In Frank's old house, Jim finished carrying the last boxes salvaged from the trailer with the priest's help, sweat sticking his shirt to his back. The physical exertion was welcome. It kept his mind from drifting back to the fact that they were still trapped in that cursed place.
Mike waved goodbye and climbed into his truck. The engine roared before disappearing down the street.
"It looks like someone still lives here," Tabitha commented, her voice echoing faintly through the living room. Her eyes scanned the space. A coffee cup with a cold residue sat on the table. A shirt hung over the back of a chair, as if its owner had stepped out to buy milk and planned to be back in five minutes.
Jim frowned, wiping his hands on his jeans as he turned to the priest. "Didn't the sheriff say this house was empty? Won't the people who lived here mind us putting our stuff in?"
Khatri let out a long, heavy sigh. The kind that carried bad news.
"We had an incident the night before you arrived." He paused. "The first one in months."
"What kind of incident?" Tabitha asked, not liking the direction the conversation was taking. Her hands clenched instinctively, fingers intertwining.
"The kind that happens to the careless." The priest's voice was serious. "If you want to understand how serious things are... the result is upstairs."
Jim and Tabitha exchanged a look. One of those silent conversations couples build over years. Should we see it? Do we need to know?
"Let's see," Jim said, his voice firmer than he felt.
"I recommend you don't let your children see it," Khatri warned, blocking the staircase briefly with his body.
Jim nodded and turned to his daughter. "Julie, stay down here with your brother."
Julie rolled her eyes. Morbid curiosity battled fear, but her father's order irritated her more. "Seriously, Dad? I'm not a child."
"Julie." Jim's tone left no room for argument.
She huffed, pulling an annoyed face, but took Ethan's hand. The boy looked at the adults with quiet confusion.
Jim and Tabitha went upstairs. The priest followed close behind, like a tour guide through hell.
Each step groaned beneath their weight, dry wood creaking like a warning. Turn back. They stopped in front of a door at the end of the hallway. It was still decorated.
Colorful animal figures covered the wood. In the center, cut-out letters made from bright paper formed a name with childish care.
MEAGAN.
Tabitha placed her hand on the doorknob. The metal was cold, sending a shock through her sweaty palm. She took a deep breath.
She turned it. Pushed.
What she saw made the air lock in her lungs. Her hand flew instinctively to her chest, fingers pressing against her sternum as if she could hold her heart in place.
The room was destroyed.
Furniture overturned. Drawers ripped out. Books scattered across the floor like dead leaves.
Teddy bears lay soaked in blood, some torn in half, white stuffing spilling out like cotton entrails stained dark red, almost black now.
The walls were an abstract painting of horror. Splashes of dried blood told the story of a desperate, futile struggle that had happened just two nights earlier.
Jim stepped in behind her and stopped short. His eyes widened, trying to process what had happened there.
"Holy shit." The words slipped out, hollow and insufficient.
Tabitha couldn't tear her gaze away from a specific stain near the bed. Small. Too low.
"Was it... a child?" The question came out broken, a horrified whisper. She already knew the answer. The decorations said it. The size of the bed said it. But she needed someone to lie to her.
"Meagan and her mother, Lauren," Khatri confirmed. His voice was low, stripped of emotion. Maybe to protect himself, or maybe because he had no tears left. "The father, Frank, was passed out drunk at the bar on the other side of town when it happened. He didn't board up the windows as instructed."
The silence that followed was sepulchral.
"That's what happens when the rules are broken here," the priest finished.
Tabitha's breathing turned erratic. Air went in, but her lungs seemed to reject it. The edges of her vision blurred.
The image of Meagan's room dissolved, replaced by another mental projection. Creatures entering. Wide, inhuman smiles. Pale hands reaching.
Ethan screaming. Julie trying to protect him. Herself failing, watching her children be torn apart.
"Tabitha..." Jim tried to touch her shoulder.
She spun around and bolted from the room, stumbling over the hallway rug. She hurried down the stairs, her heavy footsteps echoing her desperation.
"Tabitha!" Jim followed, calling her name.
When she reached the living room and saw Ethan sitting beside Julie on the couch, Tabitha threw herself over them. Her arms wrapped both in a fierce, desperate embrace, pulling them against her chest as if she could fuse them back into her body, where they would be safe.
"Mom?" Ethan tried to squirm, uncomfortable. "You're squeezing me..."
"What... what happened, Mom?" Julie asked, eyes wide, shifting between her mother's pale face and her father coming down the stairs with a defeated expression. "You're scaring us."
"Nothing." Tabitha's voice came out muffled against Ethan's hair, trembling. "Nothing happened. Everything's fine."
She didn't let go. She stayed there, feeling her children's warmth, their pulse, proving to herself they were still whole.
After what felt like an eternity, Tabitha finally pulled back. She kept her hands on their shoulders, staring at each face, memorizing every freckle, every detail, as if she might lose them if she blinked.
Then she sat on the couch, head lowered, massaging her temples hard, trying to force the image of the upstairs room away.
Julie turned to her father, jaw tight, eyes demanding the truth she was being denied. "What did you see up there?"
