Page 4 of Obscurity
They had a strong following with their country-rap infusion. Personally, their songs hurt her ears. But she would have to endure this music all weekend, and she had to act like she liked it.
She needed to be able to sing along, to act like a super fan.
It was all in the job description.
She hummed along.
Down in the holler where the shadows grow long
There’s whispers in the wind of something gone wrong
They say don’t go walking when the moon gets thin
’Cause some folks who wander don’t come back again
These mountains got secrets buried deep and dark
They’ll swallow your soul and leave barely a mark
So listen real close to what the old folks say
Some places are meant to stay hidden away
A few minutes later, her GPS announced a detour due to road construction. The new route directed her off the backroad she was on and onto an even more narrow mountain road.
Her jaw hardened as she gripped the steering wheel more tightly. A detour hadn’t been on her schedule, but she was at the mercy of technology right now.
A few minutes later, the pavement gave way to gravel. Then a quarter of a mile later the road turned into something barely wider than a logging trail that wound through increasingly dense forest. Over time, heavy rainfall had left its mark, creating deep ruts in the rugged road.
This couldn’t be right. She checked the GPS again.
The device still insisted she was on the correct route to Pine Ridge Lodge.
Tension stretched between her shoulder blades.
She’d go a little farther, and if this road didn’t get any better, she would turn around.
After another ten minutes of progressively questionable navigation, she spotted her first sign of life.
A small, weathered gas station squatted beside the road like a forgotten monument to better times. The building itself was a study in decay—white clapboard siding that had faded to the color of old bones, with paint peeling away in long strips that curled like dead skin. The roof sagged in the middle, where decades of snow and rain had taken their toll, and several shingles had slipped loose, hanging at odd angles or missing entirely.
The concrete pad around the building was cracked and stained with motor oil, creating dark abstract patterns that looked almost deliberate. Weeds pushed up through every fissure, and an old metal sign advertising a long-defunct motor oil brand was riddled with bullet holes.
A hand-painted sign reading “Murphy’s Last Stop” hung from a single chain, the faded red letters barely visible against wood that had weathered to silver-gray. Below it, a smaller placard promised “Cold Beer • Hot Coffee • Bait,” though the paint was so faded it was hard to make out the words.
Two pickup trucks sat parked outside, which indicated the place was actually operational despite its decrepit appearance. One was a rusted Ford with a Confederate flag decal and the other a newer Chevy with mud-caked wheel wells.
Maybe a nice older man whose family had lived in this area for generations, who exuded Southern hospitality and warmth, was working inside and wouldn’t mind answering her questions. People were more helpful out in the country, right? And since she was in West Virginia, Southern hospitality should be in full swing.
Olive pulled to a stop and parked in the gravel lot.
She’d go inside, ask for directions, and hopefully still arrive at the lodge in time to meet Jason.
Detours hadn’t been on her schedule. But sometimes, they were inevitable.
The bell above the door chimed as Olive entered, and she was hit by the smell of stale cigarettes, motor oil, and something indefinably sour.
Was that alcohol of some sort?
