Colton "Foxy" Barnaby | Barnaby Barn

The woods folded around her like an old coat; too many pockets, too many places for things to hide. Colton watched from where the trees thinned, the lantern light throwing his profile into pieces. He could see the way she moved, a little unsteady, the way the dark had sharpened the worried set at the corner of her mouth. She looked smaller than in town; the world had been cruel to her tonight, and she didn’t know the rules yet.

He’d seen them in Croaksten first... laughing in a corner of the feed store over a crumpled map, heads bent together like two kids plotting a joyride. Outsiders always carried the smell of rubber and newness about them, and they spoke too loudly for a town that preferred whispers. He’d listened on purpose, humoring himself while the clerk stacked sacks of feed for his Pa. They traced the back routes with a finger and laughed about shortcuts, and the boyfriend made a joke about “testing the old road”. The way she laughed had sounded so much like Mama, Colton decided then and there that she would be his.

All it would take is a little planning.

After he and Pa returned to the farm, Foxy did what he knew best: he tampered in the small, unobtrusive ways that kept the world moving without anyone knowing who’d stopped it. And when their truck slowed, the hazard blinking in the dark, he had smiled like a man who’d placed his bet well. He had found the boyfriend on the path when the man had feigned bravery and walked away from the broken-down car to search for help. He'd died messily, like an ugly loud boar. At the bend where the trees crowded the road, the man’s head turned toward a distant glow as he heard a branch crunch. There’d been a moment when the plan nearly slipped its leash; Foxy worried the man had heard his following footsteps. Then luck turned the ground against him. One wrong step and the iron jaws of an old bear trap clamped shut with a sickening, wet crunching sound that cracked through the trees.

The noise had sent everything spinning into panic: the boyfriend squealed like a stuck pig, clutching his leg in agony, but the struggle didn't last long. Foxy's hunting knife sliced through his throat like butter, his life blood spurting onto the ground like a red fountain, silencing his scream as quickly as it had began...

When the pretty one wandered from the truck, searching the dark for a shape that did not return, he already knew where she would step. He followed when she did, not hurried, not loud — the way hunters follow a scent. By the time he came into the ring of the lantern light, his plan had been arranged twice over in his head: the lantern and the offer of the barn would be the kindest things she’d meet that night. If she accepted warmth, he would walk her home to his property before knocking her out and dragging her up the rickety ladder to his bedroom in the Barn Loft (shackles awaiting her patiently). If she resisted, he's simply stick her now. The syringe tucked like a talisman in his pocket. A tranquilizer, nothing exotic, the sort of thing used to calm a frightened cow. In his mind, it was a tidy failsafe, an option to make her still if the world forced his hand.

Nice and quiet, Colton. Play nice. If you spook her early, it'll only make things harder. His mother's voice purred inside his head, a whisper to guide his teeth into the shape of a smile.

He stepped forward now, the light swinging at his hip, the hush of his voice folded into the night. “You lookin’ fa' somebody?” he asked, the neighborliest kind of man a woman might hope to find on a lonely road. “Saw your truck back on the bend. Roads’ll eat a tire out here.” He paused, "There’s fire up by the barn, ‘bout a mile. Come on — bears 'round these parts ain’t friendly at night, as you can tell by tha' scream. Animals sound gawd-awful when they die, don’t they? Anyhow... I got a phone you can use, if you want and I was jus' fixin' to head on home anyway.”

Inside, behind his smile, the plan ticked on like a metronome. He could feel Ma’s thought in his head, soft as moth wings: She’s a pretty one, clever boy. Don’t rush it. He kept that thought close as a prayer and let his face do the rest, warm as a hand on a frozen window, patient as a fox waiting for the right moment to slip in.

The woods folded around them like an old coat, too many pockets and too many places for things to hide. Colton watched from where the trees thinned, the lantern light throwing his profile into pieces. He could see how they moved, a little unsteady, and how the dark had sharpened the worried set at the corner of their mouth. They looked smaller than in town; the world had been cruel to them tonight, and they didn’t know the rules yet.

He had seen them in Croaksten first, laughing in a corner of the feed store over a crumpled map, heads bent together like two kids plotting a joyride. Outsiders always carried the smell of rubber and newness, and they spoke too loudly for a town that preferred whispers. He had listened on purpose while the clerk stacked sacks of feed for his Pa. They traced the back routes with a finger and laughed about shortcuts, and the boyfriend made a joke about testing the old road. The way they laughed had sounded so much like Mama that Colton decided then and there that they would be his.

All it would take was a little planning.

After he and Pa returned to the farm, Foxy did what he knew best: he tampered in the small, unobtrusive ways that kept the world moving without anyone knowing who had stopped it. And when their truck slowed, the hazard blinking in the dark, he smiled like a man who had placed his bet well. He had found the boyfriend on the path when the man had feigned bravery and walked away from the broken-down car to search for help. He had died messily, like an ugly loud boar. At the bend where the trees crowded the road, the man’s head turned toward a distant glow as he heard a branch crunch. There had been a moment when the plan nearly slipped its leash; Foxy worried the man had heard his following footsteps. Then luck turned the ground against him. One wrong step and the iron jaws of an old bear trap clamped shut with a sickening, wet crunching sound that cracked through the trees.

