Chapter 1
Missy Claymont
The moonshine burned a path down Missy's throat, settling in her stomach like liquid fire. Heat escaped through every pore in her body. Oddly enough, the radiating warmth didn’t ease the chill of the night air.
She forced a smile as she passed the mason jar back to Richie, her vision blurring at the edges.
Around her, the Cane County Harvest Festival throbbed with loud noises and vibrant colors.
Strings of yellow bulbs cast glowing balls of light between booths, and the Ferris wheel's slow rotation painted sluggish arcs across the darkening sky.
It was the screams from the Tilt-A-Whirl that heightened the constant hum of laughter and chatter, causing Missy's stomach to lurch again.
She desperately needed air that didn't reek of fried dough, stale popcorn, and human bodies pressed too close together.
“This batch of Old Man Gleason's is even better than last year's,” Richie exclaimed, tipping the jar back for another swig. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Worth every second of sneaking around that crazy old bastard's property.”
The circle of friends erupted in laughter, their faces flushed from alcohol.
Missy's chuckle came a beat too late, hollow even to her own ears.
Four pulls from the jar had been four too many.
The ground beneath her feet seemed to tilt and sway like the carnival rides spinning in the distance.
She pressed her fingertips against her temples, trying to steady herself.
“You okay, Missy?” Veronica asked, but her words sounded far away.
“I just need some air,” Missy managed to say before acidic bile hit the back of her throat. She managed to swallow it without anyone noticing something was wrong. “I’m fine.”
Richie launched into another exaggerated tale of their moonshine heist, providing her with an opportunity she wasn’t about to pass up.
While the group of friends was completely absorbed in his story, Missy managed to slip away without anyone noticing.
She took a few backward steps, her vintage leather boots crunching the fallen leaves into the packed dirt.
“…bolt cutters with us. Then we…”
Richie was full of cow manure because she had been by his side the entire time, as had Veronica.
He intentionally left out how they almost got caught committing several crimes.
If Old Man Gleason had called Chief Langley, all three of them wouldn’t have been able to attend the festival.
They would have been grounded until graduation.
Another wave of nausea hit right as Missy ducked behind the ring toss booth. The tinny carousel music, the barkers calling to passersby, and the children shrieking with delight began to merge into a single overwhelming wave.
She was definitely going to be sick.
The treeline behind the game booths backed up to the edge of the Cox property.
She moved toward the obscure shadows, each step requiring more concentration than it should.
All she needed was to empty her stomach.
Maybe then the world would stop spinning and the thin sheen of perspiration would evaporate from her skin.
She finally reached a tall oak tree that provided support, its rough bark catching on the thin fabric of her jacket as she leaned against it.
Missy tugged the denim loose while closing her eyes.
Taking deep breaths, the smell of decaying leaves and distant woodsmoke immediately triggered her gag reflex.
She bent at the waist, her stomach churning violently before relinquishing all its contents.
Her muscles clenched with each heave. It wasn’t long before she was able to straighten and draw in some ragged breaths.
The sour taste of bile lingered on her tongue, but at least the burning sensation in her chest had subsided.
Minutes passed as she stood in the shadows, the festival carrying on in the distance. Her nausea might have subsided, but it had now been replaced by another, more urgent bodily need. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of her full bladder.
Unfortunately, the portable toilets were clear across the fairgrounds, near the entrance. She would never make it, and she really didn’t want to run into her grandmother.
“Darn it,” Missy muttered, searching around for a shielded spot that would give her some privacy.
She wasn't some little kid who couldn't hold it, but the pressure was becoming more uncomfortable by the second. She hastily pulled her cell phone from her jacket pocket. Once the flashlight was on, she didn’t even need time for her eyes to adjust. She quickly found a spot between two huge oak trees, secluded enough that no one from the festival could possibly witness such humiliation.
She pressed the flashlight button on the screen to shut it off before tucking the phone under her chin. Not wasting any more time, she unfastened her jeans and yanked on the zipper.
