"Quiet Now":
I had just finished wiping down the counters at the diner where I worked — the kind of place that smelled like fried onions and strong coffee, where the regulars came for pie and quiet after their shifts. The neon sign outside buzzed and flickered against the windows, throwing pale red light across the empty booths. It was late — past midnight — and the air conditioner hummed like a lullaby.
Lisa was supposed to meet me, same as she did most nights. We’d sit in the back booth, share a plate of fries, talk about the boys in town and all the big places we wanted to go. But tonight, she didn’t show.
I wiped the same spot on the counter for the fifth time, watching the clock tick past twelve-thirty. The hands moved slow, but the silence in the diner was heavy — the kind that made you hear every sound: the creak of the sign outside, the clink of a spoon in the sink.
Finally, I grabbed my jacket and told Frank I’d lock up. The night air outside hit me with that damp river chill — the kind that carried the scent of wet soil and iron. The streets were empty, lamps humming low, houses dark except for a few windows where people still watched TV or smoked on their porches.
Lisa’s house was only a few blocks away. I knew her mother would still be awake, waiting like she always did. When I knocked, she opened the door with a tired smile, a shawl around her shoulders.
“Emma. She’s not home yet?”
“No, ma’am. I thought she might be with you.”
She shook her head. “She went out with that sailor boy — Tom. The one on leave. Said they were heading to Alexander’s for drinks. She should’ve been back by now, though.”
Her voice was calm, but her eyes flicked toward the clock behind her. I nodded, pretending not to feel the cold knot forming in my stomach.
Lisa had talked about Tom earlier that afternoon — said he was charming but a bit intense. Then she mentioned something else, something that hadn’t sat right with me. Deputy Harris. The married man who’d been “checking in” on her a little too often. The one who always seemed to appear where she was. She told me last night that he’d grabbed her arm outside her house, asked her to go to his cabin by the river. She’d said no — and he hadn’t liked that answer.
“Stay away from him,” I’d warned her. And now, with her missing, that memory felt like a warning I hadn’t shouted loud enough.
“I’ll go look for her,” I told her mother. “Maybe they’re still at the bar.”
She nodded, a small, hopeful smile. “You’re a good friend, Emma. Tell her to come home.”
The road to Alexander’s Log Cabin Inn cut past the edge of town, where the fields started and the crickets took over the noise. Every few minutes, I caught the distant rumble of the river, black and endless in the dark. When I reached the inn, the gravel lot had only a handful of cars. The sign above the door — an old wooden carving of a bear — creaked in the wind.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and laughter from a couple of fishermen at the bar. Frank, the bartender, was wiping glasses.
“Hey, Emma,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d see you this late. What’ll it be?”
“Looking for Lisa. She come in tonight? Maybe with a sailor?”
He nodded. “Yeah, came in around ten-thirty. They sat by the jukebox. Had a couple drinks, seemed happy enough. But…” — he hesitated — “Harris was here too. Sat at the bar the whole time, just watching them. Didn’t say much, but he left right after they did.”
My heart dropped a little. “Did Lisa seem worried?”
“Not that I could tell,” he said. “They headed east — maybe toward Stenhouse’s place.”
The Stenhouse was another few miles out — a bar and grill near the river bend, where young couples went to drink cheap beer and watch the trains go by. It was also close to the woods. The kind of place where, if someone screamed, no one in town would hear.
By the time I got there, it was past one. The place was still lit up, yellow light spilling across the lot. Inside, a few men sat quietly at tables. No Lisa. No Tom.
Mr. Stenhouse was behind the counter, counting bills. “Emma? You’re out late, kiddo.”
“I’m looking for Lisa Reed,” I said. “Was she here tonight? With Tom Skridla?”
He thought for a moment, then nodded. “Sure were. Around midnight. Had sodas, nothing strong. Left not long ago — said something about going for a drive.”
“Do you know which way?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t say. Tom’s car was out front — blue sedan, I think.”
Outside, the road was nearly silent. I spotted what looked like a blue car parked down by the trees, just off the shoulder. I crossed over, the gravel crunching under my shoes. The car was empty. Driver’s door cracked open. Inside, Lisa’s purse was spilled across the seat — lipstick, compact, the little silver hairbrush I’d given her last Christmas.
Something in me went cold.
“Lisa?” I called out, softly at first, then louder. The only answer was the wind in the trees.
