.

Martin was the loudest of the three, exuding a calm confidence and speaking without a filter. Fresh out of high school and already bored with settling into local work, he approached life as something to be conquered, indulging in pleasures one by one. He had the looks to support his attitude—short black hair and sharp blue eyes—and never missed an opportunity to remind others of his appearance.

Walter was Martin’s opposite. Quiet, cautious, and uncomfortable with confrontation, he preferred predictability and disliked surprises. He wasn’t unattractive, just unremarkable; brown hair, brown eyes, and an expression that often suggested he had already reconsidered whatever was happening. Trouble rarely began with Walter, yet he frequently found himself right in the middle of it.

Victor fell somewhere in between the two. He embraced his identity as a geek with unapologetic pride and didn’t give a damn what others thought of him. He listened more than he spoke, asked questions that others didn’t consider, and sometimes showed enthusiasm that exceeded common sense.

Given all that, it was no surprise that Martin was immediately in favor of exploring the woods at night in search of a haunted house. Walter wasn’t. Victor was enthusiastic at first, until the reality of distance, darkness, and isolation began to sink in.

By then, it was already too late to back out.

II

At nine p.m., after the mall closed, Martin, Walter, and Victor emerged from the doors near the Glenmar movie theater and the Dream Machine arcade of the newly opened Cranberry Mall.

The sun had already slipped below the horizon, leaving the sky washed in deep blue with the first faint stars beginning to show.

They crowded into Walter’s white 1982 Chevette and headed north on Route 140 toward Taneytown. Martin took the passenger seat; Victor sat in the middle of the back, unfolding a hand-drawn map and holding it up to the passing streetlights. His friend at FSK High, Matt, had dictated the directions over the phone.

Martin shifted in the stiff vinyl seat and glanced back. “So where are we going, exactly?”

Victor squinted at the paper. “Nusbaum Road.”

Walter snorted. “Where the fuck is that?”

“Off Trevanion Road.”

Martin reached back for the map. Victor handed it over.

“What’s this dip here?” Martin asked, pointing to a crude bend drawn as a backward checkmark circled in red.

“That’s where we park,” Victor said. “From there, we walk.”

Walter leaned over the center console. “How far?”

“A quarter-mile. Maybe a little more.”

“And the creek?” Walter asked, pronouncing it crick.

“Matt says it’s low.”

Walter exhaled sharply. “Matt says. Great.”

Martin studied the map again, already reorganizing it in his head. “Walt, here’s a shortcut,” he said. “Bang a left on 31. Take Uniontown Road instead of going through Taneytown.”

Walter followed the suggestion after passing Western Maryland College, its lights fading behind them.

“I know that area,” Martin added, grinning. “I banged a girl out there in Middleburg a couple of months ago. There’s a quicker way to Nusbaum.”

“Of course you did,” Victor muttered, rolling his eyes.

“After Trevanion Road, Otterdale Mill is the second right. Big Pipe Creek is a couple miles up. Nusbaum comes right after.”

Walter nodded. “And then?”

“Then we find the V in the road,” Martin said, tapping the map, “park, and walk.”

No one spoke after that. The farther they drove, the darker the road became, the last traces of town thinning behind them as the land opened into fields and shadow.

III

With their shoes and socks far wetter than anticipated after crossing the creek, the boys found themselves less than a thousand feet into the field beyond it. Victor felt a sudden, sinking certainty that he’d misjudged the scope of the trip.

There was no moon. The sky was pitch black. Against the faint glow on the horizon from Taneytown, the forest rose ahead of them as a solid, imposing wall.

Victor cleared his throat. “You know…maybe this wasn’t the best idea.”

“Pussy,” Martin whispered.

Walter shook his head. “Marty, I didn’t want to do this at all. It’s too fucking dark out here. Did anyone bring a flashlight?”

Martin stopped. The other two halted as he turned. “I didn’t. You didn’t either?” Walter shook his head. “Vic?”

“Nope.”

Martin dragged a hand down his face. “This was your idea, bitch! That includes the prep!”

“I brought the compass,” Victor said, the defensive tone unmistakable.

Walter snorted. “Great. At least we’ll know which direction we’re running when we hit a tree.”

Martin turned back toward the woods, studying the darkness. The forest stretched wide. Hundreds of feet from the creek to their left and running more than a mile to the right. “I don’t see how we’re supposed to find anything in there.”

“Matt said it’s toward the middle,” Victor said, pointing vaguely.

“How far in?” Martin asked.

Victor looked down. “He didn’t say.”

Walter peered at him, letting out a short laugh. “Shocking.”

Victor returned the look. “Dude! Just…shut up!”

Martin checked his watch; the faint green glow briefly lit his face. “It’s after ten. We’ll look around for a bit. If we don’t find anything in an hour, we’re done.”

IV

Within fifteen minutes of entering the darkened forest, the boys cautiously navigated the trees, their eyes darting in all directions in search of an old house. The ground beneath their feet was a thick carpet of decaying leaves from autumns past. They made a crunching, shifting sound with each step. Frogs croaked, and crickets chirped. The noises wove a dense tapestry throughout the entire woods. The deep hoot of an owl echoed through the forest at steady intervals.

The growing psychological hysteria between them remained unchecked, no matter what they tried. Sounds that weren’t there. Glimmers of movement at the edges of their sight, gone the instant they turned their heads.

When it happened, they were primed to believe the worst.

A faint cracking sound from afar interrupted the quiet. It stopped all three in their tracks.

“What the fuck was that?” Walter asked in a petrified whisper, his head snapping back and forth, looking for the source.

The sound escalated from a crack to a deep groan, its source indistinguishable in the suffocating blackness.

Victor shut his eyes tightly, a futile attempt to make the unfolding events disappear. “Oh, my God,” he whispered sheepishly. “I don’t wanna die. Jesus, I’m so sorry I did this. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”

“Shut up, Vic!” Martin snapped in a harsh whisper, his gaze fixed on the impenetrable darkness within the trees.

