Granny Wine & the Visitors: Episode 2 — “Night Whispers on Whiskey Ridge”
If you ain’t started at the start, you’re missin’ half the story.
Catch up with Episode 1 here: Episode 1 - The Fire on the Hill
The cabin had finally settled after all the excitement. Firelight pulsed soft against the fieldstone hearth, warming jars of herbs and stacks of books that looked as though they’d grown there over the years.
Granny nodded once. “Okay, good.” She rocked once, pipe ember glinting like a quiet star. “Now—what do I call you? And are you hungry?”
Across from her sat her three unexpected guests—tall, slim, riverstone-skinned strangers. Two seemed male, one female. The female held herself with the stillness of command: spine straight, eyes steady, hands folded neat. The calmer male was observant, thoughtful. The anxious one… well, he looked a minute away from bolting clear through a wall.
Granny set her pipe in the little ash saucer, pushed to her feet, and crossed to the kitchen corner. She lifted the skillet cornbread from the stove, added a butter dish, a jar of blackberry jam so dark it was near black, and a small pinch dish of salt onto a wooden board. Carrying it back, she set the board on the table and slid it toward them.
“Take a taste,” she said. “If you ain’t built for flour, tap the salt and pretend. Promise matters more’n the bite.”
They each obliged—careful, courteous. The anxious one lingered over the jam’s sheen.
Granny tipped her head toward the woman, one brow up. “Names?”
The woman inclined her head. “Our designations are not pronounceable in your language.”
Granny made a thoughtful little hum. “Mm. Alright, let’s see.” Her gaze rested on the woman first. “You carry yourself like you’ve got folks to answer for. I’m thinkin’… Captain Laurel. Laurel’s a good, old tree—evergreen, holds a crown when it must.”
She turned to the calm one, considering. “And you… steady under pressure. Spark when needed. Flint.”
At last, she smiled at the anxious one, softening. “And you, sweetheart—quick and lively, all nerves and music—Cricket.”
Laurel’s stern mouth curved, just a hair. “Laurel,” she tried, approving.
The calm one nodded once. “Flint.”
The anxious one brightened. “Cricket.”
Granny picked up her pipe again, then set it aside. “Now you’re officially guests and protected under my roof.”
She tapped her pipe against the green-veined hearthstone.
The stone answered with a faint pulse of mossy light.
She didn’t look.
She never did.
Laurel’s gaze slid to the window. “Our vessel is damaged,” she said. Flint set a small shimmering device on the table. A ripple rose from it—bending the air like summer heat over blacktop.
“We can cloak it,” Flint added. “Make it appear… ordinary.”
The shimmer flickered—corn, brush, bare dirt—until it settled on a tidy field of tobacco.
Granny raised her eyebrows. “Well ain’t that neighborly. Coverin’ my sweet grass with somethin’ respectable. You just saved me a chit-chat with Deputy Morris.”
Cricket blinked. “Sweet… grass? Is this a healing herb?”
Granny huffed. “Honey, that’s marijuana. Mary Jane. Pot. Finest pain medicine the earth ever gave us—which is why, of course, it’s illegal as sin in these parts.”
Flint blinked. Laurel’s mouth twitched—almost a smile.
“Do you need a bed or blankets?” Granny asked.
Laurel said, “A place to sit will do for our rest cycle. Thank you,” and bowed slightly.
“Suit yourselves,” Granny said—and gave Laurel a slow, serious nod in return—then banked the fire; the hearthstone gave one more sleepy pulse. They settled, a little less like strangers and a little more like something the house itself had decided to hold for the night.
Dawn on Whiskey Ridge
Mist lay thick over Whiskey Ridge, pooling in the holler like a silver river. The sun hadn’t fully risen yet; instead, soft lavender light filtered through the trees and caught on leaves wet with dew. A quiet gold glimmered on the distant ridge lines, painting the edges of the world in warm hush.
The air was cool, damp, clean—the kind of mountain morning that smelled of wet earth, pine resin, and something old as time waking slowly.
Granny stepped onto her porch and breathed deep.
“Might be the only peaceful moment we get today,” she muttered.
Behind her, Laurel, Flint, and Cricket gathered, blinking at the quiet beauty like they weren’t sure if it was dangerous or holy.
