Andrew
This had become a familiar sight in the past 6 months: Rhett Sterling trudging through town with his pull cart, the music of iron tools colliding with each other streaming behind him like a not-so-pied piper. Sometimes different folks came to walk with him a while as he traversed Main Street. It was a good way to pick up new jobs, and a nice means to remain within the tight weave of the community, all while on his daily commute. 

He arrived at the lumberyard having secured two gigs: a bicycle repair for Miss McCaffrey and a chimney cleaning at the Estell residence, as well as a bonus bout of pleasant conversation with Lester from the hardware store about how best to prepare rabbit. 

The purpose for Rhett's visit to Dallas Sinclair at his place of business was primarily just that– business, but he sought to kill a second bird with that stone: companionship. Though the two didn't know each other exceedingly well, there was a rapport between them. Being men of few words with similar calluses and a shared town of residence put them in a default friendship bracket, which could be softly labeled `COMFORTABLE ACQUAINTANCES`. 

Back to the business Rhett was here for: he needed 30 bundles of cedar shingles to enforce the roof of the shack for any snowfall the winter would see, and for some fortifications to Aunt Bonnie's house. He hoped he could fit all the stock in his cart, which was cleared out of most tools he usually kept in tow. 

"Dallas?" He called out, unsure where on the campus of the lumberyard he'd find Mr. Sinclair. 
_ _
Natasha
Dallas wouldn't say he had a lot of friends. He would suppose he considered JD a friend, though he paid him... So he wasn't sure that counted if they mostly hung out at work. Max was his friend, definitely, but he was pretty sure it was because Maxwell felt bad for him. Everyone else he encountered, he would consider something of an acquaintance. 

Rhett was no different. Dallas saw the man occasionally when he needed to come by and pick up supplies. They'd exchange a few words in greeting, then they'd both go their separate ways. That was just how it always had been. 

Today, he figured, would be no different. As Dallas stood in his workshop, he could hear the clattering of that cart, and he paused to wipe his hands off on a rag. He stepped out upon hearing Rhett's call, leaning in the doorway a moment before he tossed the rag down. 

"Sterling," He nodded his head in greeting. His clothes were already dirty with oil and sweat was on his brow, despite the chill in the air. "What can I get ya." It was posed far more like a statement than a question, with Dallas' usual brand of stoicism. He eyed the cart of tools and raised an eyebrow, taking a few steps towards the man now so he didn't have to raise his voice to be heard anymore.
Andrew
Rhett found comfort in Dallas' dirty clothes and hands. Any indicators of status quo were a relief these days. 

"Dallas," He repeated, this time in greeting, paired with a curt nod. He let the handle of his cart fall, looking back briefly to clock the wagon's dimensions again, trying to decide if he had room enough for what he needed. 

"I'd like about 30 bundles of cedar shingles, if ya got 'em. But I'll take whatever stock you have, if'n you think you'd need ta order more." Rhett looked back at Dallas, squinting in the sun. He was feeling chatty, and he continued, "I know it's about that time a year where folks wanna make sure their roof is good 'n sturdy."

This was the first time Rhett'd seen Dallas since he'd noticed him heading into the mines that day. That day when Rhett had run away while all the men he'd never measure to ran towards. He wanted to ask Dallas what he'd seen, make sure he was alright. If Rhett was still shaking coal dust from his hair having just been on the outskirts of the tragedy, he couldn't imagine how black Dallas' own bathwater must be. He wondered if the other man woke up in the night smelling smoke, too. He wondered if the black footprints at the threshold of the shack every morning found their way to the Sinclair home. 
_ _
Natasha
It was a similar feeling, what Dallas felt. Ever since the mines, things hadn't been the same. Of course, Dallas had yet to make mention of these peculiar happenings to anyone... Mostly for fear that they'd either think he was crazy, or those people would get one of those little bastards attached to them too. 

"Thirty?" He repeated the word gruffly. Some people found Dallas unapproachable for the fact that he was quite stoic and blunt at times, but it seemed there were other members of Briar Ridge that didn't seem to wholly mind it as much. 

"I ain't... Sure, I'll have t' look." He jerked his head for him to follow, through the shop and out into a much larger room. Big racks of supplies, bins of bundles of wood and such. Dallas scratched his head as he walked along; none of the shelves were labeled, but it seemed he had the entire area mapped in his head as he murmured to himself. 

