Chapter 5: The Rule of Three

Chapter 5: The Rule of Three

The train car became a compression chamber, the air thick and unbreathable. Leo’s world had shrunk to the space between himself and the woman with the wrong bones and the impossible smile. The rhythmic click-clack of the wheels was the frantic beating of his own heart. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but his limbs were locked in place by a gaze that was as ancient and unyielding as tide-worn stone.

He tried to look away, to focus on the condensation trailing down the window, on the worn upholstery of the seat in front of him, on anything but her. But his eyes were drawn back, mesmerized by the sheer wrongness of her existence.

“You’re looking pale, Leo Vance,” she said.

Her voice was the most disturbing thing about her. It was perfectly modulated, smooth and melodic, with no accent and no discernible emotion. It was the voice of a GPS navigation system or a museum audio guide—a flawless, inhuman recording. The sound of it, using his full name, scraped along his nerves like a serrated blade.

“Who are you?” he managed to force out, the words feeling like shards of glass in his dry throat.

Her smile widened by a fraction of an inch, a subtle, terrifying adjustment. “I am a Collector.” She gestured with one of her long, multi-jointed fingers toward the damp shopping bag on her lap. “This is my work.”

“The toothbrush…” Leo whispered, the word tasting like madness. “Why?”

“A token,” she explained, her tone patient, as if instructing a particularly slow child. “The first. My Patron likes tokens. A little piece of a person’s life. Something intimate. Something you put in your mouth every day. A promise of what’s to come.”

Patron. The word landed in the quiet space of the train car with the weight of a tombstone. It was a title of power, of ownership. Leo wasn’t just being haunted; he was being acquired.

“The priest,” Leo said, his mind flashing back to the horrific, gurgling laughter and the impossible arch of Father Renwick’s spine. “You… your Patron did that to him.”

The Collector tilted her head, the motion unnaturally fluid, like a snake observing a mouse. “The man in the black dress? He saw the Mark on you and he made a fuss. The Patron doesn’t like a fuss. It spoils the artistry of the collection. He was the first sign.”

Her casual dismissal of the priest’s horrifying end was more chilling than any threat. To this creature, the unmaking of a human being was a mere inconvenience, a piece of housekeeping.

A tinny, electronic voice crackled over the intercom. “Next stop, Blackwood Creek. Blackwood Creek station.”

It was a lifeline. A chance. Leo’s paralysis broke. He lurched to his feet, stumbling into the aisle. He wouldn’t be herded. He wouldn’t be collected.

“The collection has already begun, Leo Vance,” the Collector’s placid voice followed him. “Running only changes the scenery.”

He ignored her, pushing his way down the aisle, bumping into other passengers who shot him annoyed glances. He didn’t care. They were living in a different world, a world where the trains ran on time and people’s bones bent the right way. He fumbled with the handle of the heavy door, his entire body trembling. Behind him, he could feel her unblinking eyes on his back.

The train hissed to a stop. The doors slid open, revealing a miserable, rain-slicked platform under a bruised purple sky. Blackwood Creek was less a town and more a rumor, a skeleton of a station left to rot by the side of the tracks. A single, bare bulb flickered beneath a rusted metal awning, casting a jaundiced, buzzing light on the wet concrete. The air smelled of rain and damp earth.

Leo practically threw himself out of the car and onto the platform. He didn't look back. He ran, his shoes slapping against the puddles, sending up sprays of grimy water. He ran past the empty ticket window, its glass shattered in a spiderweb pattern. He ran toward the small, dark parking lot, toward a road that disappeared into the oppressive gloom of the surrounding woods.

He thought he was alone. He thought he had escaped.

He skidded to a halt at the edge of the platform. Under the weak, flickering light, leaning against the peeling paint of the station’s wall, was a man. He was tall and gaunt, dressed in a soaked trench coat. His arms were too long, his hands dangling nearly to his knees. As Leo watched, the man slowly raised his head, and a wide, placid, familiar smile spread across his face.

Leo’s heart seized. He spun around, his eyes scanning the shadows at the other end of the platform. A figure stood there, partially obscured by a support pillar. It looked like a teenager in a hoodie, but their legs were bent slightly backward at the knee, like a bird’s. They were watching him.

His gaze darted to the empty road. A car was parked there, its engine off, its headlights dark. But he could see the silhouette of the driver behind the wheel, a head held on a neck that was far, far too long.

They were everywhere. He hadn't escaped into anonymity; he had run into a reception committee. The train station wasn’t an exit. It was a stage.

“I told you, Leo Vance.”

The smooth, recorded voice came from right behind him. He whirled around. The first Collector was standing there, not three feet away. She hadn't run. She had simply… arrived. Her floral dress was not wet from the rain. Her fixed smile was as bright as ever.

“This isn't a hunt,” she said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that didn't carry the slightest hint of warmth. “It’s a ritual. And the ritual has rules.”

She took a step closer. Leo stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet.

“Everything the Patron does, it does in threes. A number of power. A number of completion.”

Her pale, unblinking eyes bored into him.

“There will be three tokens. The toothbrush was the first. A taste of your life.”

She held up two long, elegant fingers.

“There will be three signs. The broken priest was the first. A taste of the Patron’s power.”

She held up a third finger. The gesture was simple, but it felt like a death sentence being signed in the air before him.

“And on the morning of the third day, after the third token has been given and the third sign has been shown, the collection is made. The Patron will rise from the Well, and it will come for you.”

The Well. The word resonated with the smell of his bathroom, the scent from the sacristy. A place of deep, cold, stagnant water.

The Collector’s smile finally, finally reached her eyes, and the effect was utterly terrifying. It was a look of serene, absolute victory.

“You have two days left,” she said.

Then, she turned and walked calmly back toward the train, which was beginning to hiss and groan, preparing for departure. The other figures—the man with the long arms, the teenager with the bird-like knees—remained in the shadows, their silent, smiling gazes pinning him in place.

The Collector stepped aboard the train without looking back. The doors slid shut, and with a great shudder of metal, the train began to pull away, its lighted windows sliding into the darkness, leaving Leo Vance alone in the rain, on a desolate platform, surrounded by monsters. The clock was ticking. The third day was coming.