November 2024 : Near Harpers Ferry, West Virginia
The warmth of Thanksgiving radiated through the house, a soft, golden light casting shadows on walls decorated with holiday cheer. The family gathered around the dinner table, laughter bubbling over plates heaped with roasted turkey, creamy mashed potatoes, and glistening cranberry sauce. The fire in the hearth crackled, flickering orange light across smiling faces. Glasses clinked, the scent of spiced cider mingling with the savoury aroma of the feast all around them.
Outside, the November wind howled against the windows, but inside was a haven of modern comfort. Phones chimed occasionally with holiday texts from extended family, and the hum of a dishwasher blended into the background. They were a picture of the present, secure in the conveniences of their world.
Until it all changed.
Without warning, a flash of light flooded the room, brighter than the midday sun. A jarring, deafening silence followed as every sound—laughter, the clink of silverware, the crackle of the fire—was ripped away. Then came the weight, an unbearable pressure that crushed down on them, pulling air from their lungs and forcing their eyes shut. Time itself seemed to falter, stretching the moment into an eternity.
When it ended, it was like waking from a violent dream.
The first to stir was the father, blinking against the sudden brightness of daylight. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, each one visible in the icy air that shrouded him. Snow. He was lying on a hill of snow, the cold seeping through his jeans and flannel shirt. Slowly, he sat up, head pounding and heart racing, as he scanned the unfamiliar surroundings.
The others were scattered near him, groaning as they roused. His wife clutched her cardigan tightly, her phone still in her hand. The children, a teenage boy and a younger girl, shivered in their holiday clothes—far too thin for the biting cold of the Appalachian winter. The boy’s sneakers crunched against the snow as he stood, brushing off his jeans.
“What the hell just happened?” he muttered, his voice laced with fear.
The father turned to the horizon, his stomach sinking. The world around them was alien and yet achingly familiar. Jagged peaks of the Appalachian Mountains loomed in the distance, shrouded in mist. Dense forests surrounded the clearing, their skeletal branches clawing at the grey sky. There was no sign of the house they’d been living in, no sign of civilization at all—just endless wilderness and an oppressive silence.
The mother gasped. “My phone—there’s no signal.” She held it up like a lifeline, her hand shaking. “What’s going on? Where are we?”
The girl clung to her brother’s arm, tears streaming down her face. “This isn’t home. Where’s our house? Where’s—” She stopped, her voice breaking.
The father knelt to inspect the snow. Tracks—hoofprints, wagon wheels—were pressed into the ground nearby, the kind of marks he’d only ever seen in history books or old Westerns.
Their modern attire was standing out like a beacon in the primitive landscape, the ripple of time washing over them with a cold hard reality that was too far fetched to dream -- let alone believe. Their shoes, their jackets, even the little things—the wristwatch on the father’s arm, the earbuds still tangled in the boy’s pocket—felt impossibly out of place to them now. The teenage boy fumbled with his phone, his fingers shaking as he tried to unlock it.
“It’s dead,” he said, panic rising. “It was at 80% a minute ago, and now...nothing.”
“Mine too,” the mother said, her voice low as she clutched her device like it might still hold answers.
The snow began to fall lightly, the flakes whispering against their skin. But the chill wasn’t just from the weather—it was the sheer weight of their situation sinking in. They weren’t just lost. They were somewhere else entirely.
A sound broke the silence: the distant creak of wagon wheels, the faint jingle of harness bells. They turned toward the noise, their breaths misting in the air as they strained to see through the trees. The father raised a hand, motioning for them to stay behind him.
Moments later, a figure emerged from the woods—a man on horseback, leading a mule-drawn wagon. He was dressed in heavy woollen garments with a star pinned to his chest, his salt and pepper beard thick and unkempt, a wide-brimmed hat shielding his wrinkled eyes from the falling snow. He pulled the reins sharply when he saw them, his expression a mix of suspicion and confusion.
“What in God’s name...” the man muttered, his voice tinged with an Appalachian drawl.
The family stared at him, their modern clothes and stunned faces an anomaly. The father stepped forward, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. “We’re...we’re lost,” he said carefully, his voice fracturing under the weight of the lie.
The man’s eyes narrowed, scanning their strange attire. His hand drifted to the rifle strapped to his saddle, though he didn’t draw it. “You lost, alright,” he said, his tone cautious. “But not from anywhere near here.”
The father hesitated, the words forming on his lips but refusing to come out. He glanced back at his family, the terror and confusion etched into their faces.
The stranger tilted his hat back, his eyes cold and assessing. “Y’all don’t belong here, do ya?” he asked, his voice low.
And as the family huddled together, shivering against the snow and the weight of their new reality, the father realised the man was right.
