Prologue

Jack knew three things about the day he started haunting North Hollow — at least it’s what he assumed he’d become, as his own light flickered and snuffed out on the peak of Hollow Mountain. There was no ascension to heavenly realms — no finite body, turned infinite.

It was quiet. A nothingness seeping into an all-encompassing awareness. And as there was no heaven to ascend to, he’d expected there to be more worms. More dirt. More torment. Or at least for the foam flowers and ash tree to take him as their own.

He was no longer someone — but something. 

And in his death, he clung fast to these three things he knew when he was still someone:

First, Hollow Mountain was vindictive and so was its brush — too dry to safely build a fire. One day, perhaps such an unforgiving entity would also be his justice.

Second, the truth fell out of his pocket — descending deep, deep into the earth, same as his leftover flesh and bones.

And lastly, a promise: 

His son was waiting for him to be home in no time.