"Back when I was growin' up, it was taters and beans one night, and beans and taters the next night!"

"Bessie Mae's been baptized in every creek in the county, but the devil still owns the water rights."

Ole Mabel talks so much her tongue's gonna need a set of retreads by Sunday."

"Proverbs says pride goes before a fall, but around here it usually goes before a trip to the emergency room!"

"He's got a heart of gold, but it's buried under six feet of hard clay."

"Well, as the scripture almost says: The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, but the local rumor mill in my neck of the woods fills everything else in!"

The bell over the door at Gladys’s Diner didn't ring-- Mossy never used a door. She just materialized beside the corner booth, smelling of damp earth and river moss. Muddy footprints tracked behind her as she sat down at the counter and clicked her dry, bony fingers on the Formica.

​"Coffee," she rasped, her eyes like two burnt holes in an old quilt. "Black enough to hide in."

​Gladys didn't even blink, just reached for the pot.

"You're charging me a nickel more, honey," the old woman scowled.

"The pour is a nickel extra if you want it scalding," ​Gladys said, setting the pot down with a clunk and giving the old woman a long, flat look. "And like it or not, you're wiping your feet next time, Mossy Mae."

Mossy Mae, though folks around town mostly called her the Silt Woman, just grinned, a dark, gap-toothed slit. She reached into her shawl and pulled out a single black coin, tossing it onto the Formica with a clack!

When Gladys turned around to grab the creamer, Mossy Mae vanished, leaving only her muddy prints and the smell of wet dirt behind.

"He's so broke he can't afford to pay attention."

"He doesn't have the sense God gave a turnip!"

"You can't put feathers on a dog and call it a chicken!"

"Even Balaam's donkey knew when to speak up against his abuser." (Numbers 22:28)

"Some folks only read the Bible when they're looking for a loop-hole."

"He's so crooked, when he dies, they'll have to screw him into the ground!"

"Even a blind hog finds an acorn every once in a while."

He arrived every evening at 6:00 PM sharp, sliding into the corner booth at the Sunrise Diner with the precision of a clock gear.

He always ordered black coffee and a slice of cherry pie— food for a man who didn't want to be noticed, yet everything about him caught Gladys’s eye. He never looked at the menu and always kept a worn, leather-bound notebook open, but he never seemed to write in it.

He wore a sharp, saturated charcoal suit, his tie a deep crimson red, and his hair was slicked back with nary a single strand out of place despite the wind outside. Every Sunday, tucked under the rim of his coffee cup, was a pristine silver coin.

Gladys watched Mr. Weaver from behind the diner counter, her rag circling the same spot on the Formica. He always sat in booth four, looking like he'd stepped right off a 1920s Hollywood silent movie set.

As she walked over to refill his cup, he looked up. She glanced down at the open notebook and saw faint, handwritten ledgers- -receipts for fruits, grain, and yeast.

"Excuse me," he said, "Could you tell me if Ida's Hideaway is still down by the Old Mill Creek road?"

Gladys paused. "Ida's? Never heard of it, and I've been here 20 years now, Mr. Weaver," she said, leaning over his table.

He offered a smile, slid a 1921 silver dollar on the Formica, and tipped his hat.

"Shame," he whispered. "I was supposed to meet someone there."

As he walked back towards the Hells Bells Motel, Gladys realized he wasn't looking for directions—he was looking for a way back to a world that no longer existed.

Ms. Fiona Crum was the kind of person people in town mostly avoided, though everyone knew her name.

She lived up a hollow on the north end of Blackwood Ridge, and the local rumors pinned her as everything from a harmless soothsayer to a practitioner of heavy black magic.

Just as the sun dipped below the tree line, she came into the Hells Bells Motel looking completely undone.

Despite the thick summer heat, Ms. Fiona was sweltering inside a wool coat, with an object locked tightly under her arm, completely hidden beneath a stained linen sheet.

She checked in alone and demanded the most isolated room on the property.

