Thinking of Allie, away at college, makes my chest ache, like it always does. I try not to wallow in self-pity. It won’t do me any good. Plus, I decided to stay here and help my dad instead of going with her. No one forced me to stay.
No one encouraged me to go either.I ignore the voice and guilt inside my head and hum along to the low crackle of the radio, the smell of vanilla and brown sugar filling the kitchen. There’s a certain warmth that fills me when I bake. Cookie dough clings to the whisk, sweet and golden, and I lick a smear from my thumb with a quiet smile.
It’s just me, the warmth of the oven, and the steady rhythm of mixing—safe, familiar, mine. I’m just about to scoop some cookies onto the cookie sheet and pop them in the oven when three sharp raps against the front door stop me in my tracks.
The noise shatters the quiet and makes me flinch. My hands freeze above the mixing bowl, a startled sound catching in my throat.
It’s past midnight. Too late for visitors. Especially in Black Hollow Creek, where most folks are asleep by ten. Our house sits on the edge of town, backed by miles of wilderness.
Whoever’s out there is lost—or looking for trouble.
Don’t do it, Saint. Don’t you dare.
Even as the warning flashes in my mind, the need to check coils tightens in my chest.
What if someone needs help?
Then, a fourth knock, softer this time, pushes me despite my worry. I wipe my hands on my favorite sunflower apron. The bright flowers remind me of my mom, who made it before cancer took her five years ago. The sweet scent of cookies clashes with the unease climbing up my spine, reminding me I’m here alone.
My father’s gone until Sunday, away at another pastor’s retreat. Usually, the silence doesn’t bother me. But right now it crawls.
Don’t be ridiculous, Saint.
At nineteen, I should be past jumping at every creak. Bad things happen everywhere, not just here. Still, the prickling at the base of my neck refuses to fade. What if someone really needs help? What if I do nothing—and regret it?
Untying the apron, I drape it over the chair, grab my phone, and shove it into my jeans pocket. My reflection flashes in the kitchen window—messy bun, flour on my cheek, blue eyes wide with uncertainty.
Relax. It’s probably nothing.
The floorboards groan beneath my bare feet as I cross the living room. Family portraits stare from the walls, ghostly in the dim light. My pulse hammers as I pause at the door, hand trembling against the cold metal of the dead bolt.
“Who’s there?” I surprise myself with the strength of my voice.
I wait, but I’m greeted with silence and the gentle sound of the wind slipping through the pines.Maybe they left. Went to another house.The thought curdles the ever-present guilt in my gut. If I were just a little faster, if I hadn’t hesitated.
Then I hear it, a whisper so faint I almost miss it.
“Help.”
The word slips through the wooden door like a desperate prayer.
One word laden with pain and fear.
All my thoughts shift, and instinct takes over. In an instant, all I can think about is helping. No one should have to beg for aid. I unlock the dead bolt and pull the door open, the hinges whining in protest. At first, I see nothing but darkness, my eyes still adjusting to the change in lighting.
Then I spot movement at the edge of the porch. A slumped figure leans heavily against the railing. I can tell it’s a man by his size, even as his face is blanketed in shadows. The coppery stench of blood reaches me a moment before my eyes track the spreading stain on his shirt where his hand is braced.
“Oh my goodness,” I breathe. “You scared me.”
At the sound of my voice, the man staggers forward into the spill of light from the open doorway. His face is pale as bone china, slick with sweat despite the chill in the air. By the looks of him, he’s middle-aged. His skin is weathered, like someone who’s worked outdoors their entire life. I don’t recognize him, though, despite a passing familiarity with most of the townsfolk. Well, at least the ones who go to church regularly.
“Are you okay, sir?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
His frightened gaze locks on mine, and then he peers over his shoulder into the dark forest behind him.Did someone attack him? Maybe he was injured while hunting?I don’t see a gun or weapon.
“Sir?” I say.
He whirls back around, catching himself on the railing. “Please,” he rasps, the word frayed and faint. “They’re coming.”
