The inland path is gravel and stubborn grass. Jonah talks the whole way, which is his version of a flashlight.

“Banshees wail when someone’s going to have a bad week,” he says. “Or when the marsh is hungry. Depends which uncle you ask.”

You listen. Stories are maps of feelings. Feelings are allowed. Facts still get a vote. Behind you, the pale lights wink, harmless at this distance, like someone left a phone screen on a table in another house.

Ms. Ellison’s porch smells like tea and wet wool. She is retired from teaching and not retired from questions. The scrapbook is already on the table, fat as a loaf.

“Researchers,” she says, pleased, as if you had an appointment. “Come in before the storm invents a new noise.”

Jonah wants to flip straight to the page with the screaming woman. You want the page with two columns. On the way, at the bend you already passed, that stump was doing a green thing that was not a wandering wisp.

The rain thickens. The book waits. The stump will not walk away; fungus is patient.