A profound stillness settled over the woods, as if everything had suddenly held its breath. Even the crickets had ceased chirping. Slowly, the boys’ gazes shifted to one another, their expressions mirroring a chilling sense of impending disaster.

That’s when the sound came again.

Not a crack this time, but a deep, tearing report. Wood splitting under its own weight. Branches snapped in rapid succession, the noise rushing toward them through the dark.

Martin’s eyes went wide. “Oh, shit! RUN!”

They spun and bolted.

Leaves slid under their feet. Walter stumbled first, catching himself with a sharp grunt before scrambling upright again. Victor’s breath came in panicked bursts, his arms flailing as he fought to keep his footing. Behind them, something groaned, low and strained. The sound of breaking limbs followed, close enough to feel.

They burst from the trees into the open field and didn’t slow.

Martin glanced over his shoulder once. He saw nothing. That didn’t help.

They reached Big Pipe Creek at a reckless sprint, splashing straight through it, water soaking their legs as they clawed up the far bank. Walter yanked open the driver’s door and dove inside. Victor followed. Martin slammed the passenger door shut as Walter twisted the key.

The engine roared to life. Gravel sprayed as the Chevette fishtailed onto the road and tore away into the dark.

None of them spoke.

Something had moved through those woods. Something heavy enough to break branches and fast enough to chase them.

They didn’t go back to check.

Victor told Matt what had happened that night. About the woods, the sound, the way something had come at them through the trees. By the end of the month, the story had already moved on without him.

At Francis Scott Key High, it gained details.

At Westminster High, it gained teeth.

By 1989, the tale had settled into something closer to legend. A group of kids wandering into the woods in search of a house no one was meant to find. If they came too close, something would rise to meet them: a guardian, a presence, a thing that lived among the trees. It announced itself with a roar and the sound of breaking limbs that would drive intruders back the way they came.

The details shifted, the shape changed, and the truth thinned.

What never changed was this: no one ever reached the house.

For years, teenagers went looking. Some came back with stories. Some came back silent. Some claimed they’d been chased. Others swore the woods themselves had turned against them.

No one ever saw the house.

Not until Ernest Marlowe took Todd Metheny, Ryan Thomas, Carrie Beck, and Deborah Hall into the woods in the spring of 1997.

Chapter I

Wednesday, May 21, 1997

I

Ryan Thomas stepped out from beneath the pale stone archway of Hill Hall and into the late afternoon sun, the warmth catching him off guard.

It had felt cooler that morning. Spring was still undecided. But now the air carried the scent of freshly cut grass and something close to relief. He began rolling up the sleeves of the green, blue, and white flannel.

Three days. After that, his days as a student at Western Maryland College would finally be behind him. Again. The first time was two years ago when he finished his journalism degree.

By autumn, his part-time instructor schedule would begin.

Todd Metheny ducked through the arch behind him, his gray “Green Terror” T-shirt riding up as he walked. He tugged it down without thinking, the fabric still sitting wrong even after a dozen washes. “Ryan, I’d never have survived these criminal justice courses without you as a study partner,” he said, his voice echoing faintly off the stone as they started up the ramp toward the quad.

Ryan ran his fingers through his short blonde hair, adjusted the strap of his backpack, and slapped the absurdly seven-foot-tall Todd on the back. “Sure, you would’ve. It’s like I’ve told you a million times, dude; studying this material is no different from studying a script from one of the many plays you were in.”

Todd let out a quiet laugh, brushing chestnut brown hair from his eyes as they stepped into the open. “Yeah. And I wasn’t very good at that either. Deborah always kept me honest there.”

Ryan chuckled at the methods twenty-three-year-old Deborah Hall employed to motivate Todd. They usually involved pulling him backstage for some out-of-sight alone time. What that entailed, Ryan was sure he couldn’t say.

“Deborah is the best thing that ever happened to you, brother,” Ryan declared, looking up at Todd, his gaze deep blue and determined, despite their height difference. “I’m glad you two finally decided to move in together.” A sly grin crept across Ryan’s face. “Now, all you have to do is make an honest woman of her.”

With a flicker of unease, Todd laughed a little too loudly at Ryan. “Like you did with Carrie? What was it? Two days ago?”

Ryan smiled fondly at the mental image of twenty-two-year-old Carrie Beck, with her silver-blue eyes, standing a mere five-foot-one, her sunflower-yellow hair flowing past her shoulders. “You left out the part where I bought the house she’s always wanted.”

Todd tossed Ryan a doubtful glance as they left the quad, the air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass as they approached Lewis Hall. “The old house on Uniontown Road with the wraparound porch. I’m amazed it’s still standing, with the condition it’s in. How long has it been abandoned?”

“A couple of years. It looks worse than it is.” Ryan’s eyes drifted toward the Victorian house on the south side of Lewis Hall, where the current WMC president lived. “Are you on duty tonight?”

“No, I’m working four twelve-hour shifts over the next week. Friday, Sunday, Monday, and Wednesday,” Todd said. It was part of his demanding rookie schedule as a trooper with the Maryland State Police. “My patrol car is in the shop. Deborah had to drive me this morning.”

Ryan scanned the parking lot to his right, past Baker Memorial Chapel, and said, “I don’t see her.”

A sheepish smile crept across Todd’s face. “She’s at work. I may have possibly suggested to her I’d grab a ride home with you.”

Ryan stopped walking and, with a smirk, tilted his head up at Todd. “I live at the top of East Main. You live in the Greens. You’re noting the opposite directions here, right, future detective?”

Todd laughed. “Blow me, smartass! I thought maybe you’d give me a quick tour of your old spooky house.”

