By the time the house began to stir awake, the storm that trapped them inside had passed. The sky above Gloryhollow was bright with the warm sun rays peeking through clouds, reflecting off the drops of dew still left on the grass. Puddles lingered in the holes of the dirt road as the trio made their way back into town.
Bartholomew decided to join them, becoming somewhat of their guide to this town, although he wasn't much help since he spent most of his time at home.
"This way, or maybe... that way," he said, gesturing lazily to two entirely opposite streets. "They both lead somewhere." He laughed a laugh that could only be described as something that all old people seem to do, a sort of heeee heehee like an old cowboy who remembered a joke that no one else would understand.
"I'm going to hit you with a turnip," Willow muttered, picking the left path. Bart eyed her suspiciously like he was plotting on how best to take her down when she became a turnip herself.
Gloryhollow was beginning to stretch and yawn awake. A few windows cracked open, dogs barked distantly, and the smell of grilled meats and vegetables wafted through the air with its tasty aroma.
"Oh boy, I think I smell rosemary in the potatoes." Gus muttered under his breath, his stomach already growling.
The four of them rounded a bend in the street, where they could spot vendors beginning to set up wooden stalls. A few townsfolk in aprons hauled crates of produce out onto cobblestone, and someone was already sweeping the dust from their doorstep like they had to get ahead of the dirt.
Bartholomew waved vaguely at a woman selling leeks. "That's Margo. She's secretly three raccoons in a trench coat, but she plays it straight, bless her soul."
The three exchanged glances between each other, noticing that Margo didn't even have a coat on.
"I don't even think she's tall enough to be three raccoons stacked up," Joren whispered.
"Exactly." Gus said, nodding along to the obvious height disparity.
Willow sighed and kept walking.
Despite his nonsense, Bart's presence somehow didn't feel out of place here.
Mid-Morning – Gloryhollow Market
Gloryhollow had a sleepy vibe about it, the kind of town where odd things blended in with the ordinary without drawing too much attention. No one questioned the man who lived in houses of cheese, or the cat who stood atop a stall like a gargoyle. Plenty of absurd things could be spotted, but that was the charm of this strange little town.
Bartholomew insisted on guiding them through the marketplace since he lives here, though "guiding" was generous to call it. Every few steps, he paused to wave at someone he may or may not have known, or to inspect something like it might suddenly speak to him.
"That tree wasn't always here, I'll tell you that," he said, staring at a short pear tree that looked perfectly ordinary. "Used to be a ladder. Mhm."
Joren squinted. "A ladder?"
"Yes. Big one too. You could see the whole market from the top."
The conversation ended as Willow tugged Joren's sleeve to move on.
The street curved gently past a row of shops, their signs painted in curling cursive or barely legible chalk. One sold "Wood-based Leather." Another advertised "Jams & Bams." A tiny blackboard read: Today's Thought --- Does bread feel fear when it toasts?
They passed a stall with an elderly man selling hand-carved spoons, each labeled with things like 'Goodbye Cereal' and 'No more forks'.
Gus slowed his pace and sniffed the air. "Alright, I'm not crazy. I smell cinnamon and fried onion. Somebody's making festival food, and I'm going to find out where."
Bartholomew was upside-down on a bench now, his pointed head hanging off the side as he gestured to a chimney down the block. "The food market takes place over there. Watch out for angry beetles, though."
Gus didn't wait for anything. He marched off toward the chimney in a near trance, muttering, "Cinnamon. Fried onion. Funnel cake…" like it was a spell. Joren and Willow exchanged a humor-filled look before following.
Bartholomew flipped upright like an acrobat, surprisingly nimble for a man who spent the morning warning people about strange conspiracy theories and accusations. He landed on his feet with a soft thud and dusted off his coat like it hadn't been dragging on the ground moments ago.
"The smell always does it," he said with a knowing nod. "Powerful stuff."
Vendors had begun to arrive in earnest now, their stalls blossoming open like great wooden flowers. Steam puffed from cooking carts as laughter from children echoed off stone storefronts. Someone played a tune on a reed flute with more spirit than accuracy, a sharp contrast to the other cities Joren had visited so far.
Joren slowed to take it in.
Gloryhollow didn't feel like a place in hiding, or a place pretending to be something it wasn't. It just embraced its weirdness. The colors weren't brighter, the people might have been a little louder, but something about it felt more honest than any city he'd walked through.
"It's weird," Joren muttered as he watched two children disappear around a corner, one kicking a ball.
"What is?" Willow asked.