"Nothing, Julie." Jim's voice was too tense. Too controlled. A poorly told lie. "We didn't see anything important."
Julie pressed her lips into a thin line. Irritation rose like bile in her throat. Again. Them treating her like a child. Again the lie to "protect" her.
She crossed her arms and leaned back against the couch, body rigid with silent frustration, staring at the opposite wall.
---
(Five Minutes Before the Meeting)
Daniel parked the motorhome beside the diner. The armored metal reflected the morning light, a glare almost aggressive against the faded storefronts around it.
Through the reinforced window, he could see the crowd gathering inside. Tense faces. Slumped shoulders. The place was packed beyond capacity, like a can of sardines about to burst.
[Small-town meeting + violent death = lynching math. You should start betting on how long until someone yells "burn the witch."]
"It looks like a wake," Kristi commented from the passenger seat, her voice low.
"Or the preview of a lynching," Daniel corrected as he shut off the engine. The V8's roar died, and the sudden silence of the street was almost deafening. "Perfect atmosphere to throw the first stone."
Kenny stepped out on the side, straightening his deputy sheriff uniform. His eyes performed an automatic sweep of the street, checking for invisible dangers, a habit Daniel had noticed in every long-timer there.
Reaching the front of the place, Daniel opened the door. The sound drew immediate attention. Some looks were admiring. Others, hostile. Most were just... cautious.
Pure distrust.
[Last chance to leave.]
And miss the show?
The smell of reheated coffee mixed with cold sweat and anxiety hung thick in the air. There were no free tables. People stood in every remaining space, forming a maze of tense bodies. The murmur of low conversations created a constant buzz, like a disturbed beehive.
Kristi whispered to Kenny as she leaned in. "Why are they staring at him so intensely?"
Kenny murmured the explanation as they pushed through. The confrontation with the sheriff on arrival. The gun. The public challenge. The fact that he didn't seem afraid.
The more she heard, the wider her eyes grew, looking at Daniel's back with a renewed mix of disbelief and respect.
"In short," Daniel cut in without looking back, "I'm the town's new problem. Donations of dislike are welcome."
Kristi stifled a laugh. Kenny just shook his head.
Daniel ignored the stares, hands in his pockets, posture far too relaxed for someone surrounded by hostility. He spotted the Matthews family seated at a table in the back, near where Jade was asleep.
His eyes met Julie's. She looked upset, arms crossed, radiating a do not talk to me aura. But when she saw Daniel, her expression softened for a microsecond. She gave a discreet wave.
He returned it with a subtle nod and a crooked smile.
Daniel noticed people from Colony House were there too. Donna sat near a window, taking up space like a bear guarding her territory.
There was no time to find a seat. Boyd entered through the back door, coming from the kitchen. Father Khatri followed, his expression neutral, ready to calm storms.
The sheriff didn't need to ask for silence.
His presence did the work.
Conversations died in waves, starting nearby and spreading to the farthest corners of the diner.
He stood in the center of the room, near the counter. Upright. Military. Tired eyes scanning every face present.
Kenny moved quickly to stand beside him, fulfilling his role as deputy.
"Thank you for coming," Boyd said, his deep voice echoing in the sudden silence. "I know you're scared. I know you have questions."
He paused for two seconds.
"Last night, two people died at the clinic. Gina and Tobey."
A murmur rippled through the room. Some already knew. Gossip travels fast in places without internet. Others only suspected. Hearing it said out loud, made official, made death real and heavy.
"The creatures entered through a window," Boyd continued, jaw tight. "A window that was broken."
The silence grew heavier.
"We investigated the site. We found a large stone. We spoke to residents who live near the clinic."
The sheriff's eyes swept the crowd again, slower this time.
"Two witnesses saw a person running from the direction of the clinic after the glass broke. A woman, wearing a dress."
Boyd hadn't wanted to share that specific detail. It was fuel for the fire. But he knew that if he withheld it, the witnesses would talk, and suspicion toward him would be worse.
The impact was immediate.
Voices exploded from every direction. Overlapping. Furious. Terrified.
"A person?!"
"Someone from here?!"
"Who was it?!"
Boyd raised his hands, asking for calm. It took nearly a full minute for the noise to drop enough for him to be heard.
"We don't know who it was yet. But we will find out."
"How can you be sure it wasn't one of those things pretending to be human?!" someone shouted from the back.
"Because they don't need to break glass." Boyd's voice cut through the air like a blade. "They call our names. They convince us to open doors. But never, in all the time we've been here, have they broken something to get inside. They don't use brute force. They use manipulation."
He took a breath.
"And they don't run. The witnesses said the woman in the dress was running."
Donna's chair scraped loudly against the floor as she stood. She was a force of nature, radiating authority that rivaled Boyd's.
"You're saying someone here, someone we know, killed Gina?" Her voice was hard, steady.
"I'm saying someone broke that window," Boyd corrected, though the firmness in his voice couldn't hide the terrible truth. "And the creatures took advantage."
"That's murder!" Another man shot to his feet, face flushed with rage, veins bulging in his neck. "Whoever did this is a murderer and has to pay!"
The crowd roared agreement. Bloodlust hung thick in the air.
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