They didn’t belong here. But here, they were.
November 1890 : Somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains
The stranger on horseback studied them with an intensity that made the father’s chest tighten.
“Name’s Ezra,” the man said finally, his voice rough, each word weighted with suspicion. “Sheriff of Shadewood Hollow.”
“Ezra,” the father repeated. “We—uh, my name’s Michael. This is my family. We’re lost, like I said.”
Ezra’s gaze swept over their modern clothes again, lingering on the mother’s cardigan and the son’s sneakers, both impossibly clean and alien in the dusty, snow-dappled world around them. He grunted, his mouth a thin line. “You don’t look like no miners or trappers,” he said. “And you sure as hell ain’t from anywhere close.”
Michael hesitated. How could he explain the truth when he didn’t even understand it himself? “We...we’re from far away,” he said finally. “Can you point us to town?”
Ezra’s eyes narrowed, but after a long pause, he motioned with his chin toward the wagon. “Get in. I’ll take you to Shadewood Hollow. But let me be clear: folks around here don’t take kindly to outsiders. Especially dressed like that.” He gestured with his head toward the family as they huddled together on their way to the wagon.
The family climbed in, shivering as the cold seeped into their bones. The ride down the mountain was rough, the wagon wheels crunching over snow and ice as Ezra led them through the woods. The father, Michael, tried to piece together their situation, but his thoughts were a jumble of fear and confusion. His wife, Claire, clutched their daughter close, whispering reassurances while the son, Ethan, sat stiffly, his eyes darting to every shadow in the trees.
As they approached the town, the forest gave way to a cluster of buildings nestled in a hollow between the mountains. Shadewood Hollow looked like something out of an old photograph. Wooden buildings, their facades weathered and worn, lined a narrow main street. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the faint clang of hammers echoed from the mines above. The people they passed wore heavy, patched clothing, their faces gaunt with exhaustion.
Ezra pulled the wagon to a stop in front of a saloon. “Stay here,” he ordered, dismounting and striding inside. Michael started to protest but thought better of it. The sheriff’s rifle and the hard looks of the townsfolk were reason enough to keep quiet.
“Dad,” Ethan whispered, his voice younger than Michael had heard in some time. The fear had truly taken hold of his teenage boy. “Where are we? This can’t be real.”
Michael didn’t answer. He didn’t have one.
Ezra returned moments later, accompanied by a well-dressed man, compared to the others he’d seen, with sharp features and a groomed beard. The man introduced himself as Josiah Monaghan, the owner of the mining company. His smile was cold, his handshake firmer than necessary. “Sheriff tells me you folks are lost,” he said, his eyes flicking to their clothes. “Funny thing, that. Not many people just...end up in these parts.”
Michael tried to explain, keeping his answers vague. Josiah nodded along, but the weight of his gaze was suffocating. “Well,” he said finally, “you’re here now. Best make yourselves useful while you figure things out. Town’s got enough mouths to feed as it is.”
Michael bristled but forced a nod. “We’re grateful.”
Josiah’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. “Grateful’s good,” he said. “We like grateful folk here.”
As the family was led to a small, draughty cabin on the edge of town, they began to sense the depth of Shadewood Hollow’s troubles. The miners they passed were hollow-eyed and hunched, their faces streaked with coal dust. Even children in threadbare clothes ran barefoot in the snow. Posters tacked to buildings advertised company credit, but whispers between townsfolk spoke of debt and despair everywhere they went.
And then there were the woods.
The forest loomed like a living thing beyond their cabin, its branches swaying unnaturally in the wind. Strange symbols were etched into the bark of certain trees—spirals, handprints, and shapes that seemed to shift when looked at too long. At night, the family heard howls that didn’t sound like wolves and saw faint glimmers of light moving through the trees.
One evening, they met Maggie Finch, a herbalist who came to the cabin after hearing of their arrival. She brought a basket of roots and dried herbs to help them through their troubles. “You don’t belong here,” she said bluntly, studying each of them in turn. “Not just in this town, but in this time.”
Michael’s heart sank. “You know?”
Maggie nodded. “The land does not forget. Whatever brought you here...it wasn’t by chance. The woods have been restless for weeks. And now you’re here, on the eve of something dark.”
“What do you mean?” Claire asked, clutching her daughter.
Maggie hesitated. “The land is alive,” she said finally. “It remembers, it feels, and it demands balance. The mining company has awoken something—something older than this town, older than these mountains. And you...” She trailed off, her gaze distant. “You’re part of it now, whether you want to be or not.”
Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the faint, eerie sound of whispers. Were there more travellers like the family out there?
The fight for Shadewood Hollow was just beginning, and the family—and possibly others--pulled from the future into this fragile, haunted world—was now tied to its fate.