Greykin Chronicles | Volume One: Greykin Mountain

Jackson Carter loved a mystery—the kind that kept him up at night in fear the shadows might devour him. That was why he found himself in Ascela’s bitter tundra as the sun set over the sharp, towering mountains.

With a huff of exertion, he dragged his shins through the knee-deep snow, trying to shake the sinister feeling of eyes examining his every move. He glanced to his left, gazing into the thick fir forest, but even if something was watching him beyond the tree line, his cerulean eyes wouldn’t be able to see it. The blizzard was picking up.

He focused on the warm glow of a village a hundred yards ahead. That was where his findings had led him. It didn’t look like much: a few brick houses, a post office, a single store, and a bar. At least the roads had been cleared of snow—mostly.

His legs shuddered in relief once he broke free of the snow onto the slushy path, the weight of his luggage causing him to stumble a little—and when a pack of dogs raced past hauling their sled, Jackson haphazardly stepped aside, watching them as their master, who was wrapped in at least three different animal skins, headed towards the store.

Jackson felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He looked over his shoulder, and when he eyed the steep hill leading up further into the mountains, a strange part of him felt as if that was the direction he should head in. It was almost as if something was calling him…or someone. But that wasn’t where he needed to go.

As fast as his aching legs would carry him, he hurried towards the bar. He hastily pulled the door open and stepped inside, battling with it for a moment as the wind wrestled to keep it from closing. Once he finally won the conflict, he sighed and turned to face the room of silent, staring faces.

The bar felt like a dimly lit haven in the middle of the snowy nowhere, a rough refuge for those who dared to live in the wilds. A similar dead look loomed in everyone’s eyes, a reflection of hard lives spent in harsh conditions; the men sitting around the room were rugged and weathered, their faces etched with the lines of countless battles against the elements. Each man sported a long, thick beard, matted and flecked with traces of snow and frost. Their hair, peeking out from beneath woollen caps or fur-lined hoods, was equally unkempt.

They all wore the same chequered shirts, red and black or blue and black, the colours faded from years of wear. Over those, they donned heavy animal-pelt coats; some were the deep brown of bear fur, others the grey of wolf or the mottled white and grey of snow hares. Their hands, calloused and scarred, wrapped around mugs of strong ale. Boots, heavy and worn, were caked with mud and snow, the soles thick and reinforced for the treacherous terrain. The men sat with a certain heaviness as if the weight of the wilderness pressed down on their shoulders even here in this small slice of civilization.

Jackson smiled, but when he realized that they couldn’t see his face beneath the scarf he had wrapped around it, he lifted his stiff arm to wave. But all that ensued were quiet whispers and skeptical frowns.

He wouldn’t let that stop him, though. He made his way over to the bar, pulling off his gloves as the warmth of the room’s fire began to melt the ice from his clothes. He let his rucksack fall off his back, and as it hit the floor with a thump, he rested his arms on the bar.

“Hey, could I get a coffee please?” he asked the bartender, but the gruffly man looked him up and down and scoffed. “Okay…cocoa? Tea?”

The bartender responded with a grunt and snatched a white mug.

Unsure of which beverage he was getting, Jackson watched the man closely. But the utters behind him drew his eyes to a group of bearded men sitting by a crate of firewood. They fell silent when he looked at them, as did the group by the window when he glanced over there, too. He’d never felt so unwelcome somewhere before.

He fiddled with the black, blue-veined, pear-shaped gemstone hanging around his neck on a thin gold chain. But as he dragged his thumb over the stone’s grooves, a familiar sadness gripped him tight. He let go of it before the dismay could consume him and reached into his puffy jacket. He pulled out his phone, but the screen didn’t respond to his several frustrated taps. With an irritated sigh, he glanced around the room, but there was no sign of an outlet.

“Hey, uh…you got somewhere I can charge this?” he asked as the bartender placed a steaming cup of cocoa on the bar.

The man looked down at his phone as if he had never seen something quite like it before…and by the looks of this place, Jackson was almost convinced that he might not have.

“Never mind,” he mumbled, slipping his phone back into his coat.

Then, the bartender held out his hand.

Jackson nodded and reached into his pocket, locating one of his last bronze coins. He’d spent every ounce of his savings getting to this place…it better be worth it.

He handed the man the coin. “Do you know where I can find Greykin Mountain?” he asked him—even if his phone were charged, he was sure he’d not get a signal out here.

Looking him up and down again, the bartender frowned skeptically. “What you want with that place?”

“I’m looking for someone,” he said as he took out a photo. “His name’s Ethan. He might have been with some other guys?” he urged as he pulled out an old newspaper article with pictures of all the journalists who’d gone missing. “They’re all from New Dawnward.”

The man barely looked at the pictures and scoffed. “Go home,” he dismissed.

Jackson frowned disappointedly. “What?”

“You’re not the first guy to come out here asking about that godforsaken place,” he grunted, wiping the bar down, “and if you don’t wanna end up like the rest, I suggest you go back to your…Dawnward.”