That’s when I heard footsteps behind me. Slow, deliberate. Crunch. Crunch.
When I turned, a beam of light hit my face. A flashlight.
“Emma?” a voice said. Calm. Familiar. “What are you doing out here?”
Deputy Harris stepped into view, uniform crisp, hat low over his eyes.
“I’m looking for Lisa,” I said, backing up slightly. “She was with Tom. You seen them?”
He pointed his light toward the car. “Yeah. I saw them pull off down this way earlier, when I was on patrol. Must’ve gone for a walk.”
“But her purse is here,” I said. “She wouldn’t just leave it.”
He came closer, too close. “Maybe she forgot it. I’ll help you look.”
I wanted to refuse, but my throat was dry. The night pressed in, thick and dark. So I nodded, and we started down the dirt path that led deeper into the trees. The ditch beside us was overgrown, filled with weeds that whispered as we walked.
“You know,” he said after a moment, voice low, “Lisa’s a nice girl. Too nice for that sailor. Outsiders cause trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
He didn’t answer. His flashlight moved ahead, sweeping across the ditch. Then it stopped.
“There,” he said.
I followed his gaze. A shape lay twisted in the mud — Tom. His shirt soaked dark, his arm bent unnaturally. My breath caught in my throat.
“Oh God,” I whispered.
Harris crouched beside the body, checking for a pulse. “He’s dead. Shot. Multiple times.”
I took a step back, my hands trembling. “We need to call the sheriff—”
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “We will. But first, let’s make sure Lisa’s not around here. Could be she’s hurt.”
He started walking again, and against every instinct screaming in my head, I followed. The ground grew softer, muddier near the river. I could hear the water now, faint but steady.
Something in his tone changed — the easy calm replaced by something colder.
“You know,” he said, “Lisa talked too much. Just like you.”
“What?”
“She didn’t want to come with me. Said she was too good for me.” He turned, the flashlight catching the edge of his smile. “That wasn’t very nice.”
My heart hammered. “You… you did this?”
He stepped closer. “She made me. I just wanted to talk. Then that sailor showed up. Things got messy.”
I stumbled back, but he grabbed my arm, his grip iron-tight.
“Don’t make this hard, Emma.”
I tried to scream, but his hand clamped over my mouth. His breath was hot against my ear. “Quiet now,” he whispered. “No one’s coming.”
Something in me snapped. I bit down on his hand as hard as I could. He yelled, jerking back. I tore free and ran — through the weeds, through the mud, the branches slashing at my face.
Behind me, I heard him shouting, boots pounding on gravel.
The road came into view — a stretch of open blacktop under the stars. A truck’s headlights appeared in the distance. I waved my arms wildly.
The truck slowed. The driver — an old farmer — rolled down his window. “What’s wrong, girl?”
“Please,” I gasped. “Call the police. There’s a body in the ditch — and the deputy—”
He stared at me, unsure, but he let me climb in. We sped toward town, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel.
At the station, I told them everything. Every word, every sound. But Harris was one of their own, and small towns protect their own.
By morning, they’d found Tom’s body right where I said. Four days later, they found Lisa’s too — half a mile downstream, one bullet through her chest.
Deputy Harris disappeared that same night. Some said he fled west. Others whispered that he’d had help — friends in the department who made him vanish clean. The sheriff called it “an ongoing investigation,” but the file gathered dust before the year was out.
I left town soon after. But even now, when I drive through quiet streets at night, I catch myself checking the mirrors. Sometimes, I think I see headlights behind me — steady, following.
And every time I do, I remember his voice in the dark:
“Quiet now. No one’s coming.”
"Blue Rock Springs":
It was the Fourth of July, 1969, and the heat still clung to the air even after midnight. Vallejo had quieted down from the fireworks, though faint bursts still flickered in the sky, echoing like distant thunder. I’d been waiting all week to see Emily again. She worked at the local diner — the kind of small-town place where you could still get coffee for a quarter and the waitress knew your usual before you sat down.
I was nineteen then, restless, working odd jobs and saving up for a beat-up Ford I’d been eyeing. Emily was twenty-two, with a laugh that stuck in your head long after she walked away and eyes that always seemed to hold a secret. We’d met that spring, when I came in with some friends after work. She served us pie, and by the time the coffee refills ran out, we were talking about everything from The Beatles to Hitchcock movies. I kept coming back after that — for the pie, sure, but mostly for her.
