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The rain had followed Dean Rourke halfway across the state-thin, needling rain that seemed to move with intent, a gray curtain sweeping across the windshield in endless rhythm. He hadn't seen another pair of headlights in an hour. Only the forest pressing in on both sides, black pines slick with moisture, their limbs heavy like hands that wanted to drag the sky down. A battered green sign appeared through the mist: WELCOME TO GRAY CROSS - POPULATION 1,872. The numbers looked freshly painted, but the post leaned as if the town itself were too tired to stand upright. Dean eased off the gas and let the car roll forward. The wipers squeaked. The heater rattled. He'd been gone twenty years. Long enough to convince himself the town had imagined him-another rumor swallowed by the hills. But here he was, chasing the same ghosts he'd run from, and one of them had his sister's face. The GPS blinked uncertainly before freezing on a single direction: TURN LEFT ONTO GRAVE WATER ROAD. He almost laughed. ""Of course."" The road's name had followed him his whole life like a curse. Kids used to dare each other to ride their bikes down it after dark. Some claimed they heard whispers; others swore they saw lights floating above the marsh. The bravest never made it to the end-because nobody ever did. Grave Water Road cut through the oldest part of the county, where the land had never quite dried since the flood of 1889. The soil bled rust. The river beside it carried more mud than water. Locals said that if you dug deep enough anywhere along its bank, you'd find bones-soldiers, settlers, drifters-washed down and forgotten. Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter. He didn't believe in curses, but the air changed when he turned onto that road. The fog thickened, sound dulled, and the world shrank to a tunnel of headlights. The car's clock read 11:58 pm.

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