He stopped in front of a specific bin and picked up a bundle of shingles, hefting it up and grunting. "Yeah, I figure we prolly got enough..." He sucked his teeth and eyeballed how many were there. "But if yer feeling like yer gonna need more, I can prolly write in an order from the city and get the supplies to make—" 

The sound of something clattering a few rows over made him pause, as a bin of wooden pegs and dowels suddenly tipped over, the supplies going everywhere. The side of the barrel had two, large handprints scorched into the wood, and he narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "For fucks sake."
Andrew
Obediently, Rhett followed, his eyes passing over all the stock of the lumber yard on the way, catching himself in a daydream of all the little projects he had in mind to dress up the shack: things to keep his hands busy during the winter. A book shelf for the tomes he was collecting (okay, well. So far it was just Miss Maeve's first novel and a few old encyclopedias from Aunt Bonnie. But he'd get his hands on more!), window seats for Spider on every sill, a new dresser for himself. 

They reached the stockpile of shingles, and Rhett was pleased enough. Just what he'd come for. He reached to start loading the bundles as Dallas spoke, nodding along softly. He nearly dropped what he was holding at the commotion behind him, and spun fast to see the tail end of the disturbance. What lingered in the now-still air was the smell of burning wood to complement the fresh timbers of the lumberyard, and the fragile smoke trails from two smoldering silhouettes of human hands. 

*"Help me, please!"*

A strained voice washed through the room, casting echo-like off the high ceilings. 

*"It's getting hard to breathe."* 

Rhett looked at Dallas, his eyes all panic. Months ago, he would have hidden his fear under anger and suspicion, accusing Dallas of playing some sick joke, planting someone behind the rows of shelves with a palm-shaped branding iron. Now, he'd seen enough unexplainable things to believe in most anything, even if he couldn't come close to explaining the specters and spooks that called his name at night. 

*"Why are you jus' standin' there?"* 

The volume of the pleas put a splitting headache at Rhett's temples, and his hand flashed up to put aimless pressure on his throbbing skull. 

"Dallas, I think we should–" Rhett tried to get the words out, but before the word *Run,* The spirit boomed back through the air. 

_**"DIG."**_

With that, the shingle bundle was pulled from Rhett's hands, its binding bursting as it hit the floor, sending splinters across the shop. Bo

Ards and half-sawn logs dislodged from their places, creating a small-scale avalanche around the men. 
_ _
Natasha
The boom and crackle around them, the smell of thick smoke, the hissing words that filled their ears— it was something Dallas had unfortunately become all-too aware of. It had started with just the smell of smoke, or something falling off a shelf onto the floor. It had escalated from there— things being flung at him, or waking up with a searing pain on his side. He'd gotten cuts, scrapes, bruises, and burns where he knew he hadn't hurt himself. 

Now, it seemed like he wasn't the only one. "For fuck's sake," He swore and shook his head as the boards and lumber corralled them in like cattle. He swore again, scowling and casting a look over his shoulder at Rhett. "You too?" He asked him over the loud clattering. "Course this is the one day JD ain't at the shop," He shook his head, skittering back a few steps and bumping into Rhett as a few flames licked at the toe of his boots. 

"Figured I was the only one dealin' with this shit." He grit his teeth, starting to try and push at the falling woods, hoping to find a way out of the avalanche. "They're gonna crush us if we ain't careful!" He warned.
Andrew
Rhett was taken aback by how calm Dallas was in the face of the chaos. Even though Rhett'd had his own fair share of practice responding to poltergeists in the past few weeks, these events had certainly not naturalized themselves within his psyche. Dallas' reaction seemed to be neither fight nor flight, just annoyance at the inconvenience. 

"Me too?" Rhett called, confused, clearly having chosen flight himself as he frantically pawed falling boards out of his way. As the words finally landed past his panic, he shook his head in frustration, "Ah, yeah! I wouldn't think you'd've been followed–" He grunted, pushing off a plank that had decently clocked him in the back of the head, "You went down. You went into the mine." There was a bare moment of quiet just in time for Rhett's brief confession, "I just ran away." 

The crackle of flames built up at the tail end of the words and the heat broke his back out in sweat. He didn't dare look behind him, they just needed to move. 

*"Help me!"*
*"Please, don't leave me here!"*

The words came in strange, shifting, overlapping echoes. Those sounds seemed somehow outside the human sphere of perception, but still they rang out clear. 

