Chapter 1
The McPherson house was a crushed tin can that slouched at the far edge of Mosswood. It was well beyond the last stretch of a road that grew increasingly jagged as you traveled it, and there was no way of getting to it by vehicle unless you wanted to end up stuck or blowing your suspension to Hell. The property surrounding it was barren, nothing but dried-up fields and patches of stubborn weeds that refused to die, guarded by rust-bitten fences that leaned as if standing upright was burdensome. Anyone with even the faintest grasp of eyesight would tell you that it was truly the most hideous thing in the entire county, but it had somehow gotten worse.
The front door had been forced open, cracked straight down the middle, the frame splintered where something had stormed through it. Flies swarmed thick in the entryway, slipping in and out like scavengers, taking interest in the carnage laying just beyond the deceptively pristine threshold.
No one in town had known at first. The McPhersons weren’t the kind of people you checked on. They had a feral nature to them that seemed to be less about survival and more about making themselves as unapproachable as possible. They lived off the land - Jeb, the patriarch of the bunch, known to sneer at how dependent everyone else was on what “a bunch of silver-spoon suckin’ sons o’ bitches” provided - and rarely traveled far from their property. They didn’t need the town, and they didn’t seem to want it either.
They were hardened survivalists with minds just as calloused as their hands and constantly bare feet. They braved the harshest winters, shot and skinned the biggest predators, and set the most elaborate traps deep in the most unexplored parts of the woods that would snap through bone just a little too cleanly for comfort.
And yet, they were wiped out and picked clean. Not one survivor and not one sign that they had fought back.
If it hadn’t been for Doug Carlisle, those bodies would’ve stayed undiscovered for much longer than a week. He was the only person outside of the family allowed on the property, oftentimes delivering supplies to build traps. The littlest McPherson, young Maggie of only eight years of age, had been suffering from a persistent fever, and so Jeb had swallowed his pride and asked Doug to get a doctor. The prognosis was far from promising, the doctor suspecting that she had a nasty case of typhoid fever, and so she was prescribed some antibiotics after a conversation about getting her to emergency care ended in insults from Anne, the matriarch of the family.
Doug was delivering a refill of those antibiotics when he found them.
The smell hit him first, making him pay no mind to the flies, even when they buzzed incessantly around his ears. It was sharp, metallic, and punctuated by July’s oppressive humidity. It rested heavily on his tongue, crawling to the back of his throat and eventually settling into his lungs. Mindlessly, he entered the house, and let his feet carry him until he reached the den. The scene before him instantly made him empty his stomach, his breakfast coating his boots, and then he ran.
He ran out of the house, off the property, past the fence, and onto the dirt road. He didn’t stop until he hit town and nearly got taken out by a Buick that had seen better days. The driver swore up a storm, stopping and swiftly exiting the car like a bat out of hell, but he paid no mind to them as he burst through the door of the first building he thought to enter -Annette’s, a diner. The whole place went quiet as everyone looked at Doug, his face pale and his hands shaking so hard he could barely get his cigarette and his zippo out of the breast pocket of his flannel.
“They’re...” he swallowed thickly as he kept trying and failing to light the only thing that could ground him, his eyes wild as he took in every face like he was trying to search for a culprit. “They’re gone. All... There’s... there’s...”
Doug stood there babbling for what felt like ages, his words tangling and coming out half-choked, making every confused patron terrified to even approach him. A couple of men who were near him stood at the ready as if he’d attack at any moment. Eventually, though, Annette Billings, the owner of the establishment, came out from behind the counter with a glass of ice water. She guided him to one of the booths, made him chug the water, and then lit his cigarette for him.
He explained what he saw as she rubbed circles into his back, and everyone held onto every word with tight expressions and stiffened spines.
Word spread fast and fear instantly gripped the town. There were whispers of boarding up windows, loading rifles, and keeping kids inside after dark - as if some boogeyman had materialized in their lively, modest town and threatened the sanctity of it - and then, sheriff Alcott and his deputies stepped in. By morning, they were already smoothing things over, assuring all the good people of Mosswood that after investigating the scene, they were positive that the McPhersons were just unfortunate victims of a pack of coyotes. They, of course, didn’t go into detail about how truly strange and horrific the scene was, dismissing Doug’s account of it as a product of shock and hysteria, and, at least for now, it was enough for everyone to breathe a little easier.