Ryan shrugged with indifference, resuming his walk past the President’s House. “Sure, why not? Carrie will be pissed I didn’t let her do it. That’s her thing now, apparently.”

“Mum’s the word. Where are you parked?”

Ryan pointed past the President’s House. “On 39th, behind Alumni Hall.”

“Alumni Hall,” Todd whispered, deliberately chuckling under his breath.

Ryan rolled his eyes, a silent gesture unseen by Todd, who was walking one pace ahead. He knew where this was going. They’d danced these steps many times.

Todd purposefully cleared his throat. “I’m still assuming after all these years, you still don’t believe Alumni Hall was haunted.”

Ryan sighed, his voice making a deliberate humph. “It’s only been two years since Scarecrow happened, dude. And no, I remain unconvinced.”

Todd huffed a quiet laugh. “You say that like we didn’t live through it.”

“We did,” Ryan said. “That’s exactly my point.”

Todd glanced down at him. “You’re telling me before everything went to hell with Scarecrow that the lower level didn’t feel off to you?”

Ryan adjusted the strap of his backpack. “It felt like a guy hiding in a basement who didn’t want to get caught.”

“That’s not all it was.”

“That’s all it needed to be,” Ryan shot back. “Everything else? The cold spots, noises, people tripping over nothing? That’s what happens when you’ve got a killer climbing around backstage and ten people’s worth of paranoia floating through the building.”

Todd smirked and shook his head in resignation. “You’ve got an explanation for everything, dude.”

“I’ve got the correct explanation,” Ryan said. “We know what happened in there. We proved it. You were there. You saw it with your own eyes.”

Todd didn’t argue right away. His eyes lingered on Alumni Hall a second longer.

“Yeah,” he said. “We proved most of it.”

Ryan let out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Two years later, and you’re still on that. I might buy restless spirits who were wronged in this life. But ghosts that haunt buildings? No.” Ryan looked up at Todd and grinned, a playful glint in his eyes. “You’d have to explain why they can’t leave the house or why they don’t move on to whatever’s next.”

“Watch Beetlejuice.”

“Ha!” Ryan barked, trailing off with a laugh. “Great movie, but…no.”

Todd shrugged. “I’m just saying…not everything we felt in there had some messed-up guy behind it.”

Ryan finally glanced toward the building, then back ahead. “Like always, we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

They continued walking.

II

After a short drive down Uniontown Road and directly across Route 31, Ryan slowed his Lexus and turned into the driveway on his left without using a turn signal. No one was behind him.

Todd stared at the old Colonial house with the wraparound porch surrounding the ell. From a hundred feet away, the porch still looked dignified. As Ryan pulled up beside the house, his gaze fell upon the basement entrance, a dark opening carved directly into the gentle slope of the hill. Todd took a thorough look around at the home’s condition.

“I’ve never seen this house this up close before,” Todd whispered. “The porch is in awful shape.”

“It’s seen better days.”

They exited the Lexus and walked through the wet spring grass up the hill to the porch entrance. Todd stood a half-step behind while Ryan pointed out what needed fixing. The old house sat square and stubborn on its foundation, stone walls thick as bookends, shutters missing, porch sinking toward the yard.

“I paid a hundred and twenty for it. That includes the barn, outbuildings, and ninety-six acres,” Ryan said, running his hand along the faded white paint of the porch column. “Closed on it two days ago.”

Todd whistled softly, the sound barely audible as they reached the porch’s edge and turned left. Now, they were looking down one story to the ground, with the smell of damp, uncut grass rising, since the house was built into the hill. He grinned at Ryan. “Carrie’s gonna make it pretty for you.”

“That’s the idea.” Ryan pointed to the door behind them. “I proposed to her in the front room, right there.” He nodded at one of the boarded-up windows. “The rest, you know.”

The wood smelled damp; the plaster inside sweeter, like wet paper left in sunlight. Vines were working their way up the stone pillars of the porch, young and bright and green in the May warmth.

“Do you know who built this house…and when?” Todd asked.

“Lydia Royer, our realtor, knew a bit about the history,” Ryan said, feeling the rough texture of the gray stucco wall. “She says she’s related to the wife of the man who built it. A grandmother five times removed. His name was Mehring. The best they’ve been able to pinpoint the exact year is in or around 1855.”

“Mehring?” Todd asked casually.

“Yeah. Jacob Mehring. Lydia said the name like I was supposed to know it.”

Todd didn’t answer right away. The surname stirred something familiar: an antebellum home called Myrtle Hill from Ernest Marlowe’s father’s stories. A man named George Mehring lived there when the area was called the town of Bruceville. Back then, there was only one Mehring line in the county. It didn’t take a genealogist to make the leap.

Todd smiled. The house wasn’t important, not really. But the name was.

As Ryan spoke of the decaying roof, Todd abruptly interrupted with a question about ghosts. “You don’t think an old house like this that predates the Civil War isn’t haunted? All I’m saying is, places remember things. Like Alumni Hall does.”

“Places remember mildew,” Ryan said. “And maybe termites.”

Todd snorted with laughter as they retraced their steps on the porch, the soft boards yielding with each step, the damp plaster’s scent filling the air. He brushed a flake of paint from his hand, chalk-white against his jeans.

“Have you ever heard about the so-called haunted woods of Taneytown?” Todd asked.

Ryan glanced up. “Which one? They’ve got a ghost story for every cornfield out there.”

“The woods south of town off Otterdale Mill,” Todd said. “Kids say it’s haunted. They say there’s…something out there. A house nobody can get close to. Supposedly, if you start walking toward it, you’ll hear a noise in the trees, like a whole damn herd coming at you. They run before they ever get close enough to see anything.”

Ryan snorted. “That’s adrenaline, not ghosts. And probably a raccoon.”

Todd’s eyebrow arched, a silent question forming in the space above his eye. “Raccoons don’t crash through the woods like linebackers, dude.”

