Chapter 1
Damon
Halloween brings out the worst in people.
Kids who are usually glued to their phones suddenly think it’s hilarious to pelt my truck with candy.
College students stumble through downtown, dressed like sexy nurses and sexy devils and whatever the hell a sexy corn cob is supposed to be.
Every porch on Main Street glows orange with carved pumpkins while fake spiderwebs flutter across hedges, like the whole town agreed to lose its mind for one night.
I leave work an hour later than I planned because one of the fry cooks called in “possessed.”
According to Becky, he sent a picture of himself with black eyes. According to Facebook, he used an AI app.
I lock the back door of Carter’s Bar it’s a metal skull.
“What the hell...”
My name is written across the front in white ink.
Damon Carter.
No address, postage, or return label.
I glance toward the street. Nobody’s watching me; at least, I don’t think they are.
I slide the skull free and untie the ribbon. Inside is a single cream-colored card.
Your presence is requested tonight.
Blackridge Cemetery.
Midnight.
Come alone.
That’s it.
No signature or further explanation.
I let out a laugh before I can stop myself.
This has to be some Halloween prank.
Has to be… right?
I crumple the card halfway before something stops me.
Not fear, but... irritation.
Whoever left this knows where I live, knows my name. While I live in a small town, we don’t play stupid games like this. I guess I thought we didn’t, anyway.
I look back down the street. Mrs. Holloway waves from her porch while handing out candy to a pirate with chocolate already smeared across his face.
Everything looks normal.
I toss the invitation onto the kitchen counter after I step inside.
It should stay there. Instead, every time I walk past it, my eyes catch on that stupid silver skull.
By nine, I’ve showered. By ten-thirty, I’ve watched part of a movie without following a single scene. By eleven, I’ve convinced myself I’m being an idiot.
I grab my truck keys.
“If this turns into some haunted corn maze bullshit,” I mutter to the empty house, “I’m leaving.”
The cemetery sits at the edge of town, where the road gives up and the trees take over.
My headlights sweep across crooked iron fencing before I pull into the gravel lot. There are already eight vehicles parked, and no drivers to be seen.
So much for being the only idiot.
I climb out. The cold feels different here; it’s almost sharper somehow.
A handful of men stand just inside the cemetery gates, each holding envelopes that look exactly like mine.
I count eight men altogether; I know five of them.
Rick Donnelly owns the hardware store. He sponsored my Little League team when I was twelve.
Pastor Glen’s son, Aaron, stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of a designer coat that probably cost more than my truck.
Tyler Mason lives three streets over. We don’t talk much outside of mowing our lawns at the same time every Saturday.
Evan Sanchez just moved here a few months ago.
Neil Harper, the vice principal at Blackridge High, stands a little apart from the others, rubbing the back of his neck like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Three are strangers. Probably from Ash Creek or Morgan’s Ridge. Close enough to drive here, far enough that I’ve never learned their names.
“Damon?” Rick frowns when he spots me. “You got one, too?”
“Looks like it.”
Tyler lifts his invitation. “My wife thinks it’s some escape room thing.”
“Your wife let you come?”
“She told me not to.” He shrugs. “Which made me curious.”
“The hell is this?”
“No clue,” Evan says.
An older man with a beer belly chuckles.
“Probably one of those immersive haunted experiences.”
“At a cemetery?” Aaron asks.
“They’re creative these days.”
Nobody sounds convinced.
I stuff my hands into my jacket pockets and glance around.
Blackridge Cemetery isn’t huge, but it’s old. The newer graves stop near the entrance. Everything farther back sinks into shadow, beneath towering oaks whose branches weave together overhead.
Then the church bell strikes midnight.
One...
Two...
Three...
By the twelfth chime, the woods have gone strangely quiet.
A woman steps out from between the trees.
Then another.
Then another.
Black hooded robes swallow every inch of them, except for their pale hands, wrapped around flickering candles. Nobody says a word. There have to be fifteen women altogether. They don’t even look at us.
Instead, they come into the cemetery with practiced steps, until they surround a weathered grave almost hidden beneath ivy.
Beer Belly Guy laughs under his breath.
“Okay. That’s actually kind of impressive.”
Nobody answers him.
One of the women raises both hands.
The chanting starts low. Not loud or dramatic. Just soft enough that the words blur together into something I can’t quite understand.
The hair along the back of my neck lifts.
The wind dies and the candle flames stop flickering. Seconds later, the earth trembles beneath my boots.
Beer Belly Guy stops laughing as a crack splits through the center of the grave that the women were encircling.
Someone beside me whispers, “Jesus Christ.”
The dirt shifts.
Once.
Then again.
My mouth goes dry as a pale hand punches through the soil.