Backstory

Jacob Finch, born in 1837 to an Appalachian healer and an Irish settler, grew up in the shadow of Hollow Acres Barn, built by his father Norman Finch in 1812. To Jacob, the barn was home, fortress, and teacher. His father’s lessons were simple: "If you’re gonna do it, do it right the first time," and Jacob lived by that rule. By 18, he could mend a wagon axle faster than most grown men, and the barn’s upkeep had become his duty alone.

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His sister, Maggie, was his closest companion. While Jacob handled the lumber and nails, Maggie dealt in roots, herbs, and whispers about the "Old Folk" — spirits she claimed lived in the Hollow. She’d weave charms and hang them from the rafters, and though Jacob never fully believed, he’d quietly fix them when they broke. Their father’s influence was ever-present in those moments, his old lessons echoed in the rhythm of their work.

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Everything changed when smallpox swept through the Hollow, taking both of their parents. Their mother, a healer known for tending the sick, had stayed by the bedside of a fever-stricken neighbor too long. Their father followed shortly after, his strength no match for the sickness that stole his breath. Jacob and Maggie buried them with their own hands on a hill just beyond the barn’s edge, marked only with two stones carved with their initials. There was no priest. Just the rain, the two of them, and the crows.

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With their parents gone, the weight of Hollow Acres shifted to them. Jacob’s world became quieter, his shoulders heavier. While Maggie spoke to unseen forces, Jacob focused on what he could see and touch — beams, boards, rope, and steel. His care for the barn became something of a ritual. Every creak of wood was an oath he’d sworn to their father, every nail driven a promise that no storm would ever bring it down. His hands grew calloused, his back strong, and his eyes sharp as he learned to see flaws in wood as easily as others saw flaws in men.

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When Monaghan’s men came with an offer for the land, Jacob’s answer was as swift as his swing — a broken nose for the lead man. The others left without argument, and Maggie’s laughter echoed as she patched his bruised knuckles. “Y’know that’s gonna get us on a list, right?” she’d said, pressing a rag to his hand. Jacob’s only reply was a grunt, his eyes fixed on the road long after they’d gone.

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Jacob’s kindness wasn’t loud, but it was steady. He’d leave food for strays, oil the barn’s hinges so they wouldn’t creak, and stand behind Maggie when strangers sought her remedies. He didn’t speak for her, but one look from him was enough to quiet most men. He knew the weight of protection, and his sister’s work often needed it. If someone sought Maggie’s help and didn’t show respect, they’d soon feel Jacob’s eyes on them, steady as stone.

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Stormy nights often found him pacing the barn, lantern in hand, checking the beams and rafters. Maggie would call him in from the rain, and sometimes he’d listen. Other times, he’d stay until the thunder passed. Locals claimed to see two figures in the hayloft — one was Jacob, the other... wasn’t. Some called it his shadow playing tricks, others believed it was their father’s ghost watching over the barn. When asked, Jacob’s only answer was, "Shadows ain’t got hands."

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The crows watched too. Perched on the roofline since before Jacob could walk, they’d seen him grow, fall, and rise again. Some say they’re waiting. They say the day Jacob leaves Hollow Acres will be the day the barn finally falls — not from wind or rain, but because something inside won’t have a reason to stay.

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Ask Jacob about it, and he’ll just snort, grab a coil of rope, and get back to work. "The barn ain’t falling," he’d say. "Not while I’m here."

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