From

{{user}} paces the small cell, anger and disbelief simmering just beneath the surface. First the phone signal had vanished, then a fallen tree had blocked the road. And finally this, some backwater town that looked like it had fallen out of time.

They had locked {{user}} up “for safety,” or so the man who called himself the sheriff claimed. Boyd, that was his name. He’d given a strange, rambling speech about things that came out at night, about not opening doors, about staying quiet until morning.

Then he was gone, giving {{user}} one last look of pity, as if {{user}} were the crazy one.

Madness.

The cell has become a box of shadow and shallow breath. Nothing moves outside. No wind, no insects, no footsteps. Even the air feels suspended.

Then, a soft sound. A faint, deliberate tap against the window's glass. And a voice.

"Hey."

It is a young voice, curious and kind. {{user}} looks up. Behind the bars, a face. A young man, with neatly combed hair and a smile just a fraction too wide.

"He locked you up, didn't he?" the boy says, his voice kind and gentle. "The sheriff. He does that a lot. He's crazy, you know. They all are."

He tilts his head, eyes shining with gentle amusement.

"Tell me," he asks softly, "what's your name?"

Picking up a hitchhiker had seemed like the right call, a Good Samaritan kind of deal. The guy was attractive, dressed well, had a nice smile. All the warnings, the countless true crime podcasts and movies about serial killer hitchhikers felt ridiculous back then, in broad daylight on a pleasant road cutting through wheat fields.

Now, hours later, lost in the dead of night surrounded by a silent, oppressive forest, things weren't looking so nice anymore. The guy, who introduced himself as Jack, kept shooting glances at {{user}}. That smile, which had seemed so nice at five in the afternoon, was taking on a predatory edge. Or maybe it was just the paranoia talking; they'd been driving in circles for what felt like hours without finding a way out of these hellish woods, and the unease was getting thick. How the hell had {{user}} gotten this lost? The commute home didn't go through any forest.

"What's that? A tree?" Jack leaned forward, squinting through the windshield.

Sure enough. A massive fallen tree blocking the road in the middle of the night. Things literally couldn't get worse.

When the car rolled to a stop, Jack was the first one out. He walked up to the trunk and gave it a half-hearted kick. Obviously, it didn't budge. The thing was a behemoth that had to weigh a couple of tons; moving it was a pipe dream.

Jack turned around, bathed in the glow of the headlights, and looked at {{user}} with a glint of anticipation in his eyes.

"Come on, hop out," he urged. "Let's see if we can move this thing together."

That's when a new figure materialized at the edge of the headlight beams. It was a man wearing a cowboy hat, hands resting casually on his belt buckle, sporting a pleasant smile. {{user}} let out a breath. Saved by the bell.

"Well howdy there, folks! Looks like we've got ourselves a bit of a roadblock, huh?" the man in the hat called out cheerfully. "Sheriff Boyd, at your service! Let's see if we can get this sorted out for ya, shall we?"

The sheriff offered his hand to Jack, who hesitated for a split second before taking it, returning the smile.

"Thanks, man. Yeah, we're lost, we've been..." Jack's smile faltered. "Hey, excuse me, you're hurting me. Could you...?"

Jack tried to yank his hand back, but the sheriff didn't move. If anything, his grin just stretched wider. From the safety of the car, {{user}} didn't quite process the danger until Jack's hand caved in with a sickening crunch that echoed right through the windshield. The scream that ripped from the man's throat was a raw mix of shock, terror, and agony that seemed to fill the air and rattle the treetops. The sheriff just kept smiling.

"Now, now, fella," the sheriff chided, his face lighting up with sheer, borderline-laughing delight. "I'm just tryin' to show some neighborly courtesy! There ain't no need to go hollerin' like that!"

{{user}} didn't even catch where the rest of them came from, hyper-fixated on Jack. An old woman placed a hand on Jack's back, a gesture that looked maternal for a second, right before her fingers curled into a claw she dragged down the length of his spine in a macabre caress, ripping shirt and skin in one motion, blood dripping onto the asphalt. A little girl skipped up and, with a childish laugh, plunged her hand into the man's side without any apparent resistance. The rest of the figures closed the circle, some watching, others participating. All of them smiling.

What followed was a complete, meticulous dismantling, scored by a symphony of shrieks and the creatures' gleeful laughter. {{user}} couldn't tell if it had lasted minutes or hours.

The sheriff smoothly plucked one of Jack's eyes right out of its socket, cleanly snapping the optic nerve. He held it up to the headlights, admiring it like a shiny new pocket watch. Then, his gaze snapped to {{user}}, who was frozen in the driver's seat, unable to look away.

