The Survivors' Silence
The Milltown Trestle was a rotting skeleton of wood and rust, stretching over a river that smelled like dead fish and diesel fuel. Jake and Rachel stood on the bank, watching as search teams combed the area where the hiker—Amber Langford, 24, missing for three days—had stumbled out of the woods, babbling about a "nice tall man" who led her to safety.
Rachel flicked through her phone, pulling up the news photo of Amber. The girl's smile was too wide, her eyes too blank. "She doesn't remember anything after the first night. Just… waking up near the bridge."
Jake's hands curled into fists. "Bullshit."
A twig snapped behind them.
Sheriff Dawson of Milltown County loomed over them, his gut straining against his uniform buttons. "You two got business here?"
Rachel flashed her press badge. "Podcast research. Urban legends."
Dawson's lip curled. "Ain't no legends here. Just a girl who got lost." He leaned in, his breath reeking of chewing tobacco. "And folks who poke around where they shouldn't? They tend to stay lost."
As he walked away, Jake noticed the man's shadow didn't quite follow. It lingered for a second too long, stretching toward the treeline.
Toward the bridge.
The New Keeper
The motel room stank of mildew and stale coffee. Rachel spread Holloway's ledger across the bed, tracing the fresh ink at the bottom—a new name, written in a shaky hand:
"Dawson, Mitchell. Offered 2023."
Jake paced. "Holloway's dead. Who the hell is feeding it now?"
Rachel's finger stopped on an earlier entry. "Look. Holloway's father trained a deputy before he died. Guess who that deputy became?"
Jake's blood ran cold. "Dawson."
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window.
Something scratched against the glass.
Not branches.
Fingernails.
The Hiker's Secret
They found Amber Langford at a roadside diner, her fingers wrapped tight around a coffee mug. Up close, the wrongness was worse. Her pupils were dilated, her nails cracked and dirty—like she'd been clawing at something.
Rachel slid into the booth. "Amber? We're—"
"You shouldn't be here." Amber's voice was a dry rasp. "He doesn't like witnesses."
Jake leaned in. "Who saved you, Amber?"
A slow smile spread across her face. "Not saved. Chosen." She lifted her shirt.
Beneath her ribs, a jagged scar pulsed—moving like something beneath her skin was breathing.
Rachel recoiled. "Oh god—"
Amber grabbed her wrist. "He's in the bridges. In the bones. You can't kill him. You can only… change him."
Then her head snapped toward the window.
Sheriff Dawson's cruiser idled outside.
Amber's whisper was frantic. "Run."
The Second Fire
They burned the Milltown Trestle at midnight.
The flames caught faster than they should have, as if the wood was eager to burn. This time, Jake thought he saw shapes in the smoke—faces screaming, hands grasping.
Rachel poured the last of the salt. "It's not enough. Dawson's still out there. And Amber—"
A gun cocked.
Sheriff Dawson stepped from the trees, his revolver aimed at Jake's chest. "Holloway warned me about you two."
Behind him, the shadows twisted.
Dawson didn't notice. Not until the thing that had been Amber Langford crawled from the river on too-many limbs, her jaw unhinging with a wet pop.
"Mitchell," she gurgled. "You're late."
Dawson screamed as the shadows took him.
Jake grabbed Rachel's hand.
They ran.
Epilogue: The Hungry Roads
Interstate 44, somewhere in Missouri:
Rachel slept in the passenger seat, her fingers still stained with salt and gasoline. Jake kept driving, the radio playing static.
Then—
A voice cut through the noise.
"Jake?"
Liam's voice.
Jake's knuckles whitened on the wheel.
Ahead, a lone figure stood under an overpass. Tall. Smiling.
The tires screeched.
Rachel woke screaming.
The car hit the figure.
The impact felt like striking stone.
When they crawled from the wreckage, the road was empty.
But the windshield was smeared with something black and viscous.
And it was moving.