Untamed Vol. 1 (Untamed #1) by June Gray

 
    CHAPTER
ONE

 
 
 
    The Smoky Mountain is home to many
ghost stories and legends…
    I picked up the
brochure, amused by the cover photograph of a man in a cape holding a lantern,
trying—but mostly failing—to look spooky.
    “Here we are.”
    I jumped, the
brochure dropping back to the counter, as Tim Wells, the owner of Bryson City
Cabins, emerged from a room in the back.
    “Sorry, didn’t
mean to scare you,” he said, spinning a set of keys on his finger.
    I gave him a
tight smile. “I guess the long drive from Atlanta to Bryson City has worn me
out, made me a little jumpy.”
    “Well, Miss…” He
looked down at the rental paperwork I’d filled out in his absence. “Chloe
Randall. Here are the keys to the cabin and information on the cabin and the
area.” He folded a piece of paper and handed it over along with the keys.
    I studied the
piece of paper—directions to the rental cabin, what to expect inside,
even a list of things to do around this area of North Carolina. “Thank you,” I
said to Tim. “This is very helpful.”
    He motioned with
his head to the brochure on the counter. “And if you’re interested in the ghost
walk, tonight is the perfect night for it. Halloween is usually our busiest
night.”
    “This is your
business as well?” I asked, only now realizing that the man with the lantern is
Tim himself, only a lot less gray and jowly.
    He leaned back
and grinned. “Yes. I’ve run the Smoky Mountain Ghost Walk for ten years now.”
    “And do you see
actual ghosts during this walk?”
    He chuckled. “No,
but I have had a few people capture orbs in their photographs.”
    “Do you believe
in ghosts?”
    He adjusted his
glasses. “I’ve lived here, at the edge of the Appalachians, all my life, so
I’ve grown up with all the myths and legends. While I don’t believe in ghosts per se , I do believe mysterious things
happen in the forest that are hard to explain.”
    Goosebumps
prickled down the back of my spine. “Like what?”
    He hitched up his
sleeves and leaned his elbows on the counter, eyes alight with excitement. “For
years now people who own cabins have reported that things go missing in their
homes. Batteries, gas cans, books, blankets, a mattress.”
    “Sounds to me
like just a run-of-the-mill thief.”
    “But there’s
never any damage or sign of forced entry,” he said. “This has been going on for
almost a decade now and nobody has been able to catch him.”
    “Fingerprints?”
    “Yes, plenty, and
always the same one. But the police have run the prints through national
records and it doesn’t match anyone.”
    “That just means
this thief hasn’t been booked before.”
    “ Or ,” he said, clearly enjoying this
conversation, “it could mean he doesn’t exist, at least not the way we think.
Every one of us here in Bryson City have felt his
presence, one way or another. Even if it’s intangible, like the strange feeling
of being watched. Some people theorize he’s a shifter, part man, part wolf. But
I like to think he’s a ghost. How else could he walk through walls and not ever
be seen?”
    “Maybe it’s just
a vagabond who’s really, really sneaky,” I offered.
    He straightened.
“You big city folks are always so cynical. Come to the ghost walk tonight and
I’ll make a believer out of you.”
    I slipped the
keys in my jacket pocket. “Thank you, really, but I think I’m just staying in
tonight. I’m a little leery of Halloween, actually.”
    “Any reason why?”
    “Personal
reasons.” I bid him farewell and all too soon I was back in my Lexus, heading
back down the highway towards the little cabin in the woods.

 
    Holy mother of…
    I set my bags
down on the floor of the cabin and gaped at my new lodgings. This was not the
rustic-chic digs I’d envisioned. Instead it was a tiny one-bedroom structure
with exposed log walls, pitted wood floors, and a general feeling of gloom.
    An old leather
couch sat in the corner facing a large stone