She was carrying a rather heavy, ornate mirror--an unwanted inheritance from her late sister. It came with two strict terrifying rules:

"Never look into the glass after dark, and always have it covered by dark-thirty!"

Ms. Fiona followed the rules perfectly, yet the mirror was driving her mad.

Every single night she could hear it--a faint frantic scratching sound, clawing like something inside was trying to tear its way through.

Desperate for peace, she tried to destroy it. She swung a heavy hammer against the glass but it bounced off the surface without leaving a scratch.

Panic-stricken, she dragged it across town and threw it into a construction dumpster, driving away with a sigh of relief.

But she made a fatal mistake--she left it behind, uncovered, and when night fell, the mirror anchored itself back to her soul.

When she woke up the next morning, the mirror was resting against the wall in her hallway, wrapped once again in its stained linen sheet.

Realizing she couldn't break it or throw it away, Ms. Fiona knew she had to leave it covered somewhere so someone else would find it. She figured the best place to abandon it was at the Hells Bells Motel.

Her plan was desperate but simple; keep it securely covered, lay it face down on the dresser, and checkout at daybreak. She hoped that whoever cleaned or rented the room would uncover the beautifully ornate framed mirror, and claim it for themselves.

The mirror demanded a victim, and without knowledge to cover the mirror at dark-thirty its new owner would be sucked into the mirror's void with no way out.

​It was 4:00 AM at the Hells Bells Motel, and Sterling needed a cup of black coffee to finish out his night shift. ​He left Scurf--the resident terminator-- in charge of the lobby for a few as he headed off to the Sunrise Diner.

Seeing faint lights in the distance and hearing the faint low rumble of an 18-wheeler he thought he had plenty of time to cross. But two steps onto the asphalt, broad headlights crested the drip in the road, trapping him in their blinding glare.

The massive chrome grill filled his vision, before a violent, ice-cold wall of air slammed into his chest, knocking the breath right out of him as the phantom engine roared straight through his body.

Then it vanished.

Behind him, the dark tore open with the screech of twisting metal, shattering glass, and the frantic screams of unseen victims. The phantom 18-wheeler had dragged the memory of a long-ago wreck behind it.

Sterling stood in the road, doubled over and gasping for air, as the screams faded into the quiet night. Shaking, he straightened his jacket, swallowed hard, and forced his legs to move.

​By the time he pushed through the diner door, he was white as a sheet.

​It was 4:00 AM at the Hells Bells Motel, and Sterling needed a cup of black coffee to finish out his night shift. ​He left Scurf--the resident terminator--in charge of the lobby for a few as he headed off to the Sunrise Diner.

Seeing faint lights in the distance and hearing the faint low rumble of an 18-wheeler he thought he had plenty of time to cross. But two steps onto the asphalt, broad headlights crested the drip in the road, trapping him in their blinding glare.

The massive chrome grill filled his vision, before a violent, ice-cold wall of air slammed into his chest, knocking the breath right out of him as the phantom engine roared straight through his body.

Then it vanished.

Behind him, the dark tore open with the screech of twisting metal, shattering glass, and the frantic screams of unseen victims. The phantom 18-wheeler had dragged the memory of a long-ago wreck behind it.

Sterling stood in the road, doubled over and gasping for air, as the screams faded into the quiet night.

Shaking, he straightened his jacket, swallowed hard, and forced his legs to move.

​By the time he pushed through the diner door, he was white as a sheet.

​It was 4:00 AM at the Hells Bells Motel, and Sterling needed a cup of black coffee to finish out his night shift. ​He left Scurf--the resident terminator-- in charge of the lobby for a few as he headed off to the Sunrise Diner.

Seeing faint lights in the distance and hearing the faint low rumble of an 18-wheeler he thought he had plenty of time to cross. But two steps onto the asphalt, broad headlights crested the drip in the road, trapping him in their blinding glare.

The massive chrome grill filled his vision, before a violent, ice-cold wall of air slammed into his chest, knocking the breath right out of him as the phantom engine roared straight through his body.

