Ma wasn’t sure how long dad would stay laid up with his leg all twisted. The fall from the roof left it bloated and raw. She did what little she remembered from her healer friend back home, but the best medicine she could offer was on the market shelf down at the bottom of the mountain.
 

          She’d told dad to ask Mr. Smith for a hand fixing the chimney, but Mr. Smith is an awful man and told dad to stop drinking and get planting. So I understand him, a man who’d rather craft you shoes from scratch than drink a drop of any liquor, saying no.

         

          I asked if we could go back home, but Ma said she saw a dear friend get dragged off right in front of her home the other day and sold way down south, a thousand miles farther down than where he lived before he’d come up to Harlem. So if I want to put myself in the hands of the kidnapping club and end up in chains, I’m more than welcome. But if I mean to stick around in these free mountains and help, then I’d best take the wagon to town and get Dad some medicine.
 

          I threw my coat on over my overalls, hoping it would protect me against the cutting wind. Winter was already coming on fast. Snow was deep enough to cover my ankles and wish I had longer socks. Dad sure can resole a shoe, but sometimes the socks are lacking lately.
 

          When I took the wagon out, the horse wasn’t having it. But with a little coaxing I had him headed down the road nice and slow. I didn’t like to leave Ma and Dad alone, but without help Dad’s condition could turn grave soon. I tried to hurry, but the wheels couldn’t keep straight if I did, and the horse fought my every twist of the reins.
 

          As I drove on through the Adirondack chill, I wondered if Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown had sold anymore lands to black families yet. I would find some happiness in their faces. They say we’re here for our freedom, and I suppose it’s better than getting sold into slavery. But I do miss spending time with my friends back in the city.
 

          As I finally entered Victor County late that night, I struggled to keep my eyes open, rolling past empty pastures, and the half empty main street of Cherry Springs that had the sulfur-laden spring running beneath it that kept it smelling like rotten eggs.
 

          With only a few lowly visible streetlamps and the moon overhead, the town felt even more empty than I remembered it. The whole town felt like a forgotten hollow between a half dozen mountains. A low down groove in the rock with nothing to show for itself but a path to other places. The Catskill Farrier seemed to still be running, somehow. And the Central Market. The farrier and the market had both closed for the day many hours earlier, and what the market was central to I’ll never know.
 

          That meant I had to continue on in the bitter cold and dark, following the river that ran through Cherry Springs from a mountain spring and lazily trickling down to the valley below as Fishkill Creek. Ma had given me one other option if all else failed. A small group of Tuscarora Natives lived even further South in an area others called Covington. And though they didn’t much like to interact with the others in the area (something I understood well), Ma said they would help if help was needed.
 

          To reach them, I had to keep South down the last slope of the mountain, continuing on the one path down from our solitary, one-room cabin, to the open plains below. There, in a bend of the river, I’d find the Native village I needed.
 

          As I headed South of Cherry Springs, the woods came in close on both sides of the road. What was smoothed down and even under the wheels became rocky and full of divots. The snow helped. But as I headed further down out of the mountain, the snow became slush and turned to running water as soon as the wheels touched it.
 

          The road became a narrow trail that followed the creek, winding between approaching trees that swatted at my face as I ducked from the wind. The dark was silent, save the crunch crunch crunch of the turning wheels through the slush. I was alone, forging ahead, searching for hope in the night.
 

          Until I saw a handwritten sign for Craufurd’s Hollow, made of roughly hewn wood and crudely nailed together.
 

          I’d remembered taking this road north with all of our belongings during the move. But I had no memory of this place.
 

          Still, I’d stayed along the water so far. And I hadn’t found the village I needed. So Covington must still lie ahead of me. I’d have to pass through Craufurd’s Hollow first.
 

          I continued on past the sign. But the woods revealed no town. There were no houses, no pastures, no businesses. Worst of all, no people.
 

          In fact, there were no buildings at all. No breaks in the trees to let me know people existed here.
 

          Until the creek curled off to the left and I saw a church.
 

          It was a small, stone church on a half acre of earth, a small clearing that left little room for more save a neighboring cemetery. Three hilly sides of the area were overgrown with woods. The remaining side, at the base of the hill and across the road, was bordered by the creek.
I felt a twinge at the base of my spine. As if someone had reached inside of my body and flicked my bottom  with their fingernail. The feeling radiated up through me, and woke me up immediately.
         

