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ADVANCE PRAISE FROM READERS:"Utterly haunting...""...a modern fable.""...well-researched and imaginative...""...spell-binding.""...tender, yet ruthless..."Deep in the hills of McCreary County, old things endure. Superstitions carry a special weight among those wise enough to remember the old tales. When Sylvia's old friend goes missing in the woods, she is forced to leave her family farm on a journey that will plunge her into a modern folktale of her own, one that will reveal her hidden ancestry and bring her face-to-face with what hides in the dark and deep.EXCERPT:In the hills of McCreary County, there are places that have not seen human trespassers for a hundred years or more. Animals and weeds overtake the artifacts and abandoned machinery of long-gone generations. Nameless edifices are swallowed by vines. It would be far too simplistic to think of these as forgotten places—a mistake made by many urbanites living only two to three hours away—since the encroaching wilderness has simply given these lands new purposes.One particular hollow of northeastern Tennessee, called "Briar Holler" by the few remaining local families, has such dense foliage in late summer that the sun's light is all but completely blocked out. Fern and ivy thrive. Briar Hollow is technically a valley lying between not two, but four distinct hills. The tallest of these is Mount Redder, which towers at 1,392 feet above sea level, its limestone wedges peeking out of the top like misshapen teeth or fractured bone. On summer mornings, and especially after a warm rain, the mist that lingers between its trees and crags gives the mountain a unique appearance. On these mornings, locals are fond of remarking that the devil is “smoking his pipe.”By August, the warm, moderately wet weather of the region causes the forest undergrowth to swell and snarl, taking on its own uniquely vindictive personality, dedicated to impeding travel by snagging shoes and loose clothing. Such was the state of the old Wade family cemetery when Edgar Threshing visited it in August. The gravestones, small and slender in the style of previous centuries, were all but illegible, and the square fence of stacked stones set about the plot was crumbling and strangled by honeysuckle vines.As Edgar brought out paper and charcoal to attempt copying the impressions on the headstone before him, he couldn't help but feel like an unwelcome guest—not due to his New England upbringing, but due to the way the hollow seemed antagonistic to the human world, every plant and insect threatening to sting or throttle anyone or anything left there for too long. He had already pulled a tick from his neck, and hornets seemed to be forever circling him as he worked. The red-winged blackbirds perched above in the locust trees rustled and squabbled, disapproving.Edgar slapped a fly from his arm and drew the sweat from his brow. “Damn these woods.” He’d trekked three miles in the dog days of summer to find the old cemetery located in Briar Hollow, following the meandering directions offered by locals: Two valleys over, then up the creek a ways, then north past the old barn. It struck him that the concept of geography was a bit different in these parts. Locations were defined by proximity to landmarks of lore and hearsay rather than by signs and roads. It was a miracle he’d arrived at the Wade cemetery at all, and now that he was finally there, he felt more unnerved than grateful. The long walk back felt insurmountable, especially in his oxford shoes, which he very much regretted wearing on this occasion, and the pests of the woods flitted about him in a way that almost felt scolding.Pulling a spiral notebook stuffed with loose-leaf photocopies from his backpack, Edgar tried to regain focus. He came here, after all, to capture the markings on the grave of Cora Wade, the accused witch...

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