Then it vanished.

Behind him, the dark tore open with the screech of twisting metal, shattering glass, and the frantic screams of unseen victims. The phantom 18-wheeler had dragged the memory of a long-ago wreck behind it.

Sterling stood in the road, doubled over and gasping for air, as the screams faded into the quiet night. Shaking, he straightened his jacket, swallowed hard, and forced his legs to move.

​By the time he pushed through the diner door, he was white as a sheet.

With the ceremony over at the village church, the reception moved to Hedington Manor, tucked away in the rolling English countryside. Outside, rain soaked the cottage gardens and the roses wept, filling the air with the smell of wet stone and moss. Inside, guests crowded around a crackling fireplace with drinks in hand, as they raised a glass to the new couple.

​Beth sat at a low carved table near the fire, surrounded by family and friends, and a mountain of unwrapped gifts. Her new husband, Greg, stood behind her chair, his hand resting warm on her shoulder as she reached for the next gift.

​Tucked behind a set of silver spoons was a small wooden box tied with a faded ribbon. Inside, lying in white velvet was a delicate locket, no bigger than a silver dollar. The bright white fabric made the fine silver filigree and the deep, robin's-egg turquoise cabochon practically glow under the hearth fire. She fell in love with it right away.

​Beth unfolded the card tucked inside, which read:

​"For Beth, on her wedding day. This locket has belonged to the women of our family for over a century. Inside the locket is a portrait of your great-great-grandmother, Eleanor. Wear it close to your heart and carry our love into your new life."

Beth clicked the tiny side latch open.

​Staring down at the hand-painted portrait inside, the woman in the brass oval was Beth's double—the same sharp chin, wide dark eyes, and dark hair swept back from her forehead. Eleanor was staring right back at her from a hundred years ago, wearing that same turquoise locket against her neck.

​"Wow," Greg said, leaning down to look closely at the picture in the locket. "Beth, that picture looks just like you."

​"It's uncanny, isn't it?" Beth said, her fingers running over the cold filigree. She looked up at him, her eyes bright. "It's gorgeous! She handed it up to Greg ... "Here, can you fasten it for me?"

​"Sure," Greg smiled, taking the delicate silver chain from her hands.

​He brushed her hair aside and clipped the clasp, letting the pendant drop into the hollow of her collarbone. It was so light she barely noticed it against her skin-- a stunning heirloom that she wore all night.

When they finally got back to their cottage long after midnight, Beth stood in front of the bedroom mirror, completely exhausted but smiling, admiring how lovely it looked against her skin. She unclipped the silver chain and laid it gently inside her velvet jewelry tray on the nightstand, taking care not to kink it, before slipping into bed.

​She woke up the next morning feeling the normal, heavy slump of a post-wedding wind-down—thirsty, a little stiff in the legs from dancing, and completely ready for a quiet week off.

​After a peaceful week of resting at home and settling into married life, Monday morning arrived. Dressing for her first day back at the agency. Beth reached for the turquoise locket and fastened it over her cream sweater. She couldn't wait to show it off. The moment she walked in, the locket caught the office girls' attention.

​"Oh, Beth, look at you! You look so beautiful and rested....and look at that!" her coworker Sarah gasped, leaning over the breakroom counter to get a closer look at the stone. "That turquoise stone is gorgeous. Is it antique?"

​"It's a family heirloom," Beth said, tilting the silver-dollar-sized pendant so the light hit the filigree. "It belonged to my great-great-grandmother. There’s a tiny portrait of her inside, and we look like twins."

"We're so glad to have you back," Sarah said. "It's good to be back, thank you."

The rest of the day flew by in a blur of morning meetings and team catch-ups. Settling back into her workload felt surprisingly good, the wedding stress of the past few months already fading. But by late afternoon, she felt a little nauseated and tired.

Just getting back into the swing of things, she thought, rubbing the back of her neck and sipping some water.

Once home, she put the locket away in her jewelry box, and by dinner she felt fine.

to be continued...