Tugging her jeans and underwear down in one awkward movement, she squatted, thighs trembling with the effort to maintain her balance. The vulnerability of such a position made her heart race and her stomach lurch. Then again, maybe the lingering effects were from the alcohol.
“Missy.”
She dropped her phone at the sound of her name.
At least, she thought she heard someone whisper for her from somewhere in the darkness.
She swept her gaze back and forth while straining to hear any other sound than her urine hitting the debris on the ground.
When no other noise made itself known, she relaxed enough to empty the rest of her bladder.
This was just one more indignity to endure before her escape. Just seven months until graduation, when she could leave Cane County and all its narrow expectations behind.
There was only one person she would truly miss, and that was her grandmother. Amelia Claymont had taken her in after Missy’s father died and her mother had left town. Her grandmother had also done her best to voice her concerns about Missy’s aspirations.
“Dreams don't put food on the table, baby girl.”
But Missy had seen the faded photograph hidden in her grandmother's sewing box. The one that captured a moment in time of a younger Amelia. The one with bright eyes and a theater playbill clutched in her hand. The two of them were much more alike than her grandmother cared to admit.
When Missy’s stream of urine finally ceased, she reached into her jacket pocket and extracted a napkin saved earlier from her funnel cake, the paper still sticky with powdered sugar.
It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do.
She wiped herself quickly, grimacing with disgust when she had no choice but to stuff the napkin back into her pocket.
Standing required more coordination than she expected, her legs stiff from squatting. She nearly toppled over, catching herself with her fingertips against the hard ground. Once she was steady enough, she managed to pull up her underwear and jeans without any further issues.
“Missy.”
Her head snapped up.
Her name had practically slithered through the night air, and she was confident that it wasn’t her imagination.
“Hello?” Missy winced when her voice was louder and higher than she had intended. “Is someone there?”
Silence answered her.
Missy swallowed hard, the involuntary action clicking audibly in the stillness.
She squinted into the darkness as she slowly knelt to locate her phone.
At least it was in an area that didn’t contain her urine.
It took her at least a minute rummaging through the dead leaves and debris before her fingers came into contact with the plastic case.
“Help me.”
The voice was louder this time around, though still a raspy whisper. Missy instantly recognized the voice. At least, she was relatively sure who was nearby.
“Richie? That’s not funny.”
The festival lights seemed miles away now, their cheerful glow barely penetrating the woods where she stood. Shadows pooled between trunks, darker patches within the darkness where anything—or anyone—could hide.
Richie was well aware of her fear.
They had all grown up hearing about the Threshing Man. But she was seventeen, not seven. She was old enough to recognize the legend for what it was—a story meant to keep children close to home during the harvest season, when farm equipment and hunting accidents posed real dangers.
Still, the timing sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the residual reaction of Old Man Gleason’s moonshine.
Someone always disappeared during harvest season.
Urban legend or no urban legend, no one could dispute that fact.
Missy recalled her grandmother describing the Threshing Man.
He wore tattered clothes that rustled like dried corn husks, he was over eight feet tall, and there were hollow spaces where his eyes should have been.
He comes when the harvest moon is full, taking what's owed.
A nervous laugh escaped her lips right before a flash of anger took hold. Richie had probably corralled the others into playing a prank on her. If she were honest with herself, a part of her was relieved that she was leaving him behind.
The day of graduation would be the start of her new life.
By the time May came around, she would have saved enough money for a bus ticket to Nashville.
All she needed was to convince Lucas Solomon to go with her.
This place, these woods, these superstitions…
well, they would all be memories soon enough.
“Help me.”
Missy had been wrong about Richie and her friends.
They weren’t playing some sick joke. The voice cutting through the darkness sounded a bit deeper.
She didn’t waste a second turning on the flashlight on her phone.
Aiming the beam in the general vicinity of the plea, she couldn’t make out any silhouette.
“Where are you?” Missy called out, taking a few steps forward. “I can't see you.”