          And I soon saw what caused it. Here, where the water passed, something had gone wrong. Perhaps snow had melted and overflowed the boundaries of the creek. Or maybe a great storm came through and tore up the earth.
 

          Because the road in front of the church was torn asunder. Great trenches of dirt had carved their way across the path, six feet deep. There was no way I could take the wagon across. I could continue on foot. But I wasn’t sure how many more miles I had to go. I could unhitch the horse, but I wasn’t much at horse riding.
 

          Something about the church was nagging at me. It stood out to me, one stone building when I thought all holy structures in the region were made of wood. It didn’t feel quite right.
But, glancing up at the window in the church’s steeple, I swore I saw a shadow pass by the tinged window. Someone was here after all. Maybe someone who could help, or who had a way to reach the Natives. Either way, it felt like the temperature was dropping fast. A little rest inside would do me good. Then I could continue on my way.
 

          I got off the wagon and walked onto the church grounds.
 

          The flooding had done a number on the grounds, dragging great mounds of dirt from the neighboring cemetery and knocking over gravestones. Like great fingers of some larger than life creature had raked through the yard.
 

          Where before, dozens of gravestones were neatly placed, now they looked like a tableau of crashing ships. They had smashed into each other in the tumultuous waves of cascading dirt below, no living hands near to right them.
 

          And in the rear of the graveyard, higher on the hill, there was a stack of neatly arranged stones that looked untouched by the damage. Curious. But impressive. Whoever had stacked them did a good job.
 

          The church also remained intact. No windows were shattered, no stone out of place. Even though the fallen earth out front had disturbed the path, it had stopped short of the stone path that led up to the church. It was remarkable.
 

          And chilling.
 

          Something about looking up at the building gave me pause. But there was that shadow inside.
 

          I walked up into the graveyard, careful to avoid the worst of the freezing mud with every step. I circled up toward the stack of stones since the ground was the most undisturbed there. As I approached, I saw that one small, rounded rock lay a foot from the rest.
 

          I picked it up. It was smooth, as if water had worn away every edge. But so perfectly circular that it felt man made. It was the same color as the stones that made up the church, at least I thought so. It was tough to tell at this distance.
 

          I slipped it into my pocket, rubbing it between my fingers as I read a small metal plaque that was set into the earth before the stacked rocks.
 

          Cairn of Father Craufurd
 

          I wasn’t sure what a cairn was. But if Father Craufurd wasn’t in the ground under this one, maybe he could help.
 

          I kept moving toward the church, approaching its great big double doors. It was silent all around. As I walked up the stone-paved path, I spotted a foundation stone.
 

          Craufurd’s Hollow Church - Built 1712
 

          So was Craufurd dead? Here, surrounded by gently swaying maple trees, I could imagine them practicing their religious beliefs in freedom. I wonder if that worked for them.
 

          As I looked around, a gentle mist started to move in. I scanned the area to make sure I was alone. There were no people on the path, not even deer nearby. I’m not sure if that was comforting or more unnerving.
 

          The wagon was just behind me. In a few seconds I could be turned around and headed along the forest path toward Cherry Springs. Maybe someone in town would point me toward a doctor or pharmacist who would help me late at night.
 

          Ma moved us to the country because that sort of thing would never work for us, for our kind.
But I knew I’d seen someone inside. A figure. And church folk could be kind.
 

          I soon found myself at the church’s doors. I grabbed the handle on the right door, as if expecting some great clamor or voice to call out to me.
 

          There was no one. Silence answered me.
 

          I made my choice. I pulled the door open.
 

          The main room of the church was empty. Squat candles sat in saucers held at head height by chains on both sides of the doorway. Thin trails of moonlight filtered in through the filmy windows to gently illuminate the space. All I saw before me were dusty pews, a plain altar dotted by a few old stubs of candles, and a small ladder that led up into the steeple.
 

          I started down the aisle, letting my eyes sweep across the space, until I finally reached the basic wooden box that made up the altar.
 

          Cobwebs coated every possible surface. Except the ladder. It was smooth and clean. As if the wood used to make it were harvested and smoothed yesterday.
 