“This was the last place they came, though. You sure you haven’t seen any of them? Take another look, please,” he insisted desperately.

“It’s a harsh place. People go missing all the time.”

Shuffling onto the seat beside him, Jackson wrapped his hands around his mug of cocoa and shrugged. “All those people came out here looking for the same thing.”

“Oh?” the man muttered, clearly uninterested.

“Wolf walkers.”

That name seemed to send a disgruntled shiver through the tense room. The whispers died down, the sound of shuffling bodies fell silent, and Jackson could feel everyone’s eyes on him.

Throwing the rag he’d been cleaning the bar with over his shoulder, the bartender leaned closer to him. “The only thing up in Greykin are bears, wolves, and fanatics. They’re probably what got the people you’re looking for.”

“Fanatics?”

“Aye, fanatics,” one of the men behind him called.

Jackson looked back over his shoulder.

“Beady eyes,” the man said, pointing to his own eyes. “About ten teeth between ’em. Kill anything they see.”

Admittedly a little spooked, Jackson frowned uncomfortably and gathered up his pictures. If no one had seen Ethan or the other journalists, then he was going to have to search himself. “Can you tell me how to get there?” he asked the bartender.

The man shook his head with a look of disbelief on his face. “Did you not hear what we said?”

“Yeah, I heard. But I can take care of myself,” he said confidently.

With a heavy sigh, the man shook his head. “All right, if you insist.” He pointed back over his shoulder. “Head up the hill. About thirty minutes up, you’ll find an abandoned shack—used to belong to an old hermit,” he mumbled. “Head west from there. ’Bout…fifteen miles, you’ll reach Greykin River. Mountain’s just across from it.”

Jackson nodded. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, kid—and wait ’til morning,” the bartender mumbled, and then he wandered away, disappearing into the room behind the bar before Jackson could ask him if he could get his cocoa to-go.

Thirty minutes of daylight remained. But Jackson wasn’t afraid of the dark. He glanced out of the window, watching as the blizzard started to calm down. He had to find Ethan, and he’d not waste a moment. So, he eased his gloves on, lifted his rucksack onto his back, and headed out the door, ignoring the stares and murmurs.

For a moment, he stood there, shivering. In the short time he’d spent inside, the evening’s glow had diminished, and that minacious feel of gawping eyes washed over him again. But he didn’t have time to stand there and ask himself if he’d made a mistake—no, he was doing this. Ethan would do the same for him.

“Up the hill, up the hill-hill…” he mumbled to himself, shivering as he danced around on the spot, his breath visible before him. He searched for the hill, his eyes scanning the long stretch of forest he’d followed to get there, and when he caught sight of the long, steep slope he’d gazed at on his way into town, he rubbed his hands over his puffy black jacket and headed towards it.

If there was anything he hated more than a dead phone, it was the cold, but neither of those things could stop him from getting answers. Everyone back at the New Dawnward Times seemed to have given up, but not him. Ethan was out here somewhere—they all were.

He groaned uncomfortably as he walked up the hill, and when a harsh breeze swooped past, it lifted snow off the ground and launched it into his face. With an irritated grunt, he stumbled to the side; the storm was picking up again.

Jackson trekked faster. His struggled walk became something of a hurried waddle, climbing higher and higher. Utter relief swallowed him when his eyes located the small outline of what could only be the mentioned shack through the thickening snow. And as the whistling wind howled and screeched, he started running as best he could.

But then he saw something. A dark figure shifted through the white haze, its outline vaguely resembling a bear. Yet, Jackson wasn’t struck by fear. The same strange feeling that he experienced when he first looked up the hill enveloped him again, an unsettling sensation that seemed to beckon him closer. It was a confounding, inexplicable pull, as if the very air around him was whispering for him to approach. Should he listen to it? Should he move closer?

The shrouded beast lifted a paw, prowling nearer with an almost deliberate slowness, as if it were trying to peer through the snow to get a better look at Jackson. Its eyes, dark voids in the storm, seemed to lock onto him, pulling him into their depths.

Why the hell would he move closer to it? His mind screamed at him to flee, but his legs felt like lead. Whatever that thing was, it was massive, and it looked like it was on the hunt. He wasn’t about to willingly become something’s dinner, but the pull was stronger now, almost irresistible, dragging him toward the unknown menace lurking in the storm.

He resisted it. He fought it. The moment he reached the shack, he burst through the door and immediately slammed it shut behind him, letting a deep sigh of relief escape his shivering breaths. Despite his desperation to find Ethan as soon as possible, he wasn’t going to risk walking through the woods at night and becoming something’s food.

Once he’d calmed down, Jackson slowly looked around the gloomy room he found himself in. Leaf litter was scattered across the splintered wooden floor, while cobwebs clung to every corner and crevasse like ghostly shrouds. A lump of charcoaled wood lay in the crumbling fireplace, its blackened remnants a testament to long-forgotten warmth. The windows were boarded up, casting the room in a perpetual twilight. The stench of old, dried alcohol hung heavy in the air, emanating from the empty bottles that littered the floor like discarded memories.