The people who were in that diner, however, weren’t so easily convinced, unable to forget how Doug described each body he saw in excruciating detail. Ingrid Hart was one of those people. Her mind kept replaying the start of that whole ordeal. She was clocking out for the day, her punch card halfway into the time clock when she heard the bell above the front entrance. She rushed through the swinging door and stood behind the counter as soon as she registered how silent it had gotten.
The town had moved on completely after only a week, and the McPhersons were all buried in their family graveyard by volunteer ditchdiggers. It was a few yards from the back porch. There was no priest, and Doug had been the only mourner until Ingrid came to the property hours after he left.
She wore a billowy black lace blouse with delicate patterns crawling over the shoulders and down the arms, a tank top hugging her torso beneath it. A dark, well-worn skirt of sturdy cotton came all the way down to her ankles, the hem swaying with every deliberate step she took toward the graves
Her hair was a dense, rope-thick mass of chestnut braids, spilling down her back like twin lengths of woven cord. They were tightly bound, but a few strands still fought their way free. The humidity made those strands cling to her skin, and the heat seemed to make everything melt into a slow-moving haze, but despite that, she was cradling her cloak - a heavy, navy-blue thing of wool that had long since become an extension of her person. It was much too hot to wear it, of course, but as always, she kept it close.
Flowers, five small bunches of petunias tied together by blue ribbons, were balanced on top of the cloak. They were plucked from her mother’s garden, and Ingrid had to move swiftly to get them and then slip away from the house without anyone noticing.
Ingrid didn’t spend too much time with the McPhersons, and she could practically hear Jeb swearing at her and telling her to get off their property. He had done so plenty of times when she was a child, when this place was the subject of many wagers made amongst her peers. She earned a good amount of pocket change back then.
She said a small prayer, letting the air carry it from her lips to their ears, and placed those petunia bunches on each grave.
“Goodnight, Jeb.”
“Goodnight, Anne.”
“Goodnight, Paul.”
“Goodnight, John-Marshall.”
“Goodnight, sweet Maggie.”
A stiff wind tossed her head in the direction of the house. Her body willed itself to ignore it when she first stepped onto the property, and when she saw the back window that peered into the den, she instantly knew why. She could feel her knees buckling at the sight of the rust-colored blood spray on the panes. A tornado ravaged through her mind and it brought images she hadn’t seen in years - images of flesh flayed open like wet paper, bones snapped and hollowed out, ruined bedsheets, ruined wallpaper, and erratic arcs of crimson that had bled into her eyes and soaked its way into her brain.
Bile rose up in her throat, but unlike Doug, she had kept it in. Swiftly, she turned away from the graves and began to rush off the property. In her haste, however, her slipper had caught against a wayward stick and she was instantly sent tumbling into the ground, hissing as a sharp pain bloomed onto her right hand. She lifted it and swore under her breath as she inspected the scrape against her palm, and that’s when she heard it.
A growl.
It settled over her like a thick fog - low, throaty, and crawling against her raised skin as if it threatened to reach out and grab her by the throat. It wasn’t sharp or sudden, nor did it come with a distant rustle of leaves or a snapped twig. It was singular noise, sinking into the very marrow of the earth, reverberating through the brittle weeds.
Ingrid’s muscles seized, instincts screaming for her to freeze, to shrink into nothing. But her brain shouted at her to move, and so she did. She shoved herself upright, gasping slightly as more pain exploded in her hand, and bolted, her feet hitting the dry earth in frantic strides. The air pulsed with the echo of yet another growl, but no footfalls followed, no snapping branches, no rush of something tearing after her. Without stopping or slowing down, she glanced over her shoulder. She saw nothing.
The house stood still in its ruin, the graves undisturbed, the trees lining the property swaying only slightly in the afternoon breeze. But she knew something was there. Watching.
A third growl came - closer this time, but still unseen - and she ran faster, her cloak clutched tight against her chest. Her legs burned, her lungs ached, but she didn’t stop until she was fully off the McPherson’s property and spilling herself onto the dirt road.
Then, panting and shaking, did she realize that she couldn’t match that growl to any animal she had seen or heard before.
It was uncanny, something that very much belonged to an animal but was still attached to the natural restraint of man.