“Deer, then. Or teenagers. Teenagers make most hauntings happen anyways.”

Todd didn’t push. That wasn’t the point. Skeptics needed curiosity, not answers.

“You guys got plans Friday? Say, around seven?”

Ryan contemplated it as they stepped off the porch, feeling the rough texture of the broken concrete under their shoes, heading toward the overgrown grass. “Nothing, as far as I know.”

“I’d like to show you.”

“Show me what? Deer in your haunted woods?”

“The house. The spot the kids claim they can’t approach. I’ve been there. It’s on Marlowe land. There’s a story there. I think you’d enjoy it. Or at the most…appreciate.”

Ryan paused, making eye contact with Todd. He could see the moment Ryan took the bait. Not because he believed, but because he didn’t.

“What’s really out there?” Ryan asked, peering at Todd with uncertainty.

Todd smiled. “An old house. Or what’s left of one. You’ll like it. I’ll bring Deborah. We’ll build a fire and wait for the sun to set.”

“Don’t you have a twelve-hour shift on Friday?”

“Six a.m. to six p.m.,” Todd replied. “Meet us at my house around seven.”

Ryan gave a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping as he finally agreed to Todd’s request. “If it were anyone else, I’d say no. So, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. We’ll come. But I’m not promising I’ll get scared.”

Todd grinned. “I wouldn’t want that. I just want you to see something.”

“And no having one of the Marlowe boys hiding in the woods to come crashing through the trees.”

Todd laughed out loud, but then sobered, nodding in agreement. “No tricks. No gimmicks. Only truth.”

Chapter II

Friday, May 24, 1997

I

“Are we there yet, Uncle Todd?” Carrie Beck said, purposefully sounding like a young child complaining about the unending car trip.

The hum of the engine was barely audible as she and Deborah Hall sat in the backseat of Deborah’s 1995 Honda Prelude. Todd drove because he knew the way.

Ryan snickered from his place in the passenger seat. “It’s only been ten minutes, Scout,” he said, referring to Carrie by the nickname he’d given her two years ago after they’d begun dating. The name was a reference to Scout Finch of “To Kill a Mockingbird,” as Ryan thought she symbolized the mockingbird’s innocence and beauty.

From her seat behind Ryan, Carrie watched Trevanion Road pass, becoming a colorful, fleeting streak outside the car window as Uniontown Road quietly gave way to Middleburg.

Todd sped up, the engine roaring in response. Forty miles per hour became fifty since the empty road stretched out before him. “Now we’ll make better time.”

“Alive, if you don’t mind, babe,” Deborah said, her shoulder-length blonde hair bouncing as she leaned forward, her breath warm on his neck as she rubbed Todd’s shoulder from behind.

“Where exactly are we going?” Ryan asked, scanning the area ahead. “Judging by our direction, we’ll end up in Middleburg or Keymar.” He turned and smirked at Todd. “Not exactly south of Taneytown.”

Todd nodded in confirmation. “I keep forgetting you think like an investigating journalist. We’re taking a quick side quest before we reach the woods. I want you all to see a piece of the bigger picture first.”

“I don’t understand,” Carrie said. “What does your totally out-of-the-way side quest have to do with the haunted Taneytown woods?”

A grin played on Todd’s face, as if he held a delightful secret. “You’ll see. We’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”

II

Eight minutes and seven miles later, Todd slowed to take a right onto Francis Scott Key Highway, heading north into Keymar.

“Alright,” Ryan whispered. “My curiosity is officially piqued.”

“I know this area,” Carrie said, glancing at Todd, then at Deborah. “Francis Scott Key was born around here. The Terra Rubra estate.”

“You know your history. Very good,” Todd said, quoting the character Biff from Back to the Future II, approximating Biff’s gruff voice.

Ryan leaned his head back and laughed. “1989 called, dude. It wants its lacking sequel back.”

Todd glanced at Ryan as if he might not have agreed with that assessment, but let it pass.

“This is it,” Todd said as he slowed to turn right onto the paved but not well-maintained Bruceville Road, while the FSK highway curved off to the left. Ryan watched the road as they drove slowly down its slant, the trees’ shadows stretching long in the setting sun. The dense green shrubbery transformed into a shadowy forest in a matter of moments. “The town of Bruceville that was.”

The road’s asphalt appeared uneven, as if the country merely wanted to claim it had paved a road. There were no shoulders. Only the rough edge of the pavement blended into the grass. In some areas, the road was so narrow that drivers would have to yield to oncoming traffic, much like on a one-way street. As if sculpted by time itself, the path plunged through the hill, a channel so old it seemed to predate any recorded history. The slope became so steep that the car could easily roll away if left in neutral.

Nineteenth-century houses lined the road, stone foundations half-swallowed by grass. These were the kind of homes that didn’t bother announcing how old they were. They didn’t need to.

Carrie gazed at them, spotting the ground-level ones to her right and the elevated ones to her left, which needed stone or concrete steps to meet the road—window-mounted AC units protruding from the front windows like metallic tongues panting for relief. The numerous satellite dishes implied that cable TV was not a luxury in that area. However, the road was lined on both sides with wooden poles humming faintly with the unseen power of electricity and communication.

“This is the land that time forgot,” Ryan whispered as he watched the two-story, weathered stone house slowly float by. The front of the wall had two imposing doors, each firmly embedded in the structure. “That house there looks like it might’ve been a general store.”

“It was. It was also an ad hoc post office.” Todd replied, driving slowly, one hand loose on the wheel, eyes forward as the lane dipped deeper into the countryside, as if it were leading somewhere secret.

Ryan turned to look at Todd. “How would you know that?”

A mischievous smile spread across Todd’s face as he remained silent.

“At least tell me where this road goes,” Ryan said, not growing impatient per se, but eager to learn more.

