Page 30 of The Knucklebone Brothers

"If you won't help me, then I'll find someone who will," I said, my voice shaking with fury. I didn't wait for her response. I turned and took off, my bare feet flying.

I couldn't go back the way I came. I had to lose them. I veered off the path, plunging deeper into the woods, my only thought to put as much distance between me and them as possible. I ran until my legs felt like they were on fire, until the sound of their voices faded into the distance. I stumbled into a clearing, and stopped dead.

It was a graveyard. But not like any graveyard I'd ever seen. There were no traditional headstones, no crosses, no weeping angels. Instead, there were strange, makeshift monuments to the dead. A giant, rusted-out Ferris wheel car served as a tombstone, its once-bright paint peeling, the words "Here Lies Tiny Tim, the Smallest Man in the World" painted in flaking white letters. Next to it, a row of faded, wooden animal masks—lions, tigers, bears—were stuck in the ground like tombstones, each with a name carved into it. "Jinx," "Goliath," "Cleo."

I saw a small, child-sized coffin made of brightly painted wood, its lid slightly ajar. A single, rusty teddy bear was perched on top, its button eyes staring out into the darkness. There were lights, too, not the warm, inviting kind, but a sickly, greenish glow that seemed to emanate from the ground itself. And the spiderwebs. They were everywhere, huge, intricate tapestries of silk draped between the trees like ghostly shrouds.

The fog was getting thicker now, a heavy, damp blanket that muffled the sound of my own breathing. It swirled around the strange green lights, making them pulse and glow with an otherworldly intensity. The light caught in the sticky strands of the spiderwebs, turning them into shimmering, ghostly curtains that seemed to move and breathe in the mist. The fog made the whole place feel like a dream, a nightmare, a world that was not quite real.

I was so busy staring at the creepy, circus-themed graveyard that I didn't see the web until it was too late. I ran right into it, the sticky strands clinging to my face and hair. I stumbled back, sputtering and clawing at the web. I looked up and saw it, a huge, fat spider sitting in the center of its web, its multiple eyes watching me with an unnerving intelligence.

"Sorry, little guy," I panted, my voice shaking. "Didn't see you there."

I backed away slowly, my eyes never leaving the spider, and turned to run, my mind reeling from the sheer, overwhelming weirdness of it all. I was in a carnival graveyard, surrounded by the ghosts of carnie folk and forgotten performers, and I was being hunted by two backwoods cannibals. And I was pretty sure I'd just apologized to a spider. What the fuck was my life?

I stumbled away from the carnival graveyard, the strands of spiderweb clinging to my hair and face. I ran until my lungs burned, until the sickly green glow of the makeshift graves faded behind me. The woods were dark and silent, the only sound my own ragged breathing and the distant, mocking calls of the boys. I was lost, annoyed, and completely alone.

Then, through the trees, I saw it. A light. A warm, inviting light, the kind that promised safety and warmth. It was coming from a house, but this one was different. It was tall, a real cabin, built by hand from rough-hewn logs, a chimney puffing a steady stream of smoke into the darkening sky. It looked like something out of a fairy tale, a safe haven in the middle of all this madness.

I crept closer, my bare feet silent, and saw a rickety fence surrounding the property. That's when I saw them. Dolls and old children's toys, nailed to trees and scattered on the ground. There were teddy bears with missing eyes, their stuffing leaking out onto the ground, and porcelain dolls with cracked faces, their painted-on smiles frozen in a silent scream. It was creepy, but it was also... strangely comforting. Like someone was collecting all the lost and broken things in the world and giving them a home.

I saw a few white bunnies hopping around the yard, their fur glowing in the warm light from the cabin. In the middle of the yard, there was a giant rocking chair, big enough for two, maybe three people to sit in comfortably. I slowly opened the gate, the metal creaking in protest, and reached down to pet one of the bunnies, its fur soft and warm under my fingers.

Just then, the door to the cabin slowly creaked open, the sound of old carnival music spilling out into the night. I stopped dead in my tracks, my hand frozen on the bunny's back. I looked up, and my breath caught in my throat.

Standing in the doorway was a man. But he wasn't just a man. He was a giant. I'd never seen anyone this tall in my life. He had to be seven, maybe even eight feet tall, his broad shoulders filling the entire doorway. He was middle-aged, with a laborer's build, his arms and face a roadmap of scars. His hair was unkept, a wild tangle of brown, and he was wearing suspenders over a worn, pin-striped shirt and dirty boots. He was looking at me, his expression unreadable, his eyes a deep, piercing blue. And he was holding an axe.

I forced my voice to stay steady, to be calm. "Please," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I need help."

The giant didn't say anything. He just watched me, his deep blue eyes unreadable. Then, slowly, he set the axe down, the thud of it hitting the porch floor a heavy, final sound. He held his door open wider and stepped aside, a silent invitation.

I didn't hesitate. I walked into his house, and he shut the door behind me, the sound of it closing a deafening boom in the quiet cabin. The air inside was thick with the smell of a fireplace, hay, and wood, a warm, earthy scent that made me feel safe, even though every instinct was screaming at me to run.

The cabin was filled with... stuff. Stuffed animals and carnival prizes were piled high on every available surface, their glass eyes staring out into the room. There were old blankets, children's books with faded covers, and broken dolls, their plastic limbs tangled together. In the corner, a fox was curled up on a pile of blankets, its eyes closed, its breathing slow and steady. The old carnival music was still playing, a tinny, haunting melody that seemed to be coming from an old gramophone in the corner.

He walked over to the gramophone and turned the music down, the volume dropping to a low, mournful hum. I watched him, my body trembling, my legs giving out from under me. I fell to the floor, the impact knocking the breath out of me.

He was there in an instant, his large, calloused hands gentle as he picked me up, as if I weighed nothing at all. He carried me across the room and set me down in a large, overstuffed chair, his movements slow and deliberate. He never said a word.

He walked away, and I noticed it then. A limp. He had a slight, almost imperceptible limp to his walk, his left leg dragging just a little. He came back a few moments later with a glass of water, his movements slow and careful. He handed it to me, his fingers brushing against mine.

"Thank you," I said, my voice shaking. I took a sip of the water, the cool liquid a welcome relief. I looked up at him, my eyes pleading. "Will you help me?"

He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he nodded. Yes.

A wave of relief washed over me so intense it almost made me dizzy. I wasn't scared of him, not really. There was no menace in his eyes, no cruelty like with the boys. If anything, I felt like I was the scary one here, a wild, frantic thing that had stumbled into his quiet world. He seemed almost childlike, and I didn't want to frighten him any more than I already had.

I took another sip of water, my hand steadying. I wanted to make him more comfortable, to show him I wasn't a threat. "I'm Rory," I said, my voice soft, a difference from the usual sharp edge I carried. I offered him a small, hesitant smile. "It's, uh... nice to meet you."

He watched me for a long moment, his massive frame still in the dim light. The cabin felt small with him in it, like the walls were breathing just to give him room. Then, he spoke, his voice a deep, low rumble that seemed to come from the floorboards themselves.

"Amos."

The name hung in the air between us, a single, heavy word in the quiet cabin. "Amos." I felt a strange sense of calm settle over me, a fragile peace I hadn't felt since before this whole nightmare began. For a moment, I let myself believe I was safe.

Then I heard it. A voice, sharp and taunting, cutting through the night. "Aurora! We know you're in there!" Maverick. He was calling out to me in a mocking tone. "Come on out, pretty thing. Don't be shy."

My blood ran cold. I shot up from the chair, the glass of water slipping from my grasp and shattering on the wooden floor. Amos didn't move, just watched me with those deep, sad eyes.