A sharp cry split the air—a red-tailed hawk circling low over the cabin. It banked once toward the old dirt road.
Granny made a small, knowing sound. “Mm.”
Moments later, the unmistakable coughing rattle of Kermit Bramble’s truck climbed the ridge, backfiring like it wanted to fall apart.
Granny’s eyes narrowed. Without turning, she murmured, “Back inside. Stay low. Curtains cracked just enough to see, not enough to be seen.”
Laurel inclined her head. Soft footsteps retreated; the door eased shut.
Kermit pulled up at the far side of the ravine bridge.
Granny stepped forward and planted herself firm on her side.
Kermit leaned out the window, jaw clenched so tight it quivered. “Granny Wine,” he spat, her name sharp as a rusty nail between his teeth. “Somethin’ crashed up here last night. I saw fire rollin’ off your ridge. You call the sheriff yet?”
Granny cupped a hand to her ear. “’Scuse me? This old bridge swallows sound.”
Kermit’s neck went red. He flung the truck door open and climbed out, boots crunching gravel. He stomped up to the head of the span—and stopped short of the first plank, like the boards might bite. Then, louder, each word like a kicked bucket: “I said—SOMETHIN’ CRASHED UP HERE LAST NIGHT. I SAW FIRE ROLLIN’ OFF YOUR RIDGE. YOU CALL THE SHERIFF YET?”
A crow dropped onto the bridge railing inches from his face—silent for a beat—then let out one harsh caw.
Kermit flinched violently.
His eyes snapped to the crow.
Then to the crow carved into the head of Granny’s cane.
Then to Granny herself—fear, accusation, and hostility all tangled up in one hard glare.
Granny’s expression didn’t budge.
“Mornin’ to you too, Kermit.”
“That weren’t no meteor!” he barked. “Somethin’ strange is happenin’ up here, and I ain’t blind!”
“Well, jury’s still out on that,” she said.
His face went red as a beet jar. “If you don’t report it, I will! Government oughta know when things fall out the damn sky!”
“Kermit,” Granny said, voice low and steady, “go home. You’re stirrin’ mud where mud don’t need stirrin’.”
He sputtered, glared, and stomped back to the truck. He hauled himself in and slammed the door—hard enough the mirror rattled. Then he jerked the truck into reverse, spitting gravel as he tore off.
Granny sighed. “Lord grant me patience with fools. ‘Cause I done run out.”
Behind her, the hearthstone pulsed faintly from inside the cabin.
---
Into the Woods
Fog clung low to the ground as they walked, thick and rolling—everywhere except the narrow footpath. That part stayed clear, like the fog had decided to leave it be.
They noticed.
They always noticed.
Granny didn’t comment.
Halfway down the trail, a deer stepped from the mist, ears flicking. It studied them openly, unbothered, then slipped back into the fog like a whisper.
“That is unusual,” Cricket whispered.
“For a deer?” Granny said. “Nah. They’re nosy things.”
The shimmer field appeared ahead—a wavering curtain of false tobacco rustling in fogless still air.
Then a shape resolved from the mist.
Large.
Dark.
Breathing slow.
They froze.
Granny smiled wide. “Well hey there, Fred.”
A massive black bear lumbered out of the fog—big as a washtub and twice as solid. Fred’s dark eyes softened the second he saw Granny. He huffed and walked straight to her.
“C’mere, big fella.” Granny scratched behind his ears, rubbed his thick neck, ruffled the fur between his eyes. The bear leaned in, eyes half-closed in bliss.
Cricket whispered, “Is that creature… dangerous?”
“Only if you’re rude,” Granny said. “Ain’t that right, Fred?”
Fred snorted happily—then did one joyful little bear skip, a single hop of pure delight—before lumbering into the fog.
Granny dusted her hands. “Alright, honeys. Morning welcome committee’s dismissed. Let’s go see about that ship o’ yours before Kermit calls half the county.”
She stepped toward the shimmer.
Laurel, Flint, and Cricket followed, still unsure whether Granny Wine was the strangest human alive… or the safest one they’d ever meet.
End of Episode 2.
Y’all better come back for episode 3
Offer whatever name you wish to be known by at the hearth today — real or imagined — we look forward to welcoming your words into the circle.