“To the end,” Todd said.

Carrie belted out a laugh from the back. “Could you be any more enigmatic, Toddster?”

“Great word, hon,” Deborah said, bobbing her head with a smile.

Todd slowly drove down the last stretch. Everyone in the car stopped talking. It felt as though conversation didn’t belong there in that moment.

The road ended abruptly, much like some stories do: suddenly and without warning. Myrtle Hill was at this dead end, with a red house perched against the green of the hill. Its porch sagged under the weight of old shade trees. The home appeared cared for, yet weary, as if someone had only maintained the parts visible from the outside. Below the hill, Big Pipe Creek flowed past in the shade of the old Virginia pine trees. Though the creek was hidden from view, its gentle murmur was perceptible to a keen ear.

With nowhere else for them to go, Todd braked and idled for a moment. The four of them sat looking at the house without speaking, as though it were deciding whether they could come any closer.

“Does this place belong to someone?” Carrie asked.

“It always has,” Todd whispered.

He eased the Honda off to the right, tires crunching gravel. They climbed out. The air was warm and close; the only sounds were insects and the slow ticking of cooling metal under the hood.

“Pretty spot,” Carrie murmured.

“Built in seventeen-ninety-something,” Todd said, mostly to himself. “It was an old mill seat. The water’s steady here.”

Ryan glanced at him. “Mill?”

Todd nodded toward the shade beneath the trees, where the creek lay hidden beyond the grass and pines. “A long time ago. Before the war. Before the house, even. The creek powered the stones that crushed the grain, or corn, or whatever else the farmers brought over.”

“Who owned it?” Ryan asked.

Todd took a moment before answering. “The Mehrings. Things started here.”

Carrie raised her hand, a gesture that immediately hushed the chatter. She turned her ear toward the creek, listening. The water caught on rock somewhere below, the sound patient and insistent.

“Mehring,” Ryan repeated. “Any relation to Jacob Mehring?”

“The guy who built our house?” Carrie asked.

“I think so,” Todd replied. “Before the night’s over, we’ll know.”

Ryan’s hearty laugh filled the air. “And hopefully your cryptic streak will end.”

Todd continued to smile without replying.

Carrie turned away from the property, the gravel crunching under her feet, and faced her friends. “In all seriousness, Todd, this is a beautiful piece of land. Quiet. Serene. I could totally fall asleep to the sound of the water.”

“Hannah liked it,” Todd added quietly.

Ryan opened his mouth to ask more, but Todd had already turned back toward the Honda. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got ground to cover, and we’re losing light.”

III

Todd backtracked halfway down Middleburg Road and turned left onto Clear View Road. They’d end up higher on Trevanion Road via the shortcut, bypassing the Uniontown Road intersection, saving ten minutes. With the time nearing 7:50 p.m., there were now a scant thirty-one minutes before the sun dipped below the horizon.

Todd turned left onto Trevanion Road, now heading north toward Taneytown.

“How much farther?” Ryan asked Todd. He casually glanced over his shoulder, not expecting a clear and concise answer.

“Three and a half miles, give or take,” Todd replied, his eyes scanning the empty road and the endless green alfalfa fields across the occasional rolling hill. “We should be there in five to ten minutes.”

With a giggle, Carrie reached across, her fingers brushing Ryan’s flannel as she gripped his shoulders. “The legendary haunted woods of Taneytown! I can’t wait!”

Carrie’s jesting words, which carried a subtle, humorous undertone, piqued Deborah’s attention. “Do you believe in ghosts, Carrie?”

“Not really,” she replied, meeting Deborah’s gaze. “But unlike my faithful fiancée up there, I am open to having my mind changed.”

Todd’s eyes flickered to her in the rearview mirror. “How so?”

“Show me a ghost. I’ll believe it,” Carrie stated.

With a slight shake of his head, Ryan chuckled under his breath. “Carrie has a talent for simplifying things.”

Todd slowed the Honda as he rounded the left bend in the road. As the line of trees guarding the field on the left receded, it exposed a red brick Gothic-style house, its many chimneys reaching toward the sky. He crossed the road and parked on the soft green grass.

“Whoa,” Carrie whispered, her voice tinged with wonder, leaning forward to peer across Deborah and through her window at the massive house.

“Yeah,” Deborah whispered. “It still takes my breath away every time I see it.”

Ryan asked. “Are we there? That was the shortest five minutes I’ve ever heard of.”

Todd shook his head, smirked, and looked at Ryan. “That’s what she said, brother.”

“Ha!” Carrie barked, trailing off with a laugh. “Not even close!”

Todd continued, “This is Trevanion. Another piece of the bigger picture I wanted you to see. It’s a private home, so this is as close as we can get.”

Ryan felt as though Trevanion announced itself before they even reached it. A low stone wall didn’t feature iron gates; instead, it had two square pillars set far enough apart to allow a carriage to pass through. Between them, a narrow drive curved uphill, worn pale by wheels and weather, as if the land itself had been trained to yield to its owners.

Mowed close on either side of the property, the lawn sloped down to tall, watchful trees. The house stood in the distance, blending into the landscaping, its red brick blending with the grassy surroundings. The façade appeared formal and deliberately designed. Trevanion was tall rather than wide, with a central tower rising above the roofline, proclaiming its permanence. White trim highlighted every edge—window frames, cornices, and the shallow balcony above the entry. Even the porch arches exuded a sense of measured restraint, offering an ornate welcome.

The house didn’t sit within the land so much as command it. Offering no shelter as one approached, the broad, exposed lawn created no sense of intimacy. The trees were kept at a respectful distance from the house, as though growth itself was tolerated only on Trevanion’s terms. From the drive, the windows appeared watchful rather than inviting; their symmetry exact, their height slightly aloof.

“It’s an impressive old house,” Ryan said. “I’m eager to hear how Myrtle Hill and Trevanion tie into your haunted woods.”