"This town. It's so bizarre, but the people seem to like it that way."
Willow gave a small laugh. "Maybe that's the charm of this place. Every town has its own type of character to it."
Gus rejoined them, cheeks full of fried dough. "I asked one of the vendors why their stall was sideways," he said, swallowing, grin painted as big as it could get. "They said the wind likes it better that way."
Willow smirked. "You believed them?"
"I did not," Gus replied, eyes closed. "But he sure said it pretty convincingly."
For the first time in a long while, the trio walked without looking over their shoulders. No bounty hunters or shadows were trailing them, just the scent of food, the hum of conversation, and the sun finally peeking through the clouds. It was true comfort at last.
Then came the scream.
A single voice, ragged and breathless, shouting from down the main road.
"Something's coming out of the orchard! The thing is a big blob of gooey cheese!"
People paused mid-step, some turning slowly, others dropping crates or food with a dull clatter. The vendor playing the reed flute squeaked out one last off-key note before lowering it. A tomato rolled off a stand and hit the ground without a bounce.
Joren instinctively shifted his weight forward, eyes narrowing. "Did he just say... cheese?"
Bartholomew, who had been cheerfully debating the spiritual merits of funnel cake with a woman selling herbs, froze. A shameful look began to form on his face, but he tried his best to hide it, to no avail.
"Oh no," he said grimly. "It's happening again."
"Again?" Willow echoed.
Bartholomew spun dramatically on one heel. "To the orchard!"
He started skipping like a man on a mission.
Afternoon – Orchard
They arrived at the edge of the orchard to find a scene that looked like a crime of cow-based proportions had been committed.
Melted streaks of yellow and orange clung to tree trunks, some of it pooling beneath overripe apples. A trail of viscous goo stretched through the grass like a slug the size of a wagon had gone through here. Several birds squawked angrily from higher branches, their nests nearly tangling with something that smelled faintly of smoked gouda.
Bartholomew stepped ahead of the group, eyes scanning the mess with a kind of resigned disappointment.
"It's worse than I feared," he muttered. "It's learned to go uphill... and it's developed a taste for fruit."
Joren knelt beside one of the streaks of goo, poking it lightly with a twig. The cheese quivered in response.
"That's... warm," he muttered.
"Of course it is," Bartholomew said, still scanning the treetops. "The fermentation process never fully stopped. Fon-Doom never was supposed to leave the house, but something caused it to gain sentience and form a desire for exploring."
Willow slowly turned to him. "Wait. Fon-Doom?"
Bartholomew nodded solemnly. "It used to reside in the fountain of a previous house a few towns over, but when it escaped, it started to scare the people. I never wanted it to turn out this way..."
He looked genuinely remorseful, which was rare for a man who regularly accused vegetables of espionage.
"You're telling me," Willow said, trying not to raise her voice, "that you domesticated a cheese creature and put it in your fountain?!"
"Of course not, it gained a mind of its own when it was still just cheese."
Willow blinked. "That's somehow worse."
"I didn't ask for it to gain sentience," he muttered, folding his arms. "But I vowed to love him like a son."
Gus cleared his throat. "So… how exactly do we stop it?"
Bartholomew turned, deadly serious. "I have no idea."
A long pause followed.
Willow just stared. "You said that like you knew what to do."
Bart just shrugged.
Willow looked down the trail of melted dairy sludge. "So what's the plan now?"
Gus chimed in. "We need to find it and stop the thing before it makes its way to town."
Bartholomew nodded slowly, then picked up a burnt-looking apple and sniffed it. He took a bite of the apple and immediately gagged. "Blegh. Smokey Havarti and orchard fruit do not pair well."
Willow swatted it out of his hand. "Focus."
Gus crossed his arms. "The trail looks fresh. It couldn't have gone far."
Bartholomew said, shaking cheese goo off his boot. "If it reaches open water, it may multiply. I've never experimented with Fon-Doom when he was still inside."
Willow grimaced. "You're saying it could turn the town well into more of him?"
Bartholomew nodded grimly. "Precisely. A whole colony could immerge."
Joren ran a hand down his face. "Okay, no. We can NOT let that happen."
Willow exhaled. "So we cut it off before it gets to the water?"
"Exactly," Bart said, suddenly energized. "We find it, corner it, and neutralize it before it replicates. Standard containment protocol, straight from the Order of the Wheelbarrow headquarters."
The four of them now had a mission to stop the cheese monster, Fon-Doom, before it found its way to the town square's fountain.