“I don’t know. But for some reason I’d like to believe they can.”

Mrs. Doris smiled. “That’s because you’re a true Gobliner. Truer than any other. Most of us are passing through, but Goblin has gotten into your bones.”

Walter smiled. Mrs. Doris had meant it as a compliment and he’d taken it as such.

“Blackwater’s illness worsened. His grip over his tribe loosened. His progressive son, having proved his worth by driving the white men out, ignored his father’s archaic laws and, eventually, allowed the tribe to live on the very land we live on now. They occupied the small village erected by the white settlers. They’d seen Carroll’s exodus with their own eyes. The land was fair game.”

“They relaxed.”

“They sure did. And then Carroll called the shot. Six months to the day after their staged evacuation, the settlers returned to burn down their own village with the natives sleeping inside. Mothers set fire to the very houses they tended to half a year back. The schoolteacher tossed the torch into the schoolhouse. Carroll located Blackwater, sick bed and all, and boasted about what he’d done. Blackwater told Carroll that Son of Blackwater would come back from the dead. That he’d ‘deliver an evil’ to all who were present upon his return. Then Carroll left Blackwater out by the West Fields, alone, where he slowly starved with no one near to nurse him.”

Kamp remembered a related yarn. How a young girl convinced a volunteer she was old enough to walk the North Woods alone when the settlers were hiding out. How the volunteer fastened the rope around her waist and sent her on her way. After four hours passed, with no sign of the girl, the volunteer grew nervous. He signaled for the remaining soldiers and told them his concern. They fastened ropes to their waists and followed her trail. Twelve men wound their way through the impossible woods. Lit by lantern, the men were scared no doubt, replaying the witch myth on repeat. They followed over half a mile of rope before finding the end of it bloodstained and chewed. Kamp remembered how one of the twelve went a few feet farther and found, in that soft lantern light, the young girl with her chest sprayed purple. Like a wolf had eaten her from the back to the front or like her heart had exploded.

With that thought, he brought a hand to his chest.

“What do you know about Jonathan Trachtenbroit?” Mrs. Doris asked.

“Trachtenbroit? I know a great deal. But in my opinion, his history isn’t as interesting. He wasn’t a Gobliner, after all.”

“That’s sacrilege,” Mrs. Doris said, smiling. “In these parts.”

“That’s just my humble opinion.”

“And what do you know about the key to the city? I should think a man like you ought to have it.”