That night, around eleven-thirty, the phone rang. Her voice came through the receiver, soft but rushed.
“Hey, Alex. You still up for hanging out tonight? I can pick you up in a few.”
My pulse jumped. “Yeah, of course. Where we going?”
She hesitated. “Just a drive. Need to get out for a bit. It’s been a long day.”
Ten minutes later, I was standing out front, the air smelling faintly of gunpowder and smoke from leftover fireworks. She pulled up in her brown Corvair, headlights cutting through the quiet street. I climbed in, and she leaned over to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Glad you could come,” she said, smiling under the yellow streetlight.
We drove out of town, windows down, the night wind warm against our faces. She told me about her shift — the cranky customers, the guy who tipped her a five-dollar bill just for a smile. I told her about a buddy who nearly wrecked his truck trying to impress a girl at the lake. We laughed. For a while, it felt like the whole world existed only in that car — her perfume, the hum of the engine, the soft rhythm of her voice.
But as the city lights faded, I noticed a car behind us — pale in color, maybe a Ford, its headlights steady in the rearview mirror.
“Is that someone you know?” I asked.
She glanced at it, her expression flickering. “Probably nothing,” she said, forcing a little laugh. “People take these roads all the time.”
Yet the car didn’t pass. When Emily sped up, it sped up too. When she slowed, so did it. My unease grew, a slow tightening in my gut.
“Emily,” I said quietly, “maybe we should turn around.”
She bit her lip, then nodded toward the windshield. “Blue Rock Springs Park is just up ahead. It’s close to town. We’ll stop there a bit — maybe they’ll keep going.”
The park appeared out of the darkness, a patch of gravel and shadow bordered by trees. She pulled in and parked near the edge, cutting the engine. Crickets chirped somewhere out in the grass, and the faint booms of fireworks still carried over the hills. The car that had been following us was gone — or at least I couldn’t see it anymore.
“See?” she said softly. “Nothing to worry about.”
We sat there, the world quiet again. She leaned back, telling me about her dreams — traveling to New York, maybe Europe someday. “I just want to see something different,” she said. “Something bigger than this town.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’d like to see the mountains up north. Somewhere peaceful.”
She smiled. “Peaceful sounds nice right now.”
Just then, headlights washed over the lot. A car had pulled in — same light color, maybe the same one that had been following us. It stopped about eighty feet away and turned off the lights, the engine idling.
“Who’s that?” I whispered.
“Probably nothing,” she said again, but her tone had changed.
We sat in silence. The car lingered there, the engine humming faintly. Then, without warning, it revved up and drove off, gravel crunching under its tires.
We both exhaled, almost laughing at our own nerves. She reached over and squeezed my hand. “See? Just some guy killing time.”
For a few minutes, it was calm again. I told her about my little brother, how he once tried to ride our dog like a horse. She laughed — that bright, effortless laugh that made everything else fade.
Then headlights flared behind us — close this time. The same car had returned, pulling up just a few feet away on my side. My chest tightened.
A door opened. A man stepped out, heavyset, maybe in his thirties. Curly light brown hair caught the dim light. He held a flashlight, its beam cutting across the car and straight into our faces.
I squinted, trying to make out a badge. “Evening, officer?” I said.
He didn’t answer. The light stayed fixed on us, blinding. Emily leaned forward. “Can we help you?”
Nothing. Just the sound of his slow footsteps in the gravel. The silence was worse than anything he could have said.
Then his arm lifted. I saw the metal glint — a gun.
The first shot ripped through the window and into my right arm. The sound was deafening, the pain instant and searing. I screamed, clutching the wound as blood poured hot down my side. Emily gasped, turning toward me — and the second shot hit her in the neck.
“Emily!” I shouted, reaching for her, but another shot exploded, then another. Glass shattered. I fell against the door, pain blooming through my back and leg.
The man moved calmly, methodically. No shouting, no hesitation. Just aim, fire, reload.
I went limp, forcing myself not to breathe too loud. I could feel the blood soaking through my shirt, the air thick with the smell of gunpowder and iron.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. I heard his footsteps crunching away, the car door closing, the engine revving. He drove off into the night.
For a moment, there was nothing — just my ragged breathing and Emily’s faint, broken gasps beside me. I tried to speak, but the words came out as choked sobs. Her hand twitched, then went still.
