I squeeze between two boulders and edge around another. That’s when I get a view of another rock farther up the incline. One bigger than the others. A monolith.

Nearly two stories tall, it rises from the ground like an enormous tombstone. The side facing me is mostly flat. A sheer wall of rock. A large fissure runs diagonally through it, widening at the top. A tree grows inside the crack, its roots curling along the rock face, seeking soil. Standing beside the tree, looking up into its branches, is Sasha.

Krystal is up there, too. She takes a step toward the boulder’s edge and peers down at me. “Hey,” she says.

“What are you doing up there?”

“Exploring,” Sasha says.

“I’d prefer it if you stayed on the ground,” I say. “Where’s Miranda?”

“Right here.”

Miranda’s voice emanates from the northwestern side of the giant rock. It sounds watery, akin to an echo. I follow it as Sasha and Krystal scramble down the boulder’s opposite side. I work my way around it, seeing another large crack in the rock’s side. This one runs in a straight line, widening at the bottom. It opens up completely about a foot from the ground, creating a hole large enough for a person to crawl into.

Or, in Miranda’s case, crawl out of. She climbs to her feet, circles of mud dotting her knees and elbows. “I wanted to see what was in there.”

“Bears or snakes, probably,” Sasha says.

“Exactly,” I say. “So no more exploring. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Krystal says.

“We understand,” Sasha adds.

Miranda stands with her hand on her hip, annoyed. “Isn’t that why we’re out here?”

I say nothing. I’m too busy looking past her, my head tilted, eyes narrowed in curiosity. In the distance behind her are what appear to be ruins. I can make out a crumbled stone wall and one jagged wooden beam pointing skyward.

I start to creep toward it, the girls behind me. When I get closer, I see that it’s the remains of what might have been a barn or farmhouse. The walls are mostly now a pile of rocks, but enough are intact to be able to make out the building’s rectangular foundation. Inside are several pines that have sprouted from what’s left of the building’s roof and floor.

In much better shape is a nearby root cellar built into the slope of the land. There’s no roof—just a slightly rounded mound of earth. A fieldstone wall forms the front. In the center is a wooden door, shut tight, its rusted slide bolt firmly in place.

“Creepy,” says Sasha.

“Cool,” says Miranda.

“Both,” says Krystal. “It looks like something from Lord of the Rings.”

But I’m thinking of another, more ominous tale. One about a flooded valley, a clan of survivors hiding in the woods, a thirst for revenge. Maybe a small seed of truth lies in the legend Casey told me. Because someone used to live in these hills. The foundation and root cellar make that abundantly clear. And although there’s no evidence showing it was the same people from Casey’s story, my skin nonetheless starts to tickle. Goose bumps, running up my arm.

“We should—”

Go. That’s what I intended to say. But I’m stopped by the sight of a large oak sitting fifty yards away. The tree is large, its thick branches spread wide. In its trunk is a familiar letter.

X

Immediately, I know it’s not the same tree Vivian led me to fifteen years ago. I would have remembered the crumbled foundation and creepy-cool root cellar. No, this is a different tree and a different X. Yet I get the feeling both letters were carved by the same hand.

“Stay here,” I tell the girls. “I’ll be right back.”

“Can we look inside that hobbit house?” Miranda asks.

“No. Don’t go anywhere.”

They mill about the crumbled foundation while I dash to the tree and search around its trunk. I take a step, and the ground beneath me thumps. A muffled, hollow sound.

Something is down there.

I drop to my knees and start scraping away years’ worth of weeds and dead leaves until I reach soil. I swipe my hands back and forth, clearing the dirt. Something brown and moist appears.

Wood. A pine plank dyed brown from more than a decade underground. I sweep away more dirt before burrowing my fingers into the soil underneath it, prying the plank loose. Its bottom is coated with mold, mud, a few bugs that scurry away. Beneath the plank someone has dug a hole the size of a shoe box. Inside the hole is a yellow grocery bag wrapped tightly around a rectangular object.

I unfurl the bag and reach into it, feeling more plastic. A freezer bag. The kind that can be zipped shut. Through the clear plastic, I see a splash of green, the stubble of leather, the edges of pages kept dry by the double layers of protection.

A book. Auspiciously fancy.

I peer inside the yellow grocery bag, checking for anything else that might be inside. There’s just a second freezer bag, empty and crumpled, and a single strand of hair. I set it on the ground and carefully open the other bag, letting the book slip out of it. It’s floppy in my hands, made pliant by fifteen seasons of being frozen and thawed and frozen again. Yet I’m able to peel back the cover to the first page, where I see the chaotic swirl of someone’s handwriting.

Vivian’s handwriting, to be exact.