In the far-left corner atop the rusting stove, a pair of rats stared at him, their beady eyes glinting in the dim light. They wriggled their noses, their movements unnervingly synchronized, as if they were more than just vermin, as if they were watching him with a purpose. Shadows stretched across the walls, playing tricks on his eyes, convincing him that they were hungry spectres, and the howling wind outside seemed to whisper through the cracks in the walls, adding to the ominous atmosphere. Jackson couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone, that the shack itself was alive with a silent, malevolent presence.

But it was just a shack. It was just the wind. It was just the moonlight creeping in through the cracks. He was alone.

He was alone…right?

Jackson glanced around again, trying to focus on the fact that he had to make what lay before him work. It was only for one night, so he didn’t really need to make the effort of tidying the place up.

As the wind hummed outside, shaking the battered walls, he moved into the centre of the room, kicked away as much leaf litter and glass as he could, and pulled his roll mat from his rucksack. He laid it down, made sure that it was flat, and placed his sleeping bag atop it. Then, with a tired huff, he slumped down onto it, pulled off his snow-covered boots, and slipped his legs into his bed.

That was when he heard it.

That sound.

Shuffling—rustling.

He instinctively looked back over his shoulder for the rats, but they had disappeared.

The shack creaked and the wind howled, but it carried with it a shriek—something of a dying animal…a creature crying out. A fox?

Jackson stared at the door, watching through its cracks as the snow continued to fall.

Moments passed by without another sound, so he shook his head and lay down. Of course he was going to hear animals—he was out in the middle of nowhere, not to mention the miles of forest surrounding him.

He rested his head on his arm, staring at the wall—

Something shrieked again—louder, closer.

Jackson sat up and set his eyes back on the door, his heart thumping in his chest. His breaths became unsteady as a shiver of anxiety shot through him, and when the sound of footsteps scurrying through the snow edged closer, his pulse quickened to a frantic beat.

In a panic, he reached into his rucksack and pulled out his hunting knife. His eyes widened as he watched the shadow of whatever was outside dance under the door, a blur of something black moving around on the other side. Was it a bear? A very large fox? Or the thing he’d seen staring at him on his way up? He hoped for a fox, but he feared that it was something far worse.

Why hadn’t he just found somewhere to stay in that creepy little village instead of acting on his desperation to reach Greykin Mountain as soon as possible? What the hell was he doing out here? In the wilds, surrounded by a forest brimming with hungry predators. What would he even do if something attacked him? He cursed himself for taking such a huge risk, for being an idiot driven by urgency into this isolated, eerie nightmare.

The shadow outside paused, and Jackson’s breath hitched. He could hear the low, guttural growl reverberating through the wooden walls, sending a chill down his spine. The wind outside howled mournfully…as if it were warning him of the impending doom. He gripped the knife tighter, the cold metal biting into his palm, his mind racing with fear and regret.

His heart then dropped into his stomach. Had he locked that door?

The shadow outside crept closer.

Jackson gritted his teeth in trepidation. As fast as he could, he lunged forward, grabbed the door’s handle, and desperately bolted it shut.

He stepped back, panting, his heart racing…he stared down at the shadow, and as he watched it slowly creep away, he exhaled in relief. But he didn’t feel repose. He sat back down on his sleeping bag, holding his knife tightly, feeling the sweat on his palm.

It was some animal out in the woods. Just a fox or something.

Right?

Jackson swallowed the saliva that pooled in his mouth, and his eyes darted around the room. Whatever it was…it was circling the shack. It knew that he was inside.

Should he stay silent and hope that it left? Or should he make noise and scare the thing away?

Quiet. He had to be quiet.

Whatever it was…if he gave it no reason to attack, it had to leave, didn’t it?

He watched the shadow circle the shack one more time, its sinister presence looming just beyond the thin walls. It sniffed under the loose wooden planks, each inhale an eldritch rasp that sent shivers down Jackson’s spine. It even nudged the walls with its shrouded paws, the wood creaking ominously under the pressure. Jackson’s heart raced so fast that he felt like he might pass out, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps, and he held the knife so tight that the skin on his hand felt raw, the blade trembling ever so slightly.

The creature stopped at the door. It sniffed and tapped at the wood, the sound sharp and deliberate in the oppressive silence. Jackson’s pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. He could almost feel the creature’s breath seeping through the cracks, cold and foul. But to his sheer relief, after what felt like an eternity, it departed with a deep, guttural huff.

Jackson listened to its footfall fade away into the night, but an awful feeling gnawed at him. It would be back. He was certain of it. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down for even a moment. If he had to sit awake all night, he would. The shack’s decrepit walls felt like they were closing in, the darkness pressing down on him, thick and suffocating. He wasn’t going to risk that thing finding a way inside.