The door they'd come through was just up ahead, but as they neared, a new collapse of shelving blocked off the exit. As Rhett placed his hands on the wood, he immediately pulled back at the sizzle of his palms that answered the contact. 

"Fuck!" He swore, "It's burnin', Dallas– it don't look like it's burnin', but it... Is?" He looked around wildly for some tool to use to move the obstacle. The heat was getting more intense by the second. If they didn't move fast, they'd be as good as matches in a tinderbox. 
_ _
Natasha
In all fairness, Dallas wasn't much with expression in everyday life. He'd always needed to be reasonable, somewhat level-headed. He supposed internally, he was panicking a little, but no sense in running around like a chicken with its head cut off. 

He swore as the boards and lumber shifted, those shrill wails and cries echoed around them like they were inside... A cave. *Or the mines.* 

The smell of singed flesh drew his attention, and he swore under his breath. His eyes fell on a piece of metal bar that had dislodged itself, and he picked it up and swore at the heat that radiated off of it. He'd have burns on his hands, but he'd survive. He grit his teeth as he stuck it between boards, prying them away in an effort to move them. They fell, bumping into his legs and he could feel the smoldering heat through his clothing. 

"Pull yer shirt up over yer nose!" He said, the smell of smoke wafting over them. He couldn't tell if it was real or a trick of the mind, but no way in hell was he gonna risk inhaling it. He tugged his shirt up over his nose as he pushed and shoved his way through the burning inventory. His shoulder slammed against the door, getting it halfway open. Enough room for them to wiggle through, one at a time. "Go!" He shouted to Rhett. "Go on, get out!"
Andrew
Rhett obeyed Dallas immediately, the collar of his shirt coming up to rest on the bridge of his nose. It did cut the smoke considerably, and he silently thanked the older man's composure in chaos. When Dallas shouldered the door open, he rushed through, catching Dallas' sleeve on the way out to make sure they fled together. The door slammed shut against their backs, warm to the touch. 

"What does it want from us? How do we git it to leave?" He panted, his shirt falling back to his chest. Fearing that soon the flames would make it through to them, even as they'd reached relative safety, Rhett paced. The crackle and crash of wood succumbing to the onslaught of the blaze they'd escaped was loud and harrowing. What smoke had chased them out hovered at the ceiling, ghost-like. 

"It wants me, I think. It must. I ran away from those mines, Dallas, I couldn't handle it. Not like you. It wants to punish me for bein' a coward. I cain't let it take everything from you like this, I–" In the midst of Rhett's confessional, he noticed the smell of smoke disappear. Thinking he'd just gotten used to the stench, he stilled his nervous pacing to find that the room they'd just escaped had fallen quiet. The air was slowly cooling. 

"Is that– do you hear that? S'quiet back there." Rhett stepped forward to press his ear to the door, not believing the nightmare was through. 
_ _
Natasha
Their backs to the door, the wave of heat on the other side, he took deep breaths under the collar of his shirt to try and regain some sense of stability. He'd gotten somewhat used to the strange and rather violent things that had been happening to him, but on such a grand scale, he wasn't so sure. To know it was happening to Rhett too... It made him wonder if Mitica, his mining expedition companion, had had the same troubles. 

To Rhett, he had little answer. He wasn't sure why these things had followed them— based off what Rhett said, they would've been after revenge for abandoning the mine. But Dallas didn't work the mines, and had been trying to get people *Out.* 

Then again, nothing in this damn town made sense anymore. He'd been halfway to telling Rhett he needed to pull himself together, when he too realized that the room was cooling. The smoke had dissipated, and everything seemed... Calm. 

Dallas turned and faced the door, hesitating at the knob, before touching it and pulling it open once Rhett took a half step back. The room was a wreck, but the mounting flames had disappeared, leaving in its wake a charred mess, but not *Too* Much ruin in the grand scheme of things. 

"...I'll be damned," He said. He looked over at Rhett and took a step into the room again, pushing aside charred lumber with his foot and watching it crumble. The backside of the door had scorch marks, but that was about it. "I ain't gonna know how to explain this to JD without him thinkin' I've gone completely off my rocker."
Andrew
Rhett held his breath as Dallas went for the door. 

