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She didn’t even wait for me to say yes—probably because she could sense I wouldn’t. She just shoved a tote bag full of brochures into my hands, told me I had the walk of someone who needed carbs, and hooked her arm through mine like we were best friends.
And…I let it happen.
Not because I was feeling especially social or curious or even coherent. But because Hattie had a relentless optimism that made saying no feel like kicking a golden retriever in front of a child.
I didn’t want to be a monster, for fuck’s sake.
At least, not any more than I already was.
And I did need to stay for another day before I could drive again—both for my head’s sake and my car’s. Neither would be ready before tomorrow. I could indulge her to pass the time.
Which was how I found myself being escorted into a town that looked like a postcard from a different century. Back when nobody wore seat belts, everyone smoked indoors, and zoning laws were more of a polite suggestion.
Blackwood at night, in the rain, was a blank canvas. Anything I could imagine. Blackwood in the daytime was...really something.
It was nestled deep in the Montana mountains, a place that looked like a movie set from a distance—trees, hills, old brick buildings, the occasional loose chicken—but up close it was full of rusted mailboxes, uneven sidewalks, and porch signs that read Trespassers Will Be Shot. Survivors Will Be Shot Again.
“Now, over there,” Hattie said, pointing across the street, “is where the town library used to be, before it mysteriously burned down in 1998. Some say it was an accident. Others say it was because Old Man Tripp refused to return Pet Sematary and got cursed.”
I had no words, so I just blinked at her, something that was happening an awful lot today.
“And that’s the flower shop-slash-funeral parlor,” she continued. “As I told you before, we like to consolidate space here in Blackwood.”
“Sure. Efficient,” I murmured, thinking that one made a lot more sense than the bait shop/algae spa combo she’d tried to sell me on earlier.
“Over there’s the elementary school—watch yourself, the kids throw gravel—and that’s the mayor’s office-slash-deli. Best corned beef in the county.”
I stared. “That’s…also an interesting combination. Nothing says civic responsibility like meat sweats.”
Hattie patted my arm. “Now you’re catching on.”
We passed a post office with a crooked flag barely clinging to its pole, a hair salon named Curl Up & Dye, and a gas station that looked like it had been abandoned mid-apocalypse but somehow still charged $5.89 for unleaded.
“And this,” she said, her face lighting up as she waved her hand dramatically, “is our world-famous Serial Killer Museum.”
I stopped walking and took in the building in question.
It was a small, square, brick structure with barred windows and a hand-painted sign that read Blackwood’s Most Notorious: A Legacy of Darkness. A banner beneath it added: We’re on Three True Crime Podcasts!
“That’s cool…and totally normal,” I mumbled, because of course I would stumble into a town that possibly worshipped murderers.
“Oh, it’s fascinating,” Hattie said brightly. “Blackwood has the highest per capita serial killer origin rate in the state. Possibly the country. Depends on how you define ‘serial.’ We had six in the seventies, three more in the nineties, another in 2004, and then two drifters in the 2010s who couldn’t seem to agree on territory. Frankly, it’s a miracle we don’t have our own streaming docudrama by now.”
“You’re telling me this like it’s a point of civic pride.”
“It is.” She beamed. “We even have a gift shop.”
“A serial killer gift shop?”
“Shirts, mugs, fake blood soap. Oh! And commemorative knives.”
I had no idea what to say to that.
Hattie patted my arm. “It’s a lot, I know. But people love it. We had a television crew here last fall. One of them fainted in the Victim Wall exhibit, but that was more about blood sugar, I think.”
“I’m…not reassured.”
“You will be!” she chirped.