Before merging back onto the road, Todd checked for oncoming traffic, then sped north. “We’re almost there.”

IV

A minute later, Todd turned left off Trevanion Road onto Nusbaum Road, a narrow, unmarked road with a gritty asphalt surface. Unlike the road in Bruceville, the county had kept this one in better condition, which was a collective relief. Nusbaum Road veered away almost as if it forked off Trevanion.

“You’re about to see some real Carroll County countryside,” Todd said, carefully navigating the turns of the narrow road.

The road straightened, offering a clear view of the sporadically spaced line of sixties-era homes stretching along the left. On the other side, the verdant farmland and trees stretched out, creating a sea of green.

From offside, Todd quickly glimpsed Ryan, the green of the field reflecting in his eyes. “Carrie said she would believe in ghosts if she saw one. If you were to see one too, would you change your mind?”

“Depends on how we define ghosts,” Ryan replied. “There are no bedsheets with holes cut out of them, or apparitions floating around like the opening of Ghostbusters. And even if you could prove those things, it doesn’t answer the question of why there are ghosts to begin with. Why didn’t they move on to whatever’s next, whether it’s Heaven or the next life?”

“Debs? Wanna take that one?” Todd asked.

“Those spirits are unaware they’ve died,” Deborah explained. “Some have strong attachments, like family, home, or possessions. Others experienced sudden or traumatic deaths. And some are trapped by unresolved issues or earthly desires.”

With his lips pursed, Ryan’s gaze lingered on Deborah. “You pretty much just said everything Tangina from Poltergeist said.”

Todd couldn’t contain the laughter that bubbled up inside him.

Ryan focused his eyes, studying Todd’s face intently. “Laugh it up, fuzzball.”

“Oh, my God,” Carrie whispered, her voice tinged with mock exasperation as she rolled her eyes. “The pop culture references are totally out of control tonight.”

“It doesn’t make Tangina wrong,” Deborah replied. “With that in mind, this next part won’t surprise you. Citing Hebrews 9:27: ‘And just as it is appointed for mortals to die once, and after that the judgment.’”

Carrie jumped in. “Meaning people only have one life and then face God.”

“Exactly,” Deborah said. “Some say that what we think of as ghosts are deceptive spirits, or demons, impersonating the dead, and aren’t human.”

Carrie frowned. “Hmm. One of those I’d prefer not to see, thanks!”

Todd continued, “Ghosts could also be what we think of as purgatory. Souls awaiting divine judgment.”

Ryan turned to face forward, watching Todd navigate a hard left curve. The path wound through green fields, past silent trees, and over rolling hills. “By that logic, John Myers haunted Alumni Hall because of his sudden and traumatic death? Because in 1970, the ten members of Scarecrow accidentally killed him and dumped his body in the Alumni Hall sub-basement?”

“Yes,” Todd replied cleanly and plainly.

“Wouldn’t there be ghosts or spirits all over the place then?” Ryan asked.

“There very well could be.”

Less than a minute later, Todd made a complete forty-five-degree turn in the road with still no house in sight.

“Are we on Old Man Marlowe’s land?” Ryan asked. “Someone is keeping these crops well-maintained.”

“Not on this side of Big Pipe Creek,” Todd replied. “Well, not anymore. Not since the early twenties.”

Carrie leaned forward. “This was an old farm road once, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed, it was,” Todd said, his voice laced with satisfaction as he watched Carrie in the rearview. “It stretched from Trevanion to Otterdale Mill Road, although it wasn’t called that originally. There are lots of old farm roads scattered around Carroll. Some became actual roads. Some faded in the mists of time and no longer exist.”

Ryan almost uttered a quip about spirits, the words right there, but let the moment fade.

Silence reigned in the car until the road curved into the trees, with the slow, steady creek following alongside. A sharp, barely navigable V-turn into a deeper forest was required just as the creek became visible from the road.

“What the hell is this devilry?” Carrie asked, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a grin. “That was a weird turn.”

“There used to be a dam there,” Todd replied. “Now it’s further down at Otterdale.”

A minute later, they emerged from the forest into a field, passing an old, overgrown farm road on their left. Todd motioned toward it. “There’s an old one, Carrie.”

As they drove by, Carrie watched the old path, covered in weeds and worn with time. They arrived at the intersection of Otterdale Mill Road shortly thereafter.

After turning left and driving a half-mile, they crossed a bridge over Big Pipe Creek and arrived at their destination.

The middle of nowhere.

Todd turned left onto a dirt road amidst a cornfield, the dust rising around his tires as it disappeared over the hill. “Now we’re on Marlowe land.”

A cloud of dust kicked up behind the Honda, the only sound the engine’s hum as silent anticipation filled the vehicle. Ryan glanced at the odometer as the half-mile mark ticked by. He moved his gaze to Todd. “Kids actually walk all the way back here to explore the woods?”

Todd and Deborah exchanged a secret glance, their laughter ringing out in the car. “After we stop, we’ll still have three-quarters of a mile to go. On foot.”

Carrie snapped her head around at Deborah, jaw dropped. She smiled and nodded silently in confirmation.

“This is actually the easiest way there,” Todd added. “There are shorter ways, but then you’d have to find a way to cross the creek and more woods.”

Todd brought the car to a stop at the treeline beside an old white Ford pickup, kicking back dust that lightly coated the vehicles. Behind them, farm outbuildings stood silhouetted against the setting sun. A man of Todd’s age exited the pickup and approached.

“How many farms does Old Man Marlowe own?” Ryan asked. “I thought he just owned the one with the Victorian house off Old Taneytown Road.”

“This is a sharecrop farm,” Todd replied, exiting the Honda. The rest of their party followed. “Marlowe owns five or six of them. And speaking of Marlowe.”