          I can’t explain why I did it, why I climbed. I just knew I had to, that there was something calling to me from upstairs. And dad needed help.
 

          But when I finally stepped up into the church attic, it was empty. It felt hollow. No cobwebs, no dust. As if this space had once collected so much promise, so much purpose. 

         

          It was only as I started to turn back toward the ladder that I saw it.
 

          A small brown book. Squat, but thick with pages. It looked almost waterlogged. Like it had ridden out the flood somehow, coming from somewhere far off upstream. It lay just under the window that faced the creek, and the road I’d driven up.

         

          When I picked up the book, it felt dry and brittle.
 

          I opened it to the first page. There was thinly scrawled writing covering the pages.
 

          I read slowly, my eyes adjusting to the script as I went. It felt so different from Ma’s clean, easy pen strokes. 
 

          Da thinks we’re rid of it here. At least he says we are. That every Hail Mary pushes it back another league. Sean believes him, and I guess I do too. I gave Susie the medallion I’d carried over from back home. She said it looked lovely, that it goes well with her hair.
 

          I flipped through the endless text, taking in little snippets that stand out from the rest, written in the thicker lines of a heavier hand.
 

          God bless, Susie. I hope she makes it out.
 

          It ate them up so fast. No one else is left.
 

          We should leave. Why won’t Da let us leave?
 

          Before long, I must have sat down in that musty old attic, because I found myself reading every word.

          Diary of Maggie Craufurd.

          March 2
         

          Da thinks we’re rid of the curse here. At least he says we are. That every Hail Mary pushes it back another league, and the holy stones he brought with us will protect us from all evils. Sean believes him, and I guess I do too. I gave Susie the medallion I’d carried over from back home. She said it looked lovely, that it goes well with her hair. I saw the most beautiful horses over at the closest farm, only a few long turns down the road. A boy there waved at me and smiled.
 

          I waved back, but Ma grabbed my hand and pulled me away.
 

          She says I can’t go. That we don’t know them. That I might get lost.
 

          All I wanted was to pet the horses and say hi. I wouldn’t do anything with the boy.
 

          I know what she’s really worried about.

          As I read it, I felt as if I could see it all playing out in my head. I couldn't stop.

          April 20
          Susie came to me this morning and apologized. She said she can’t live like this anymore, that she needs to get out and live her own life. Six years of living like this, so shut off from everyone around us. She’s caught the eye of that boy up at the Hubbard Farm. She called him Will. They’re going to go off together, with some money he’s saved up from giving riding lessons to the fancy folk out of Portersville.
 

          She told him why we live like this and he said there’s no way something like that is real. That his parents have the same sorts of stories about the old country. But it’s all nonsense that fades away with time.
 

          Susie said she’s always felt the same way, that nothing so dark could exist in beautiful country like this.
 

          She asked me to leave with them, but I couldn’t. Not with Sean still here.
 

          She offered to give me back the medallion, said she wasn’t a good enough friend to keep it. But I told her that we’ll always be friends. Distance can’t stop that.
 

          I hugged her and wished her well. But I’m worried for her.
 

          What if she’s wrong?
 

          God bless Susie. I hope she makes it out.

          April 27

          The Crommes stayed out late tonight to finish furrowing their fields.
 

          Dad stayed at the doorway, yelling at Mister Cromme to finish up and get the Hell inside. It surprised me. I’m not used to him swearing. A man of God. A minister. But he did it because he cares about us all.
 

          When the sun finally set, he already had the door closed and the windows were sealed. Right on schedule as always.
 

          The mists were already creeping through the fields.
 

          I tried to watch at the window and make sure they got back inside safe and sound, but Ma wouldn’t let me.
 

          We stayed in the basement, playing cards while she told us stories from back home. From when I was too young to remember. About how Sean and I loved to pick stones from the creek that ran through our lands and see who could find the smoothest and shiniest.
 

          She gasped when the first scream started.
 

          But she clasped a hand over her own mouth and eventually kept telling the story, even as she cried. She was dear friends with Misses Cromme.
 

          I can still hear their bones crunching between its teeth.

          April 28
 

         Today we divided up the Cromme fields between our family and the next over, the Kynds.
 