I don’t know how long I sat there, frozen in that car. The world felt unreal — like it had slipped off its hinges. Then I forced my left arm up, weak and shaking, and slammed the horn. Once. Twice. Over and over, until the sound cracked through the dark like a scream.
It must have been fifteen minutes before headlights appeared again — three teenagers pulling into the lot. Their laughter stopped the instant they saw the blood on the windows. One of the girls ran toward us, shouting for help.
“Please,” I whispered. “Call the police. She’s hurt bad.”
The next moments came in flashes — sirens, bright lights, paramedics lifting me out. Emily was taken away, but by twelve-forty, she was gone.
I woke up in a hospital bed days later, tubes in my arms, pain flaring every time I moved. The detectives came — tired eyes, notepads in hand.
“He didn’t say a word?” one asked.
“Nothing,” I whispered. “He just looked at us. Then started shooting.”
They wrote it all down. The description. The car. The silence.
A few days later, I heard about the phone call — the man who rang the police station, flatly confessing to what he’d done, linking it to another murder from last year. The newspapers gave him a name: the Zodiac.
Even after my wounds healed, the fear stayed. I couldn’t drive at night. Couldn’t sit in a parked car without checking every shadow. Every sudden noise made my heart seize. I moved away from Vallejo, tried to start fresh, but it followed me — that memory of his flashlight, that expressionless silence before the first shot.
People turned the story into puzzles and headlines, into whispers about codes and symbols. But for me, it wasn’t some mystery. It was the night everything changed — when the world proved it could turn cold and senseless in the span of a breath.
Sometimes, even now, I wake in the dark and see the beam of that flashlight again. I hear Emily’s laugh, then the gunshots, and I’m back there — nineteen, terrified, bleeding, watching the light fade from her eyes.
"Summer’s End":
It was the summer after I turned nine, the kind of golden, endless summer where time felt slower and the air always smelled faintly of cut grass and sunscreen. My mom, Anna, had taken me and my little sister Lily to a swimming meet at the local pool. Lily was six—tiny, fearless, and full of spark—and that day, she’d won her very first ribbon. She splashed through every race like she’d been born in the water.
We stayed later than usual because of the awards ceremony. By the time we left, the sun had slipped behind the trees, and a dusky purple light hung over everything. The walk home was familiar—just over a mile down a quiet lane hemmed in by tall pines and thick brush. Our cottage sat at the very end, far from the main road, no neighbors for half a mile. It used to feel peaceful. Safe.
“Mom, my legs are tired,” Lily whined, dragging her towel like a cape.
Anna smiled, patient as always. “Almost home, sweetie. I’ll make sandwiches when we get back. Emily, you doing okay with the bag?”
I adjusted the damp string bag on my shoulder. “Yeah, Mom. Lily, you were amazing today! You beat that girl who was way bigger than you.”
Lily grinned. “I did, didn’t I?”
Our laughter drifted through the warm air. The lane ahead shimmered faintly under the last light. Then, a car rolled up behind us, slow. I turned. The driver was a man—light hair, maybe in his forties. He didn’t wave when I did. Just stared as he passed.
A minute later, we rounded a bend, and there it was again. The same car, parked sideways across the narrow road, blocking our way.
The man stepped out. He looked ordinary—plain shirt, work pants, nothing strange except the hammer in his hand. He held it like someone might hold a tool they’d forgotten to set down, except his knuckles were white around the handle.
“Give me your money,” he said. His voice was flat, calm, like he was asking for directions.
Anna froze, one arm instinctively going around Lily. “We don’t have any. My purse is at home. Please, let us pass.”
He took a step closer. “Now.”
Lily whimpered. “Mommy…”
“Shh,” Anna whispered. “It’s okay, baby.” She turned to him again. “I can get you money. Just… please don’t hurt us.”
The man shook his head. “No. You’re not going anywhere.”
The world seemed to tilt then. I remember the weight of the bag slipping off my shoulder, my heart beating so hard it hurt.
“Emily,” Anna said quietly, without turning her head. “Run. Go to the nearest house. Go now.”
I barely managed a step before the man lunged, his hand like iron around my arm. The hammer swung. It hit the side of my head—hard, but glancing. Stars burst behind my eyes, blood in my mouth.
“Stop!” Anna screamed. “She’s a child! Please, stop!”
