Granny Wine & the Visitors: Episode 4 “The Walkabout”
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 black SUVs rolled to a stop where a dead pine lay across the road.
The road curved up and away to the left — but the tree sprawled across the road. The pine was long dead, bark sloughed away in patches, its break fresh where it had snapped near the base.
Doors opened. Boots hit gravel.
The sergeant tipped his chin up the short rise toward the trunk.
“Reed. Up there. Check the base.”
Reed climbed the slope and crouched near the break, leaning in close. He went still.
“Sir.”
The sergeant followed him up, took one look at the churned mud and crushed leaves, and straightened.
“Bear tracks.”
Sheriff Morris didn’t even look at the prints. He studied the trunk itself — the worn bark, the scraped wood — and his mouth twitched.
“Yeah,” he said mildly. “Big black male. Looks like his scratching post gave up the ghost.”
Mason swallowed. “A bear?”
One of the soldiers snorted. “What’s wrong, Mason? You scared?”
Mason scowled. “I’m not — I just—”
“Knock it off,” the sergeant snapped.
He scanned the curve of road disappearing left, then the tree line beyond the slope.
“No point clearing it. Road bends around. We cut through the trees and meet it again on the other side.”
Mason checked his GPS.
“Half a click,” he said. “Maybe less.”
He hesitated, then added, “Five minutes.”
The sergeant nodded. “Five minutes.”
They headed uphill toward the forest edge. It wasn’t far. Fog clung low to the trees — thin enough to see through, thick enough to dull the colors beyond. The air felt cooler there. Heavier. Waiting.
They stepped into the trees, and the fog closed around them.
Sound changed first.
Footsteps softened. Leaves swallowed noise. The road behind them vanished from sight. Trunks repeated in patterns that made distance hard to judge.
They walked.
“…That’s not right.”
The sergeant turned. “What.”
Mason frowned at the screen and tapped it once.
“It says we’re back on the road.”
The radio erupted in static.
Everyone jumped.
Reed yanked it from its holder just as a burst of sound cut through —
“—radio check—”
It was his own voice.
For a moment, no one spoke.
They just looked at each other.
The sergeant reached into his pocket and pulled out his compass. The needle spun — fast, useless. He snapped it shut.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “We keep moving.”
The forest opened suddenly onto a three-way split — three narrow paths branching out where there hadn’t been any a moment before.
Before anyone could speak, a skunk waddled out of the brush directly ahead of them.
Reed recoiled. “Oh hell—”
The skunk lifted its tail.
“Run!”
They scattered — left, right, back — each grabbing the first path that wasn’t forward.
Mason and the other soldier pushed through brush at a half-run, breath sharp in their chests, boots slipping on wet leaves. They slowed.
Something rolled through the trees behind them.
Low.
Deep.
Close.
The growl vibrated through the undergrowth, felt more than heard.
The other soldier froze.
“Oh hell no.”
The sound came again — heavier this time, something shifting its weight.
The soldier didn’t look back. He just pointed hard in the opposite direction.
“Go.”
They went.
Branches snapped. Ferns tore at their legs. The forest folded shut behind them as they ran, the sound dropping away — not retreating, just no longer following.
They didn’t slow down to question it.
Reed slowed first, heart hammering, radio dead weight in his hand.
The other soldier glanced around, uneasy.
“My mama used to tell me stories about ghosts in woods like this.”
Reed snorted. “Don’t start.”
Something pale shifted between the trees ahead.
Reed blinked. “Did you see that?”
“No.”
They took a cautious step closer.
The other soldier stopped cold.
“…Okay. I saw that.”
The shape was gone.
Neither of them suggested following it.
“Let’s,” Reed said slowly, “not go that way.”
They turned, choosing the darker path without knowing why it felt safer.
The sergeant moved fast, irritation riding high. Sheriff Morris stayed just ahead of him, eyes on the ground.
“Where the hell are we going?” the sergeant snapped.
Morris stopped at a shallow rise and brushed aside leaves with two fingers.
Deer tracks.
He straightened and pointed uphill.
“Deer don’t go uphill without reason.”
Then he started walking.
The sergeant paused — just a beat, jaw tight — then followed.
The woods here felt ordinary. Damp. Close. Alive.
Sheriff Morris stepped out of the trees first and stopped, stretching his shoulders like he was glad to feel open ground again.
“Sheriff Morris!”
The sergeant came out hard, breath short, face tight.
“You walked like you knew where you were going back there.”
Morris turned. “Sergeant Grant.”
Grant stepped closer. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Morris met his eyes, calm as still water.
“You didn’t ask.”
“That mountain—”
“—isn’t a map,” Morris said evenly. “And it don’t answer to rank.”
Voices burst out of the woods behind them.
“There was something white—”
“No, it growled—”
“Big as hell, sir—”
“A bear—!”
“A ghost, I swear—!”
They talked over one another, fear inflated into noise.
Grant turned on them.
“Enough.”
No one stopped.
Grant sucked in a sharp breath.
“HEY!”
Silence snapped down hard.
“We’re done wandering,” he said. “Everybody calm down. Move it.”
No one argued.
Beyond the ravine, a narrow bridge waited. Past it, a small cabin sat quiet and solid, like it had been there forever.
“Well,” Morris said mildly, “there’s her place.”
Behind them, the woods closed ranks.
Inside the Cabin
Granny Wine stood at her table, pipe in hand, working a cleaner through the stem with slow, practiced care.
Cricket hovered close, watching every movement.
“You keep the channel clean,” Granny said, not looking at him. “She draws smoother. Wood remembers how you treat it.”
Cricket nodded, intent — the last of his old jitter gone.
At the window, Captain Laurel stood with her hands folded behind her back, gaze fixed on the ridge. The light caught her hair — silver, slightly tarnished, still bright beneath it.
“They should have arrived by now,” she said.
“Oh, they’re still on that walkabout we sent ’em on,” Granny replied. “Might be a bit longer.”
In the corner, Flint worked quietly over a compact device.
Granny’s eyes flicked to him.
He nodded once.
The green-veined stone on the mantle flared — sudden and bright.
Granny tamped the bowl, set the pipe aside, and smiled.
“Well now,” she said. “I’m impressed. They did better than I thought.”
She grabbed her cane and rose slowly.
“Alright, honeys. You know the drill. Outta sight.”
They moved to their places.
Granny rested her hand on the latch.
“Ready?” she asked.
Laurel inclined her head.
“So it begins.”
Granny opened the door.
_________________________
“Not every crossing is given. Some are earned.”
The exciting conclussion is finally here!!! Episode 5 - The Quiet Returns
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.