"Dallas maybe we should–" *Give it a second.* But the other man had already half-stepped into the room they'd flet before Rhett could get across a word of caution. He soon came to stand at Dallas' shoulder as they surveyed the damage together. A trail of coal-dusted boot prints led all the way down the floor of the stock room to where they ended just in front of the door the two men had just sheltered behind. A tiny lick of flame flickered and snuffed out at the edges of the print closest to where they stood.

"*Shit.*" He breathed, looking up from the trail to take in the smoldering remains of the odd board or collapsed shelf. Guess he wouldn't be taking those shingles home, after all. 

"With all that's been goin' on in this town, JD might believe it easier'n you think." Rhett ventured, knowing that he himself had changed his tune about the "Impossible" Since the wolves had descended on the ridge. 

"I'm so sorry, Dallas." He offered, turning to the man, "I kin... Well. I don't have much, but I kin pay what I've got for the damages. Help recoup summa the stock you lost. Whatever you need." He was entirely earnest, believing he'd been mostly at blame for the spirit that had charred the lumberyard. He couldn't imagine leaving Dallas and JD to take care of the mess on their own, even if it cost Rhett the next 6 months wages. He'd find a way to make due. He'd just have to work harder. 
_ _
Natasha
"Maybe yer right about that," He said. JD had a knack for believing just about anything that came out of his mouth, which made him a good friend and a gullible son of a bitch at the same time. 

He looked down at those scorched boot prints and swore, shaking his head, dragging his hand through his hair. Dallas wasn't one to put the burden on somebody else. "Bound to happen 'ventually," He said to him, turning to look at him and shaking his head. "Don't worry 'bout it. Not yer problem, Rhett. You ain't done nothin' wrong here." 

He gestured around the utterly destroyed storage room and sighed. "Just gonna have t' start from scratch. Thankfully, got some lumber laying in the main saw room we can start workin' on..." 

He turned back to look at him. "Sorry bout them shingles. I'll get you some soon as we can shell 'em out, though." For someone who'd been through something quite horrifying, Dallas seemed to be taking it surprisingly well. He'd lost more or less his entire inventory for his work... And he just shrugged a shoulder. 

Maybe he'd lost enough to know that a few boards and planks were nothing compared to losing a human being. That was enough to make a man cry. This? This was nothing. 

"I'll get JD on overtime. Pick up a few more side projects while I'm at it..." He scratched the back of his neck. "I can prolly find something for shingles at home from my own stuff if yer hurtin' for em real bad."
Andrew
*'Bound to happen eventually.* Rhett refused to believe this, though he made no acknowledgement of the statement for the time being. He marveled at Dallas' composure, almost with envy. Rhett felt himself coming unraveled where he stood, and here was Dallas perfectly tensioned. 

As much as Dallas assured him he'd done no wrong, a voice inside him asserted that he'd done no *Right*, either. With nowhere else to put his confusion at Dallas' calm, Rhett's mind turned to gentle suspicion. Had the other man been through something like this before? Did he know something about the source of the town's hauntings? Or did his years of age on Rhett give him the power to reason through tragedy with grace? Regardless of how gray Rhett got, he didn't think he'd ever be able to put on the face Dallas wore. 

"You... I mean. You didn't do nothin' wrong, either, Dallas. You 'n JD shouldn't be made to paid for all this." He shook his head, considering offering his help once more, but as he thought, he realized that keeping himself on the property increased the risk of this whole event repeating itself. 

"Don't worry 'bout the shingles– please. We'll be just fine." There were downed trees at the back of the property, and Rhett had a good sharp ax. It was the time to split shakes that he lacked, but he'd manage. 

He couldn't help but broach the unspoken. Given Dallas' stoicism, the question begged:
"Have ya... Have ya seen somethin' like this before, Dallas? You ain't batted an eye at what this haint's done here. I just wonder... If it's familiar to ya somehow?" 
_ _
Natasha
Dallas paused at Rhett's words, letting them slip over his skin. He had to think about the answer, seeing as there were several different ones that were all quite true. 

"Yeah," He said after a long moment. "If yer talkin' these ones, I been seein' em since Mitica and I went into the mines." He said. "Nasty little things." Dallas took another pause and shifted some more ashy boards aside. 

"I seen some other haints in the woods with Maxwell Morton." He explained. "These ones was kids— big black eyes and soaked down to the bone." 