He didn’t. He shoved us off the road, into the trees. The air changed—cooler, heavy with pine and dirt. Branches tore at our clothes as we stumbled into a small clearing.
“Sit,” he ordered.
Anna pulled Lily and me close, her breathing uneven. “Why are you doing this? We don’t have anything you want.”
He didn’t answer. He just tore Lily’s towel into strips. “Hands behind your backs.”
Anna tried to reason with him, her voice trembling. “My husband’s expecting us. If we’re not home soon, he’ll come looking. Please…”
He didn’t look up. His jaw clenched, eyes empty. He tied Anna first, then Lily, then me. His hands were rough, fast, methodical.
When he was done, he stood over us, hammer dangling loosely. For a few seconds, the only sound was the rustling of leaves.
Then, he moved.
The hammer rose and fell—fast, brutal. It hit my mother first. The sound was soft and heavy, not like in movies. She gasped once and slumped forward.
“Mom!” I screamed.
Lily cried out, high and thin, a sound I still hear sometimes when I dream. He turned on her next. One blow, then another, until she stopped moving.
I couldn’t breathe. I tried to crawl to her, but the ropes held tight. “Please,” I sobbed. “Please stop.”
The hammer came for me. I felt the first strike, then another, dull and distant. I fell sideways, and the world went dark.
When I came to, everything was quiet except for the sound of his footsteps moving away through the leaves. I stayed still, afraid he’d look back. My head throbbed. Blood trickled down my neck.
When I finally dared to open my eyes, the clearing was a nightmare of red and silence. My mother’s arm was still outstretched toward me, her hand open. Lily lay beside her, so small. Our dog, Daisy, had followed us from home—I hadn’t even realized—but she was there too, not breathing.
I whispered their names. Nothing.
Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed. Then nothing again.
I don’t remember how long I lay there. My wrists were raw by the time I got free. Every sound—the rustle of leaves, the creak of branches—made me flinch.
I tried to walk but fell after a few steps. My voice was barely a whisper when I called out. “Help…”
Eventually, I heard shouting. My father’s voice. I think I screamed then, though I’m not sure. The next thing I remember was light—bright, sterile, painful. Machines beeping. The smell of antiseptic.
“She’s lucky to be alive,” someone said.
Later, they told me my dad had found us. The car was gone. The man, gone. Just tire tracks and blood and the broken towel on the ground.
They searched for weeks. Questioned drifters, local workers, anyone with a record. Someone was arrested eventually—a man who looked the part. But some detectives weren’t convinced. Another suspect confessed years later, then recanted. The case went cold again.
I recovered, at least on the outside. The scars on my scalp faded. My speech came back after therapy. But inside, something stayed broken.
I still dream about that lane. About the way the hammer caught the last of the evening light before it fell. About my mother’s hand, reaching, trying to keep us safe even as everything slipped away.
I live far from that cottage now. But every time I see a car idling too long on a quiet road, I feel that same cold rush inside me. Because danger doesn’t always roar up with sirens. Sometimes, it just parks sideways in your path—quiet, patient, hammer in hand.
"Blood on the Shore":
I was just eighteen that summer of 1960, the air warm and full of dust from the road as I rode my motorcycle toward the quiet edge of Lake Bodom. My girlfriend, Irma, rode behind me, arms wrapped tight around my waist. She was fifteen—bright, laughing, restless in the way only the young can be. Behind us, our friends Seppo and Anna followed on another bike, their voices carrying faintly over the wind. We were heading out to escape the city noise, to find a little peace by the water. Just a weekend by the lake—nothing more.
We reached the far side of the lake by late afternoon, where the trees crowded thick and the world went still. The spot we chose was perfect—no houses, no roads, just a clearing of grass sloping gently down to the water. The air smelled of pine and lakeweed. Birds wheeled overhead, and the only sound was the quiet lap of the waves against the shore.
We unpacked what little we had—blankets, sandwiches, a couple of sodas, a single tent. “This is perfect,” Irma said, brushing her hair from her face as she helped me stake the canvas into the ground. Her smile caught the light, warm and easy. “No one around to bother us.”
“Yeah,” Seppo said, grinning as he dropped his pack. “We can stay up late, tell stories, maybe even swim in the dark.”
Anna laughed softly. “As long as no bugs crawl into the tent first.”