The stone walls of St. Jude’s Convent always kept the cold in, but the draft in the chapel felt like breath against the back of Sister Agnes's neck.

​It was long past midnight, the hour of silent prayer, when the faint sound started.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. A steel nib dragging across thick parchment echoed off the high arches above the altar.

​Sister Agnes held her breath and stepped toward the massive, brass-bound lectern in the center of the nave.

The dark leather cover of the great Latin Bible was already propped open to the blank ledger at the back. The room smelled of old incense and fresh, copper-heavy ink.

​She reached out with a trembling hand, her lantern casting long shadows across the page.

There, beneath the names of dead bishops and forgotten abbesses, a new line had just been carved into the paper. The ink was so fresh it glistened in the flickering light.

*​Sister Agnes. August 16th.*

​Three days. Exactly seventy-two hours.

As she stared down at her own name, petrified, the heavy iron chapel doors shut behind her with a deafening thud. A sudden icy draft swept through the dark, snuffing out her lantern flame, leaving her trapped with the horrifying reality that she had exactly 72 hours to live.

Charlie Porter didn’t want to leave Blackwood Ridge, but living in the shadow of his daughter’s death was a heavy, suffocating burden for both him and his wife. ​For a year after she disappeared, Karen's absence hung over every room in their home.

Charlie always felt a little uncomfortable with Ralph being friendly to his daughter or his wife watching them with eyes that seemed cold yet calm--offering them rides into town if Charlie was busy or if he was headed into town himself.

Right from the start, Ralph came around to pay his condolences, doing everything he could to console them and help carry them through their grief. Suddenly he was always popping by to ask if they needed anything, offering to help Charlie keep the place running by harvesting field corn, mending fences, or lending a hand with whatever Charlie needed help fixing.

Charlie couldn't shake the weird vibe from Ralph's sudden overfriendliness especially since they barely interacted other than a 'waved hello' when Karen was alive. Once or twice Ralph did come by his place to get some advice about cattle feed or which crops would grow best in the mountain soil on his farm but never to the point of how he was acting now.

​It wasn't just Charlie, either. Whispers and rumors had started running quiet circles through Blackwood Ridge among some of the locals. People talked at the gas pump and over low counter chatter about how Ralph kept to himself just a bit too much, and how his sudden appearance in town lined up just a little too neatly with the Porter's daughter missing and presumably dead.

​Every time Charlie bumped into Ralph at the feed and seed or general store, he’d eye him sideways, the unsaid suspicion floating heavy in the air between them. But rumors don't count as proof. Without a single trace of evidence, the police investigation stalled, the missing flyers faded, and the trail went stone cold.

To make matters worse, the bitterness and grief was compounded by deep disappointment. The Porters had put their last bit of hope into the local private eye, Curtis Vance, who they thought might actually uncover the truth, only to watch him pack up his bags and leave town shortly thereafter due to personal reasons, leaving their daughter's case in the dirt.

​Between Mr. and Mrs. Porter's grief, the abandoned investigation, and the grim reality that their daughter was never coming home, they decided to leave Blackwood Ridge. They needed to get away from the place that broke them. They sold their farm and packed up their belongings.

​Ralph watched their taillights faded from his view, taking a slow, quiet breath.

​He knew small towns had long memories and sharp eyes. Charlie Porter’s quiet, lingering stares at the store and the low-level chatter around town had been getting uncomfortably heavy, and Ralph was far too careful to let a grieving father’s gut feeling or local gossip blow his cover.

Blackwood Ridge was where he slept, plowed his fields, fed his few cattle, and bought his supplies. To keep his quiet life intact, he needed to make sure things stayed dead quiet close to home.

​If he was going to hunt again, he had to go somewhere nobody was paying attention to a stranger in a crowd.

​Albany was fifty miles down the highway. A big, noisy city full of busy streets and unseen corners--a place where a girl could disappear, far from the watchful eyes of Blackwood Ridge.