Ryan instantly recognized the man as he approached. Ernest Marlowe, Old Man Marlowe’s youngest son, stood dressed in beat-up brown-and-blue flannel, faded blue jeans, and a green John Deere baseball cap.

“How’s it hangin’, Metheny?” Ernest said, with a slight Maryland accent.

“Long and low, brother,” Todd replied as they shook hands in an arm-wrestling grip. Todd turned, letting Ernest’s hand go. “Deb and Ryan, you know. The little blonde pipsqueak there is Carrie Beck. Ryan’s fiancée.”

“Pipsqueak?” Carrie asked, peering up at Todd from beneath her furrowed brow. “Okay, Gigantor. You know about dynamite and small packages, right?”

Deborah snickered under her breath, letting out a snorting noise.

Ryan shook Ernest’s hand firmly and then clapped Todd playfully on the arm. “You should’ve seen that coming, dude. Carrie doesn’t play.”

“Spicy!” Ernest said with a healthy grin, carefully extending his hand to Carrie. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Anyone who gives Todd the business like that is A-OK in my book.”

“We met once, a long time ago, at the Farm Museum,” Carrie replied, firmly shaking Ernest’s hand. He gave Carrie an uncertain look, his mouth slightly agape as if the meeting was lost to him. “You were there with your brother and dad, displaying some antique tractors. I wanna say it was 1992? I was a junior in high school. It was the Fourth of July. I went with my two best friends, Tiffany and Lauren.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ernest said, his face lighting up as the memory snapped into place. “They were blonde, too. Weren’t they?” Carrie’s eyes sparkled as she nodded excitedly. “One of them sounded like a damn valley girl, always using the word ‘like.’”

“Tiffany,” Carrie said, glancing at Ryan, who also smiled at the memory of their mutual and lost friend. “That was totally her.”

“Tiffany…Cutter?” Ernest asked.

Carrie smiled and nodded.

Ernest removed his cap and held it between his hands. “I was sorry to hear about her. The whole Scarecrow thing.”

Carrie, her smile faltering only by a degree, nodded. “Thanks. It wasn’t the first time, sorry to say.” Ernest stared at her, waiting for more. “We lost Lauren a year and a half before Tiffany. Bad car accident.”

Ernest realized then, with a jolt, that Carrie had suffered the loss of two of her dearest friends within two years. “That’s truly awful. I’m so sorry. You seem to be handling it well enough.”

Carrie turned back to Ryan, a playful glint in her eye as she winked. “Two years ago, I reconnected with someone who helped me to see I could still trust people and let them in.”

Ryan’s smile was a warm beam as he gently took her hand. “And I reconnected with someone who helped me learn to love again after losing Tiffany, too.”

Ernest glanced at Todd, slipping the cap back onto his head, covering his shaggy hair. “Ryan was dating Tiffany?”

Todd nodded. “More or less.”

“So…I assume they’re talking about each other?”

“They are,” Todd stated flatly, his eyes flicking towards them, implying their overly affectionate behavior should wane some. He deliberately cleared his throat, a loud, purposeful sound to get their attention. “Anyways, I’ve asked Ernest to come along as a tour guide. Putting to one side that it would probably take me all night to find the spot where the house was, this is Ernest’s story to tell.”

Ryan glanced at Ernest. “There’s a story that explains why the kids think these woods are haunted?”

Ernest pulled his lips together, a subtle whistling sound escaping as he thought. “I don’t know,” he said after several seconds. “I think so. But you’ll have to judge for yourself.”

Todd pointed the key fob at the Honda and, with a subtle click, popped the trunk open. Inside, four backpacks sat in a pile, just as they’d left them before leaving Westminster.

Ernest opened the passenger door of his truck. With deliberate care, he picked up an overstuffed backpack from the seat. “Lock and load, guys.”

He turned, watching the sun inch toward the horizon, its orange glow intensifying. “We’ll have to hurry if we want to get there before we lose the light. Figure we’ll be walking about fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. We’ll find the makings for a campfire there.” He smiled openly as Ryan and Carrie looked up from the trunk, putting on their backpacks. “We’re gonna be out there a while. Hope y’all brought snacks.”

V

Ryan checked his watch when they crested the hill in the woods. It was nearly 8:20 p.m. The sun was about to set completely, its last rays painting the sky in hues of orange, yellow, and white.

As they walked, they passed a field, the ghosts of golden grain still whispering in the wind, before entering the adjoining woods again. The acres were scattered with brush and wild green shrubbery, the remnants of time’s slow, steady reclamation.

Carrie stood atop the large rolling hill surrounded by old-growth trees, barely able to make out the steady shimmer of Big Pipe Creek below. To her left, and slightly down the hill, the ghostly outline of a partial stone wall was barely visible amongst the overgrown weeds.

Ryan came up behind her, his arms encircling her waist in a sudden embrace. “Not very scary, is it?”

“It’s sad for me to see the ruins of something that used to be so important to someone. Now there’s nothing left.”

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

Carrie turned within Ryan’s warm embrace to look at him.

“That doesn’t make me feel any better, MacGyver,” she said, using the nickname she’d given him because of his impressive ability to improvise solutions.

“Sorry, Scout,” he whispered, tenderly kissing her lips.

“What’s everyone else doing?”

“Todd wanted me to come get you. Ernest is putting together a makeshift fire pit with a circle of stones. He’s insisting on doing it by himself while Todd and I drag over a couple of downed trees to sit on. He’s asked if you and Deborah could gather up some firewood.”

“Sounds fair,” Carrie whispered. Twilight cast a new light in her eyes as she looked at Ryan, revealing a silver aura he’d not seen there before. “There’s something about these woods, Ryan. I don’t know.”

“As in…they’re haunted?”

“Maybe. But not like ‘ghosts’ haunted,” Carrie said, looking around at the layers of leaves on the ground. “There’s memory here. I can…feel it…somehow.”