We built a small fire as the evening settled, its orange glow flickering across our faces. The world felt wide open then. We talked about school, about what came next after summer—things that felt big and far away. Seppo told some stupid joke, and Irma leaned against me, her hand finding mine. “I’m glad we came,” she whispered. Her voice was soft, half-lost in the rustle of the water.
By the time the fire burned low, the stars had come out—thousands of them, cold and bright. We doused the flames, zipped ourselves into the tent, and lay close, whispering half-asleep goodnights. The lake outside breathed in quiet rhythm.
I don’t remember what time it was when I woke. Maybe two, maybe three in the morning. Something had changed—the stillness wasn’t the same. I opened my eyes to darkness and a faint sound. A soft rustling, like someone moving just beyond the tent.
I lay still, heart already beating faster. The others were asleep—Irma beside me, Seppo and Anna pressed close on the other side. I told myself it was an animal. A fox, maybe. Nothing to worry about.
But then I heard it again—slow, deliberate footsteps circling the tent. Crunching twigs. Breathing.
“Hello?” I whispered. My voice sounded strange in the dark.
Silence. Then, a faint scrape—metal against fabric.
I held my breath. The shape of a shadow flickered across the tent wall, tall, human. Before I could move, something struck the canvas hard, the sound sharp as thunder in the stillness. Seppo jerked awake with a shout, and Anna screamed.
A blade tore through the fabric in a sudden rip, slicing the air inside. Irma cried out as I threw myself up, trying to see, to understand. But the world had exploded into chaos—the tent shaking, the sounds of struggle and panic everywhere.
“Run!” I shouted, grabbing Irma’s arm. But another blow came from outside, heavy and fast, smashing against Seppo’s head. His cry stopped short. Anna’s voice rose in horror—“Please! Stop! What do you want?”—before it broke into sobs.
Something sharp cut across my forearm, hot pain blooming. I swung blindly through the rip in the canvas, but my fists met only cold air. Whoever it was stayed outside, moving fast, silent except for the thuds and tearing sounds.
Irma’s fingers dug into my arm. “Nils—help me!”
I pulled her toward the opening, desperate to get her out, but the attacker struck again. I felt her body jerk, her breath catch. Blood sprayed warm across my face. I screamed her name, but another hit came—this one to my head. The world went white, then black.
When I woke, it was quiet again.
Morning light filtered weakly through the trees. My face was swollen, blood dried in streaks across my skin. My jaw burned when I tried to move it. For a moment, I didn’t understand where I was. Then I saw the tent—collapsed, torn apart, soaked in red.
Irma lay half outside it, her hair matted with blood, her eyes half-open to the morning. Anna and Seppo were inside, still and broken, the grass around them dark with what had spilled from their bodies.
My legs barely held me as I stumbled to my feet, calling their names, my voice shaking. There was no answer. Only the soft lap of the lake, as if nothing had happened. My shoes were gone. My keys. I didn’t remember losing them.
I started walking, barefoot through the brush. The ground was cold and wet. I remember seeing someone in the distance—a man, walking away through the trees. Blond hair catching the light. Or maybe that’s something my mind added later.
By the time I collapsed near the road, the sun was already high. Birdwatchers found me hours later, babbling, bleeding, barely conscious. When the police came, it was already too late. Too many footprints trampled the scene. Too many details lost.
They questioned me again and again, trying to piece together what I couldn’t say. My memory fractured in places, whole stretches gone. I told them about the sound, the shadow, the steps circling the tent. About Irma’s hand slipping from mine. But even I began to doubt myself.
A man in black. Eyes red in the dark. Or just a trick of fear.
Years passed. The case went cold. People whispered. Some said I had done it—that I killed them all in a jealous rage and hurt myself to hide the truth. They called me a liar, a monster.
Decades later, in 2004, they arrested me again. The police said there was new evidence—blood on my shoes. But the tests showed it wasn’t mine, and in the end, they let me go.
Still, the questions never stopped. Who was out there that night? A stranger? A hunter? Someone from town angry about campers trespassing? Or something worse—something that didn’t belong to the world of reason?
Sometimes, even now, I wake in the dark and hear that same faint rustle—the sound of someone moving just outside the walls of memory. And I wonder if he’s still out there, somewhere by the lake, watching, waiting.
The place is quiet now. People camp there again. But I can’t go back. The trees remember. The water remembers.
And so do I.