Ingrid shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the wicker fruit basket digging into the crook of her arm. The blossoming morning was cruel to her, humid in the way only Mosswood could be. Grueling and sticky. Sweat gathered beneath her blouse and her braids were sticking to the back of her neck. She swatted at the mosquitoes whining in her ear and rubbed her ankles together as itchy spots began to crop up.
Her eyes flicked to her watch, an old thing passed down from her granddaddy, for the fifth time in as many minutes. 5:59. The minute hand hobbled forward, each second longer than the last, and when it finally kissed 12, she perked up instantly. She straightened her posture, tied her braids up with a hair tie she had on her wrist, and smoothed her skirt out.
Just as she had finished, a familiar car turned the corner down the street, its faded paint glinting weakly beneath the first full rays of morning. It belonged to the sheriff.
Ingrid pasted on a smile, her cheeks already aching from the effort as the car rolled to a stop in front of the station. Sheriff Alcott sat for a moment - fiddling with his papers, his wide brimmed hat, and whatever else he thought was more important than acknowledging Ingrid. When he finally swung his door open, he took his sweet time getting out. Without looking at her as he passed by, he reached into the basket and pulled out a glossy red apple. He polished it once against his shirt and took a crisp bite.
“It’s none of your business, missy,” he said around the chew, his voice steady and unbothered. “Now go on home and I won’t tell your pa that you came here.”
Her smile crumpled into a slight pout, but she pulled herself back together. Clutching her basket a bit tighter, she hurried after him as he went inside the station.
“Why can’t a grateful citizen show up with a gift?” She asked, her voice so painfullybrightshe cringed a little. “Mosswood’s most hardworking man deserves something for his troubles, wouldn’t you say?”
That made him stop. He turned around just enough to give her a look, his sharp green eyes narrowed and his jaw set. It wasn’t anger, not quite, it was the kind of look that stripped the veneer of her words. A look that asked, plain and simple,“is the word ‘dumbass’ tattooed across my forehead?”
She was very familiar with that look.
With an exasperated sigh, she gritted out, “Can you just tell me what’s really going on? Come on, Alcott. Coyotes?!”
With a scoff, he said, “much better,” then continued walking away. She stayed right behind him.
The Mosswood police station was much cooler than the street corner. This was thanks to that A/C unit that hacked so loud, folks could barely hear their voices whenever they came in to make a report. The air was stale, almost making Ingrid choke a bit on the scent of old coffee grounds and floor polish that it carried.
Ingrid trailed behind the sheriff as he made his way to his office. He didn’t even try closing the door on her, knowing from experience that her willowy frame could feel like pushing against a brick wall when she was determined.
The sheriff tossed his hat onto a peg by the door and set his folders down on his desk, the apple clamped between his teeth. He rifled through his papers without sparing her another glance.
“Sheriff,”
No response.
“Sheriff, I know there’s more to the story here!”
Still no response.
“... Dennis, come on!”
“That isSheriff Alcottto you, missy!” He spat. “And I’m getting sick of this same ol’ song and dance with you!”
“Then let’s change the station, Dennis!” She said. “Let’s do a waltz instead of a two step and be honest with each other here. Strange shit happens in this town and I can’t live with another explanation that makes sense to everyone but me.”
The sheriff slumped back into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So everyone in this town is stupid as shit and you’re the only one who knows what’s really going on?”
“I’m the only one who cares that something is going on,” Ingrid said.
The sheriff just looked at her, his eyes switching from something more sympathetic to something a bit more razor-edged, as if he was going back and forth from seeing her as that little girl from years ago and the woman she was in front of him.
Eventually, he simply said, “I want you to realize how you sound and quit it before your folks institutionalize you.”
He then said in a lower voice, “and honestly, that might be good for you.”
His intention was to not be heard, but his voice carried too easily and Ingrid was too on edge.
She gripped her basket even tighter. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“What I mean...” the sheriff’s face crumpled a bit, as if his thoughts pained him. “And, Ingrid, I really want you to hear me when I say this... you haven’t been the same since... the incident, and at this point, I think your folks should consider-”
“You should consider shoving a lightning rod up your ass and presenting to Jesus!” She shouted.
Then she stormed over to his desk, slammed the basket down, and left the room.
The sheriff could only sit there in silence, looking a bit too nauseous to finish his apple.