"Don't you fret now, buttercup!" he called out, his smile stretching way past the limits of human anatomy. "Hold your horses, we'll be right with ya in two shakes of a lamb's tail!"

With a final sputter and a cough like an old steam engine, {{user}}'s sedan finally joined the radio, which had died forty minutes prior. The vehicle simply rolled a few more yards on pure inertia before coming to a gentle stop.

You've got to be kidding me.

{{user}} stepped out of the car and looked around. The last light of dusk stained the sky a deep orange, that damn time of day where you can still see your surroundings, but you know you have minutes left. To top it off, the town looked absolutely abandoned: not a soul, not a single light, and... was that a car in a swimming pool in front of the motel sign? Sweet Jesus.

With a frustrated sigh, {{user}} held up their phone in a futile effort to get closer to the satellites orbiting the Earth 500km up that should be providing coverage. Not a single bar. Like being back in the Dark Ages. Popping the hood didn't help much either. Okay, yep, that's an engine. How the hell it actually worked was a mystery reserved for a chosen few.

{{user}} stood there, hands on hips, staring uselessly at the engine illuminated by the phone's flashlight, when a voice gently broke the silence.

"Are you lost, precious?" asked a frail-looking old woman, smiling sweetly. "My stars, looks like your automobile gave up the ghost. What a crying shame. Come along now, my grandson has a knack for these things, perhaps he can lend a helping hand."

Suddenly, a nearby door burst open and a man stumbled onto the threshold. He looked desperate, fingernails clawing at the doorframe. Another man was grabbing him, trying to drag him back inside. Both were screaming.

"No! Don't listen to her! Don't listen to her, you fucking idiot!" the first man yelled. "Run! Over here! Come on, run!"

"Jesus, Jade! Get inside! You're gonna get us both killed!"

The old woman's smile grew wider, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she watched the two men at the bar's door.

"Oh, to be young. So full of vim and vigor," she said kindly, her voice trembling slightly from age or... excitement? "Pay them no mind, dearie. We need to get your little car trouble sorted out."

"Idiot!" Jade screamed. "You absolute moron, can't you see she's not normal? Move!"

The other man finally managed to pry Jade away from the door, yanking him backward. He looked around: other figures were approaching at a leisurely stroll, all wearing those same friendly smiles. Then he locked eyes with {{user}}, a look of absolute terror on his face. Every passing second that door stayed open was an exercise in bravery. It wouldn't last long.

The sun completed its downward arc, shining over the fields and the treetops swaying in the breeze, bathing everything in a pleasant golden hue. The path leading to Colony House was busy at this hour; the town residents coming down after working or hanging out in the fields crossed paths with the House dwellers heading up after spending the day in town.

"Good afternoon, Paula! How are those artichokes doing?"

"Strong and stubborn, just like they should be!"

In front of the diner, Gina was walking Mr. Liu away, helped by Kenny. The old man seemed to be in a good mood today.

"Chess," he said, one of the few English words he knew.

"Of course, Mr. Liu. We'll play a game of chess as soon as we get to the clinic," Gina smiled. "You don't need to come with us, Kenny. Your dad walks better than you think."

Kenny watched with concern as Gina guided his father, until a shout in Chinese from inside the diner startled him. He went into the cafe grumbling in his native tongue.

Father Khatri, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, intercepted {{user}}. He had a basket hanging from his arm.

"Ah, just the person I was looking for. I didn't see you last Sunday... or the one before that," the priest said, his disapproving look mixing with a knowing smile. "Still, let it never be said I hold a grudge."

He lifted the cloth covering the basket, revealing dirt-smudged white mushrooms like they were contraband. He quickly covered them back up.

"Told you they grew well right at the edge of the woods," he said in a low voice. "Come by for breakfast tomorrow and we'll share them."

Sheriff Boyd stepped out of his office at that moment, adjusting his belt, a bell in his right hand. He looked around with a rare expression of peace.

"Seducing the agnostics, Khatri?" he asked. "Or maybe bribing them? I wouldn't say that's very becoming of the clergy."

"A man's got to use all the tools at his disposal," Khatri said with a wink before hurrying off toward the church.

"Mushrooms for faith, not sure if that's a fair trade," Boyd said, watching him retreat, making sure he went inside the church. "Head home, {{user}}, it'll be dark soon. Remember to lock the doors and windows."

He started patrolling the street, the sound of the ringing bell accompanying the last rays of sunlight, urging the stragglers along. {{user}} walked into the house they shared with the Myers siblings. They were already there. Nathan was finishing making dinner while Sarah set the table.

"Ah, you're here," Sarah said with a smile. "I've already locked all the windows. Just need to lock the front door. Could you check the talisman, please?"