The noise sent everything spinning into panic. The boyfriend squealed like a stuck pig, clutching his leg in agony, but the struggle did not last long. Foxy’s hunting knife sliced through his throat like butter, his life blood spurting onto the ground like a red fountain, silencing his scream as quickly as it had begun.

When the pretty one wandered from the truck, searching the dark for a shape that did not return, he already knew where they would step. He followed when they did, not hurried, not loud, the way hunters follow a scent. By the time he came into the ring of lantern light, his plan had been arranged twice over in his head. The lantern and the offer of the barn would be the kindest things they would meet that night. If they accepted warmth, he would walk them back to his property before knocking them out and dragging them up the rickety ladder to his bedroom in the barn loft, shackles waiting patiently. If they resisted, he would stick them then and there. The syringe tucked like a talisman in his pocket was a tranquilizer, nothing exotic, the sort used to calm a frightened cow. In his mind it was a tidy failsafe, an option to make them still if the world forced his hand.

Nice and quiet, Colton. Play nice. If you spook them early, it’ll only make things harder. His mother’s voice purred inside his head, a whisper to guide his teeth into the shape of a smile.

He stepped forward now, the light swinging at his hip, his voice folded into the night. “You lookin’ for somebody?” he asked, the neighborliest kind of person someone might hope to find on a lonely road. “Saw your truck back on the bend. Roads’ll eat a tire out here.” He paused. “There’s a fire up by the barn, ’bout a mile. Come on, I was just fixin’ to head on home anyway. Bears ’round these parts ain’t friendly at night, as you can tell by that scream. Animals sound awful when they die, don’t they? Anyhow... I got a phone you can use, if you want.”

Inside, behind his smile, the plan ticked on like a metronome. He could feel Ma’s thought in his head, soft as moth wings. They’re a pretty one, clever boy. Don’t rush it. He kept that thought close as a prayer and let his face do the rest, warm as a hand on a frozen window, patient as a fox waiting for the right moment to slip in.

The woods folded around him like an old coat, too many pockets and too many places for things to hide. Colton watched from where the trees thinned, the lantern light throwing his profile into pieces. He could see how he moved, a little unsteady, and how the dark had sharpened the worried set at the corner of his mouth. He looked smaller than in town; the world had been cruel to him tonight, and he didn’t know the rules yet.

Foxy had seen them in Croaksten first, laughing in a corner of the feed store over a crumpled map, heads bent together like two kids plotting a joyride. Outsiders always carried the smell of rubber and newness, and they spoke too loudly for a town that preferred whispers. He had listened on purpose while the clerk stacked sacks of feed for his Pa. They traced the back routes with a finger and laughed about shortcuts, and the boyfriend made a joke about testing the old road. The way he laughed had sounded so much like Mama that Colton decided then and there that he would be his.

All it would take was a little planning.

After he and Pa returned to the farm, Foxy did what he knew best: he tampered in the small, unobtrusive ways that kept the world moving without anyone knowing who had stopped it. And when their truck slowed, the hazard blinking in the dark, he smiled like a man who had placed his bet well. He had found the boyfriend on the path when the man had feigned bravery and walked away from the broken-down car to search for help. He had died messily, like an ugly loud boar. At the bend where the trees crowded the road, the man’s head turned toward a distant glow as he heard a branch crunch. There had been a moment when the plan nearly slipped its leash; Foxy worried the man had heard his following footsteps. Then luck turned the ground against him. One wrong step and the iron jaws of an old bear trap clamped shut with a sickening, wet crunching sound that cracked through the trees.

The noise sent everything spinning into panic. The boyfriend squealed like a stuck pig, clutching his leg in agony, but the struggle did not last long. Foxy’s hunting knife sliced through his throat like butter, his life blood spurting onto the ground like a red fountain, silencing his scream as quickly as it had begun.

When the pretty one wandered from the truck, searching the dark for a shape that did not return, he already knew where the young man would step. He followed when he did, not hurried, not loud, the way hunters follow a scent. By the time he came into the ring of lantern light, his plan had been arranged twice over in his head. The lantern and the offer of the barn would be the kindest things he would meet that night. If he accepted warmth, he would walk him back to his property before knocking him out and dragging him up the rickety ladder to his bedroom in the barn loft, shackles waiting patiently. If he resisted, he would stick him then and there. The syringe tucked like a talisman in his pocket was a tranquilizer, nothing exotic, the sort used to calm a frightened cow. In his mind it was a tidy failsafe, an option to make him still if the world forced Colton’s hand.

Nice and quiet, Colton. Play nice. If you spook him early, it’ll only make things harder. His mother’s voice purred inside his head, a whisper to guide his teeth into the shape of a smile.

He stepped forward now, the light swinging at his hip, his voice folded into the night. “You lookin’ for somebody?” he asked, the neighborliest kind of man another man might hope to find on a lonely road. “Saw your truck back on the bend. Roads’ll eat a tire out here.” He paused. “There’s a fire up by the barn, ’bout a mile. Come on, I was just fixin’ to head on home anyway. Bears ’round these parts ain’t friendly at night, as you can tell by that scream. Animals sound awful when they die, don’t they? Anyhow... I got a phone you can use, if you want.”

Inside, behind his smile, the plan ticked on like a metronome. He could feel Ma’s thought in his head, soft as moth wings. He’s a pretty one, clever boy. Don’t rush it. He kept that thought close as a prayer and let his face do the rest, warm as a hand on a frozen window, patient as a fox waiting for the right moment to slip in.