Ryan kept watching Carrie until her gaze finally met his. “Let’s see where the night takes us. Agreed?”

Carrie pulled Ryan close, feeling his warmth against her. “Agreed. I love you, MacGyver.”

“I love you, Scout.”

VI

Ryan and Todd dragged two suitable sections of old, fallen trees across the ground, the wood smelling of damp earth. They arranged them around the level space Ernest had cleared, where the sounds of the creek were faint in the distance as the ground sloped downward.

Ernest, panting from the exertion, had carried over several armfuls of old, thin, blue shale stones, forming a circle the size of an average tractor tire. The girls began placing kindling inside the circle and stacking larger branches nearby to feed the fire.

Ryan sat on the rough bark of the old maple tree, the smell of wood decay prevalent. Carrie sat beside him, followed by Deborah, with Todd bringing up the rear. Ernest positioned himself on a smaller log angled away from the rest of the group, his backpack resting against it. He methodically stuffed dry grass and weeds into the kindling, inhaling deeply as the earthy scent of the forest filled his lungs.

With the sun on the verge of setting, Carrie cautiously surveyed the surrounding forest, the trees’ shadows stretching out as dusk approached, and the ethereal orange, red, and yellow of twilight setting in around them.

“These are maples and sycamores, aren’t they?” Carrie asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ernest said, retrieving a Marlboro Red, flicking open his silver Zippo, the flame momentarily illuminating his face as he lit the cigarette. He inhaled deeply, sending the smoke curling upward. “Red and silver maples, with the occasional cottonwood and oak.”

Carrie’s wandering gaze stopped at a single, tall pine tree nearby, standing as if it were foreign, yet somehow belonging. “And still a single pine tree grew and survived.”

Ernest casually glanced over his shoulder at the pine. “It did.”

Todd slapped his faded green WMC backpack and announced, “I brought hot dogs! Light the fire, Marlowe!”

Ernest dragged his cigarette, plucked it from his mouth, and pushed the cherry end into the dry kindling. Smoke slowly billowed above his hand, the fire finally catching with a slight whomp sound. The flames crackled, gradually intensifying, casting dancing shadows on their faces as they rose.

The fire was small by design. A mere flicker against the encroaching shadows, never daring to defy the night.

The woods settled into their night sounds. Crickets sawed the air, a distant owl let the world know he was there, and the low hush of leaves rubbed together overhead. An old foundation, where Ernest had pulled stones for the fire pit, sat a few yards away, half-swallowed by moss and time. If one didn’t know they were there, they’d think it was just another rise in the earth.

Carrie sat with her knees drawn up, jacket zipped high. Ryan leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. Deborah nudged a stick into the fire, sending a scatter of sparks upward. They rose, stalled, and vanished.

Ernest didn’t speak right away.

He let the quiet stretch until it became uncomfortable, until everyone realized they were waiting on him. The firelight danced across his face. He looked past them, not at them.

“My grandfather, Henry, used to bring my dad here as a boy, then my brother and me,” he finally said, his voice steady and unhurried. “Not to scare us or to tell ghost stories. But just so we could sit.”

He gestured with his chin toward the stones of the foundation behind him.

“There was more left back then. You could still see where the house was more clearly, and there was a bigger spot where the barn had fallen. The millrace was easier to trace. The water still remembers where it used to run.”

Ernest paused again, seeming to weigh something, then continued.

“Grandpa Henry used to say, ‘There are places that hold memory like heat. You don’t see it. You don’t always feel it right away. But it’s there.’ This land—” He tapped the ground lightly with the toe of his boot. “—never forgot.”

The fire popped. Ryan shifted, finally unable to keep still. “You said there were people who lived here.”

“Yes, sir,” Ernest said, smiling faintly, not unkindly. He looked up at the trees. “They built something good here. Something that mattered.”

Ernest drew a slow breath. No one interrupted him now. “What I’m about to tell you isn’t a ghost story. Not in the way people usually mean. It’s a story about love, work, and envy. It’s about a house that meant more than it should have, and about a man who couldn’t take that.” He looked at each of them. “When I’m done, you can decide for yourselves whether these woods are haunted.”

Ernest turned back toward the stones and the single pine tree beyond them, barely visible in the last wisps of the day’s light. “Once you hear it, you won’t ever walk through these woods the same way again.”

The fire crackled. Ernest looked back at it. “Todd, did you show them Myrtle Hill and Trevanion?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ernest’s nod conveyed satisfaction. “Have y’all ever seen my Pa’s house on Old Taneytown?”

Everyone answered yes, except for Carrie, who shook her head. “I’ve not, but I’ve heard about it. A big white Victorian with a red barn behind it.”

“It was built in 1838 by my—” Ernest began counting on his fingers. “—my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, Christian Marlowe, and his wife, Mary, although my family has been here way longer than that. Hezekiah Marlowe came over from England sometime in the mid-eighteenth century. He bought one of the original land patents before Carroll County existed, right alongside Edward Diggs and Raphael Taney, the guys who formed Taneytown. Our land was called ‘Marlowe’s Stewardship.’ Hezekiah believed he never owned the land, that he was only the steward, passing it down from generation to generation, who would then take their turn watching it. My father, Everett, is the current steward. When he passes, the responsibility becomes mine and Ephraim’s, my older brother.”

“That’s humble,” Carrie whispered. Todd, his face illuminated by the blazing fire, nodded and passed a raw hot dog on a stick to Carrie, who was to give it to Ryan.

“It’s how we respect the land,” Ernest continued. “We take care of it; it takes care of us. Neither owns the other.”

“That’s beautiful,” Carrie said.

Ernest gestured toward the rustling leaves of the shadowed trees, bushes, and lone old pine tree behind him. “Welcome to Fairlight. The home of Josephus and Hannah Marlowe.”