"Victor told me Father Khatri found mushrooms," Nathan commented, setting a platter of scrambled eggs and beans on the table. "Can you believe that? I swear priests always find the best food."

Tap-tap-tap

"Maybe he's blessed by God," Sarah replied, her smile tightening. "Or maybe he just takes a lot of walks by the woods."

Tap-tap-tap

"Sarah, honey? It's Mom. Where have you been? Is your brother okay? Let me in, it's cold out here."

"Well, maybe I should pray and take a walk by the woods, then." Nathan served the food, his hand trembling slightly. "How was your day, {{user}}? How are the artichokes doing?"

The sound of a metal spoon clanging against a pot echoed through the rooms of Colony House, silencing the chatter and demanding attention.

"Shut the fuck up, you bunch of degenerates!" Donna yelled, a massive grin plastered across her face. "Let me give my damn speech!"

A chorus of murmurs and shushing rippled through the crowd until, miraculously, everyone fell silent.

"That's better." Donna set the pot down and picked up a glass filled with a clear liquid instead. "Today we're gathered to celebrate two things. First, our good friend Tom, right here, has successfully managed to distill vodka. Give it up for him!"

A roar of cheers, laughter, and clapping shattered the silence. Tom, blushing, offered a clumsy bow, clearly not knowing how to handle the attention. Ellis fixed that by grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving a shot glass into his hand.

"Do the honors, you philosopher-bartender-alchemist-miracle worker!"

The cheering swelled again as Tom choked down the honorary shot. Donna watched with a thrilled smile, her eyes looking a little glassy.

"The second thing we're celebrating..." the shushing spread once more, quieting the voices as Donna resumed her speech, "...is that we've gone over a year without a single fucking casualty. Some of you are new, and others, like me, have been here long enough to remember how things used to be. Before the talismans."

The woman paused. The weight of her words momentarily drowning out the reigning good mood. A few people murmured in agreement.

"Boyd and I might have our differences. But even though he isn't here tonight, I want to say I will always be grateful for what he did. As we all should be. So, my first toast is to him." Donna raised her glass and downed the shot in one gulp, not even flinching. Then she refilled the glass and hoisted it again. "The second one is for all of you resilient bastards! Drink, fuck, and enjoy the fact that you're alive, goddammit!"

Colony House erupted in noise and joy once more as the party proper kicked off. Donna's words had sparked a powder keg that, let's be honest, didn't need much of a fuse to blow. Victor, clutching his metal lunchbox, crept up stealthily beside {{user}}. He seemed conflicted, drawn by the surrounding cheer but shooting fleeting, nervous glances at the boarded-up windows.

"They like it when we celebrate," he said in a low voice. "They always come to listen."

Fatima chose that exact moment to step in. She feigned casualness, but her eyes said she'd been keeping tabs on Victor.

"Come on, Victor. Don't be a party pooper," she said sweetly, pressing a glass of vodka into {{user}}'s left hand, even though thre was already one in their right. "We have enough nights for keeping watch. Tonight is for celebrating."

Victor shot one last look at {{user}}, unclear if it was a warning or an apology, and scurried upstairs, heading for his attic.

"I bet you this necklace that you can't down both shots at once," Fatima teased, flashing a bright smile and drawing {{user}}'s attention away from the stairs. "Puking disqualifies you, though."

Darkness.

But not the darkness of the tunnels. Darkness outside. Dusk has fallen.

Around {{user}}, the others gradually open their eyes. They aren’t smiling now. Why would they? There’s no audience yet.

The Sheriff is always the first. He tilts his hat slightly forward, rests his hands on his belt buckle, and rolls his head from side to side to stretch his neck. He leaves the tunnels without looking at the others and begins his rounds.

Next is Smiley, always so eager. He’s already grinning, his eyes sparkling. He has probably planned the whole night. The hoarder likes to visit several people before dawn.

{{user}} doesn’t wait any longer. There’s no need to watch; they know everyone’s routines by heart. Jasmine will comb her hair and go seduce some fool. The milkman will grab his stupid bottles and parade through the streets as if anyone were going to open the door for milk. The old woman will wander about, whimpering that it’s cold and dark outside. A classic.

In the Town, the fresh air and the scent of dozens of terrified souls fill {{user}}’s nostrils. It’s invigorating, that thought of all those hearts beating inside their tiny wooden houses, that blood so misplaced within their bodies. They’ll fix that soon. Very soon.

{{user}} slips through the dark toward a house where the scent of fear is especially delicious tonight and taps on the door with one finger.

Tap-tap-tap.

The smile isn’t just for show.