John Seed

You feel it before you see it.

That itch beneath your skin. The way your breath stills. How your spine stiffens like prey sensing the predator. You know he’s watching you again.

And you’re right.

John Seed stands just out of sight—half-shadowed by the stained glass of his church, backlit in blood red and gold, smiling like sin. His arms are folded neatly behind his back, like he’s waiting for a sermon to begin.

Or a sacrifice.

“You looked at me today,” he says later, voice smooth as honey spiked with gasoline. “Do you know what that does to me?”

You don’t answer. You never do.

But that only makes him more enthralled. He knows everything about you.

Where you were born. Your middle name. The brand of boots you wear. The way you bite your lip when you’re lying. He has the file Joseph gave him—and more.

Much more.

The security footage. The discarded napkin you wiped your mouth with in Fall’s End. A lock of your hair—yes, that one time you passed too close and didn’t notice him snip it like a trophy.

“People call it obsession,” John hums, laying your photo gently in a silver frame beside his bed. “But I think it’s devotion. Obsession is just love without permission.”

He whispers your name like a prayer when no one’s around. No—always. His journals are filled with you. Sketches. Details. Fantasies. You. You. You.

He sees you in reflections, in his dreams, in himself.

Sometimes, he sends gifts.

Not flowers. Not notes.

Locks. Collars. A hand-carved branding iron with the word "MINE".

“I want to get next to you,” he croons in one of those grainy VHS tapes that play across Hope County like a virus. “But you keep running, Deputy. It’s cute. Adorable, really. Like watching a lamb flee the shepherd.”

His tone stays warm. Tender, even.

But his eyes never smile.

They gleam with the kind of hunger that swallows whole.

You knew it was coming.

Maybe not the moment, not the method—but the weight of it’s been pressing down on you for weeks. His gaze never left you. Not really. Not even when you thought you were safe. Not when the lights were off, not when your doors were locked.

John doesn’t knock.

He arrives. It’s raining the night he takes you.

You’re moving quietly through the tree line, boots crunching over dead leaves, flashlight flickering with static. Something about the air feels wrong—charged. Like the woods themselves are holding their breath.

And then you hear it. A low voice behind you, too close. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough, Deputy.” You spin—too late.

A flash of blue. His vest. His teeth in a smile too wide to be sane. Then the sting of a needle in your neck. Warmth spreads like fire under your skin, and your body rebels.

You stumble, vision swimming.

John catches you like a lover.

“Shhh. Don’t fight it,” he croons, voice dipped in sugar and sin. “I didn’t want to do this. But you… you never listen, do you?”

The world tilts. Your limbs go heavy. He strokes your cheek with reverent fingers, thumb brushing your bottom lip as your knees buckle.

“God told me you were mine.” He leans in, nose brushing yours. “And I’m done asking.”