          There was no time to honor their land properly. If we’re going to finish planting the lands, we need to start today.
 

          Da and Mister Kynd buried the Cromme bodies before Sean and I woke.
 

          We’re having their funeral at noon, after everyone’s had a break from tilling the fields. Then we’ll get back to work.

          May 12
         

          I found Susie this afternoon while I was on a long walk through the forest. I was feeling sad without her around. Who else could I talk to?
         

          Sean is kind, but he doesn’t understand.
         

          The medallion was around her neck, its golden cord dug into her skin. Like someone tall and strong as an ox had picked her up by it. Until her neck gave out. Then dropped her. After it pulled a handful of bones from her.
 

          It left her slumped back against a tree. Like she was resting.
 

          I couldn’t pull the cord out again, so I left it with her.
 

          I don’t know what happened to Will.
 

          We’ll go back and collect her together in the morning, give her a proper burial back home.
 

          But the sun was already fading.
 

          It’ll have to wait until the morning.
 

          I’m so alone now.

          As I turned the pages, I could hear the wind kick up outside, the distant crunch of leaves. I glanced at the window, the one where I’d seen a silhouette earlier. It was covered in dust, and yellowed with age. I could barely see through it from this side.
 

          May 15
          Ma finally told me the name of what follows us.
 

          Am Fear Liath Mor. The big grey man.
 

          When Da went out to work the fields, and she was cooking the day’s luncheon, she pulled me aside a moment.
 

          She said it’s his fault it followed us.
 

          That he went for a long walk through the high hills of our homeland one day and stumbled upon a cairn stacked high on a peak. He walked in close to examine the stones, and stumbling ended up disturbing a few.
 

          He heard the crunching of great steps beside him, and saw a ten foot tall shadow standing over him.
 

          He took off running, and somehow made it home alive.
 

          Maybe he disturbed some ancestor’s burial ground, or it was the site of some old battlefield. Either way, he tried to fix the cairn, but the sounds kept coming in the night. Villagers started disappearing.
 

          He knew it was his fault, but he couldn’t admit it. He told the town it was evil spirits, that they didn’t believe enough. That the lands were cursed. We all believed him.
 

          But Ma knew the truth.
 

          He tricked us all into coming here and brought the stones, hoping to make amends. He built the stones into the church foundation and the walkway, to show them reverence.
 

          But still, the grey man comes.

          I felt my spine twitch again, but looking around the church attic only served to remind me that I was up there alone.
 

          I didn’t want to think on that, so instead I returned my focus to the book.

          September 7
 

          The Kynds broke a wagon wheel on their way back home from selling produce in town last night. We could hear them screaming for us to help them as they came running over the fields.
It ate them up so fast. Stalking them in the misty fields. Their screams won’t leave me.
 

          Da says it was their punishment for going beyond our home lands. As if this place could replace our actual home.
 

          No one else is left. We held services at our table this morning. Then I cried all through breakfast. Da yelled at me. He said that the others should have believed more, that that’s always the problem. But they didn’t do anything wrong. None of them did. Not Susie and Will, I said.
He said they made mistakes. They showed each other affection before marriage. That they stayed out after dark.
 

          I said I hated him and ran upstairs.
 

          I apologized a little later, after Sean gave me a hug and said he was sorry. He’s doing his best. I’m sorry about what I said to Da. He didn’t mean to curse us. But there are so many dead. I’m even more sad that Sean was there. I didn’t mean to make him cry.
 

          There’s a cloak of dread about me that I can't remove.

          September 8
 

          I thought about it all last night, as I heard the tree boughs sway outside. The winds picked up and the brittle branches started to rub against each other. Dry leaves swept across each other in the mists and broke. I saw each one as the step of the Grey Man. I saw it in my head. Picking bones from bodies. Eating our friends.
 

          I wept as silently as I could to not wake Sean. But that feeling of dread stays.
 

          This morning, before Da started in the fields, I told him what I thought. It was time to go start a new life somewhere far from here. Somewhere with lots of people. Maybe even a city. It couldn’t come after us in a city, could it?
 

          He says we can’t, that it’s all a punishment we have to suffer through. That it’s God’s will.
 

          I don’t understand how God can leave us to suffer this.
 

