Chapter 1: Welcome to Forsyth

Chapter 1: Welcome to Forsyth

The first thing you noticed about Forsyth, North Carolina, was the smell. It was a cloying mix of damp soil, pine needles, and something else, something vaguely metallic and sweet, like old pennies and molasses. The second thing you noticed, and could never un-notice, was the spire.

From my perch behind the greasy counter of the 'Gas & Go,' the town's only gas station, I had an unobstructed view. It wasn't a normal church spire. Carved from a stone so black it seemed to drink the sunlight, it clawed at the perpetually overcast sky like a skeletal finger. It didn't point to heaven; it seemed to be pinning the sky to the earth, holding the whole town captive beneath it.

"That's the Church of the 8th Day Advents," a voice said, making me jump. "Impressive, isn't it?"

I turned to see a lanky kid about my age, maybe nineteen, with greasy black hair that fell into his eyes. He clutched a worn, overflowing folder to his chest like a shield. His gaze wasn't on me, but locked on the spire, a look of obsessive fascination and pure hatred warring in his intelligent, wary eyes.

"I'm Isaac," he said, still not looking at me. "You're Howard. You moved into the old Miller place. Your dad got a job at the lumber mill."

It wasn't a question. In a town this small, my arrival was probably front-page news, if Forsyth had a newspaper that reported on anything other than bake sales and church sermons.

"Howie," I corrected automatically. "And yeah, that's us. A fresh start." The words tasted like ash. Our "fresh start" was just my dad running from his last DUI, hoping a new zip code would magically cure the bottle of bourbon he kept under the driver's seat.

"There are no fresh starts in Forsyth," Isaac said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Just continuations. Let me show you something."

My shift was over, and the alternative was going back to a silent house to wait for my father to stumble in. Following the local weirdo seemed like a major upgrade. "Lead the way," I said, grabbing my worn jacket.

Isaac's tour was less a 'welcome to the neighborhood' and more a guided tour of a graveyard disguised as a town. He didn't point out the diner or the post office. He pointed out the shadows.

"See that house?" he said, gesturing to a perfectly manicured lawn with a small, wrought-iron fence. "The Hendersons. Their eldest son, Mark, vanished seven years ago. Just walked out the front door and never came back."

He pointed to a faded mural on the side of the brick library. "That girl holding the book? That's Sarah Jenkins. Disappeared twelve years ago. They keep the mural up. Like a memorial."

Every street held a ghost. Every corner, a missing person. It was a litany of disappearances, a quiet plague that seemed to have afflicted Forsyth for generations. My cynical city-kid brain screamed 'runaways.' Small towns were cages people clawed to escape. But Isaac spoke of it differently, with a grim certainty that chilled me.

"They don't run," he said, as if reading my mind. "They're taken. It's a payment. A tithe."

"A tithe to who? God?" I asked, stuffing my hands in my pockets as we drew closer to the monolithic church. Up close, the black stone seemed to writhe, the angles all subtly wrong. Strange, swirling symbols, like octopuses tangled with star charts, were carved into the massive oak doors.

"Not God," Isaac hissed, his eyes darting around. "Something older. Something hungrier. The church... it's not a house of worship. It's a dinner bell."

My desire to fit in, to find some semblance of a normal teenage life here, was rapidly being replaced by a primal urge to get back in our rusted-out pickup and drive until the spire was just a bad memory. But I was anchored here by my father's pathetic hope, and now, by a morbid curiosity I couldn't shake.

We found Hunter by the sluggish, brown creek that cut through the edge of town. He sat on a rotted log, broad shoulders hunched, his face illuminated by the glow of a handheld gaming device. The frantic pew-pew-pew of the speakers was the only sound he made. He was powerfully built, with the kind of quiet strength you get from years of hard labor, but he seemed to fold in on himself, trying to take up as little space as possible.

"Hey, Hunt," Isaac said softly.

Hunter grunted in response, his thumbs never ceasing their frantic dance on the controls. The screen reflected a deep, old sadness in his eyes. He was here, but he was also a million miles away, lost in a world of pixels and programmed enemies.

"This is Howie," Isaac continued, gesturing to me.

Hunter spared me a glance that lasted less than a second before his attention was reclaimed by the game. That was it. Welcome to the crew.

I tried to break the oppressive silence. "So, you guys all grow up here?"

Isaac nodded grimly. "Born and bred. Hunter's family is... devout. Pillars of the community." He said the word 'devout' like it was a disease.

Hunter flinched, a barely perceptible tightening of his jaw. He died in his game, the tinny sound of defeat echoing in the quiet clearing. He didn't start a new game. He just stared at the blank screen.

"I should probably head home," I said, feeling like an intruder on a private grief I didn't understand.

"Wait," Isaac grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. He pulled me a few feet away, lowering his voice. Hunter didn't move, still lost in the reflection on his dark screen. "You need to understand. So you're careful."

"Careful of what?"

Isaac took a deep breath. "You asked about Hunter. About his family. He used to have a sister. Annabelle."

The name hung in the air. It felt heavier than the other names he'd listed off. This wasn't a historical footnote. This was fresh. Raw.

"She was smart," Isaac said, his eyes on Hunter's stoic back. "Funny. She was going to get out. She had a scholarship to Chapel Hill. She was going to be the one who escaped."

"What happened to her?" I asked, though a cold dread was already coiling in my stomach. I knew the answer.

"Last year, on the night of the vernal equinox, she disappeared," Isaac's voice was flat, devoid of emotion, like he was reciting a coroner's report. "Packed a bag, they said. Left a note. The Sheriff ruled it a runaway. Case closed."

He leaned in closer, his whisper sharp and urgent. "But her car was still in the garage. Her wallet, with all her money, was under her bed. The note? It just said 'It's my turn. I'm sorry.' Hunter found it."

My blood ran cold. "Her turn for what?"

Isaac finally looked me straight in the eyes, and I saw the terrified, obsessive truth he'd been chasing his whole life.

"The tithe, Howie. It's not random. The Church of the 8th Day Advents preaches prosperity. They promise the town will never suffer blight, or drought, or economic collapse. And it doesn't. The mill never closes. The crops never fail. Forsyth is blessed." He spat the last word. "But blessings like that have a price. One soul, per year. A sacrifice to the thing they worship in that stone monstrosity."

He nodded toward our silent friend. "Annabelle Cole wasn't a runaway. She was the offering."