Dallas chewed on his lip. "Now if yer talkin' about fire... I know a thing or two about fire," He said, and there was something buried deep inside of him that ached. "And I know about losing things, too. All I lost today was some lumber, nothin' that important." He cleared his throat. "Coulda been worse. Coulda lost everything. I ain't too worried about some sticks and twigs." 

He shoved his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. "That's why I ain't want you to worry none, Rhett. It ain't a big deal. And let me get you them shingles— least I could do."
Andrew
"Mitica's probably been seein' 'em, too. Hope they ain't given him too much trouble." Rhett muttered, thinking of the other man, alone with his dog in his wagon. He'd seen Mita post up a notice in town a few days prior, and hearing his name come up again made him think back to it. Maybe he'd take him some of his grandfather's old clothes: those ones Gramma Alice kept like a decayed old shrine at the floor of her closet. Maybe he'd drop off the clothes and find a way to ask after him. Or maybe he'd lose his nerve and abandon the coats at the threshold. 

The present pulled him back, Dallas' reticence catching his attention. 

Kids with black eyes? Swimming? *Drowned?* He shuddered to think of such a sight set against the backdrop of the forest. Rhett'd probably have run away from that, too. He didn't like his own predictability. 

As Dallas crept his story forward, Rhett caught himself from physically leaning into the whispers of emotion that curled into the air like smoke between them. His desire for detail was strong, but without asking, he could infer the pain and darkness that scaffolded the words from the way Dallas cleared his throat, and by all that went unsaid. The spaces between his words were nearly more important than what made it out of his mouth. Rhett was staring at him, fully infected by the silent tragedy by the time Dallas fell quiet. 

"Stick an' twigs." He echoed, trying desperately to learn from Dallas' distance. He wanted to have the perspective his friend had. He wanted to have that cool regard for intense emotion, but instead he felt like a dumb kid, blushing and babbling in the face of anything unfamiliar. 

"Thank you, Dallas. That's real good of you." He nodded, trying cool on for size as he struggled to keep his mouth flat and tone straight. He broke his resolve almost instantly, softening in the ensuing seconds of silence, "You're a good man." 
_ _
Natasha
He shrugged his shoulder, letting out a small huff of air. A good man? Sure, he knew he wasn't a *Bad* Man, but... He wasn't sure anything he'd done in his life could laud him as being exceptionally good. He did what was expected of him, always, and just lived his life. He wasn't sure he was anyone to look up to; it was a worry for him, honestly. With his sister's baby, fresh and new in this world, he was worried about what kind of man he truly was. Would he be a good male figure in this baby's life? He wasn't so sure about it. 

He cleared his throat, as if ready to wash his hands of the whole situation and move on. "I oughta get t'... Cleanin' up. But if ya come back in a day 'er two, I should have some shingles for ya," He promised him. 

Rhett was someone who remained a mystery to him. Honestly, Dallas had never been exceptional at making friends, and he wasn't sure Rhett considered them that. He supposed they were at least something like acquaintances, which Dallas would take as a positive. 

"If yer really in the business 'a helpin' me, grab a broom." He pointed into the other room. "Shit. Them suckers really did a number, didn't they?" He asked, surveying the damage.
Andrew
Rhett was relieved at Dallas' eventual concession to being helped with the damages. He didn't know if he could have left there and not looked back, with how responsible he felt for the whole thing. It felt better to have a broom in hand, making progress to right the wrong he'd brought about– not just by showing up here and haunting Dallas with his presence, but by walking away from the disaster at the mines in the first place. Rhett wanted to be done walking away. He wanted to be more like Dallas. He wanted to set his face like stone, answering danger with a cool, unshakeable posture. 

They returned the store room to an acceptable state by dinner time, setting all the charred lumber out in the yard to fuel the Sinclairs' wood stove for most of the winter months. All the while, Rhett was thinking of how to repay Dallas: what to do, what to bring him to apologize truly. In the end, though, he realized that Dallas had already forgiven him, if he'd identified any wrong Rhett'd wrought to begin with. Another inspiring quality to shape himself after. How could he train himself to have an impulse of understanding before an impulse of fear? Of anger? Maybe he'd work up the courage to ask Dallas for advice someday, but for now, a solid handshake and a spell of eye contact held too long would have to do. 

He was happy to return in a few days' time for the shingles. For good measure, he left a pair of Aunt Linda's newest knitted wool gloves on the workbench for Dallas to find whenever he next settled there. 
_ _