          We should leave.
 

          Why won’t Da let us leave? We could leave the stones behind and live somewhere far away.

          September 12
 

          I’ve stayed silent for days now. Even in church.
 

          I know Da wants to say something, but Ma won’t let him.
 

          She thinks I’m grieving. Maybe I am.
 

          But I have a plan now. If we can’t go together, I need to take Sean and go.

          This time, when I looked up, I wasn’t alone.
 

          A figure stood at the top of the ladder in a faded, muddy green dress with a full head of red hair. She held her head low, and the hair cast a shadow across her face. But I could make out enough to know she wasn’t alive.
 

          “Maggie?” I could barely say the name aloud.
 

          She didn’t move. But I could feel her eyes focus on me. As if she hadn’t seen me until I said her name.
 

          Her right hand came up. She pointed at the diary in my lap. And I could see her lips start to move. But no sound came.
 

          When I saw her, I’d dropped the book. It had fallen shut.
 

          Now, I recovered it and pulled it open again.
 

          There was one entry I hadn’t read yet, near the back of the book.

          September 12
 

          We make a run for it in the morning. I’ll wake Sean at dusk and tell him we’re going for supplies. When we’re far enough away, I’ll tell him the truth. I don’t like lying to him, like Da did, but I have no choice.
 

          We’ll have to hope the grey man isn’t around in the early morning.
 

          I can’t sleep.
 

          I can still hear him out there, hunting. Hoping.
 

          I can’t live like this anymore.

          As I reached the end of the entry, new writing began to appear on pages near the back of the book. It was scrawled in rough, heavy-handed letters. As if by someone who hadn’t held a pen in centuries and was just now remembering how it worked.

          I tried to get Sean out, but he protested. He was old enough to know the truth, to see it in my eyes.
 

          It was tough to keep him quiet.
 

          I told him it was the only way, that we needed to get away.
 

          He said he’d come with me. That he trusted me. We both love Ma and Da, but what else could we do?
 

          We ran outside with my bundle of supplies.
 

          But it was too early. He was hiding in the woods for us. Like how he must have taken Susie.
 

          There was nowhere to run.
 

          We rushed into the church, hoping it would protect us.
 

          But he followed us here.
 

          I lit candles for the dead, hoping they could save us.
 

          But it came inside anyway.
 

          It grabbed Sean and killed him in front of me. His neck snapped so fast. So loud.

          She moved, and I thought my heart had left my chest. But she only turned and descended the ladder in a slow, silent glide.
 

          I slipped the diary into the pocket of my jacket and followed her.
 

          I crept through the church’s aisle, searching the empty pews for any sign of her. But she wasn’t here. 
 

          I looked up, toward the doorway. And there she was. Standing in front of the doors that were now flung wide open. Letting in the wind, and the mist.
 

          The candles next to the door burst alight. And I could see she wasn’t alone. Her brother stood with her, her parents, neighbors and friends. There was Susie with the necklace embedded in her neck, Will held her hand. Soon the whole town was there. Standing in the dark. They watched me in silence, from eyes that glowed red in the light of the candles. But none of them moved.
 

          Then Maggie lifted her hand again.
 

          I felt that same twitch at the base of my spine. I could hear the crunching of leaves outside.

         

          Dear god, I hoped it was the wind.
 

          I reached into my pocket and pulled out her diary, my fingers brushing against the stone.
 

          I turned it to the last written page.
 

          This time only five words appeared to me.
 

          It still aches.
 

          I’m sorry.
 

          A tall man emerged from the mists. He stood behind the rest of the spirits, ten feet tall. His long limbs overly long next to his emaciated torso. But the mist hid much of him, never leaving a piece of him exposed for long.
 

          All I can clearly make out are those dully glowing red eyes. Ancient, menacing. Hungry.
That same feeling drew my attention back to the book.
 

          New writing was starting to appear on the last handful of pages. In blocky, deliberate handwriting I knew well.

          October 15
          Ma wasn’t sure how long dad would stay laid up with his leg all twisted. The fall from the roof left it bloated and raw.

          The grey man swept two fingers in front of his face. A sharp blade of air snuffed out the candles at the door.

         

          I hope my parents won’t worry too much, that Dad’ll be okay.