Chapter 1: The Rot in the Walls

The house looked like it was dying.

Liam Thorne sat in his rusted pickup truck at the end of the overgrown driveway, engine ticking as it cooled, staring at what used to be his childhood home. Three weeks. That's how long it had been since the phone call that changed everything, since the words "your father is dead" had torn through his life like a blade.

Suicide, they'd said. Single gunshot to the head in his cell.

The house sagged under the weight of neglect, its white paint peeling like diseased skin. Shutters hung at drunken angles, and the front porch steps had collapsed into themselves, creating a gap-toothed grin that seemed to mock his return. Weeds choked the foundation, climbing toward windows that reflected nothing but darkness.

He'd sworn he'd never come back here. Not after that night seven years ago when his father had beaten Neil bloody in front of half the town, screaming about secrets and lies while his brother's blood pooled on the sidewalk. Not after the trial, the conviction, the whispered stories that followed him wherever he went.

But here he was.

The front door creaked open before he could even knock, and Neil appeared in the doorway like a ghost. Christ, he looked terrible. Always thin, Neil now seemed translucent, his skin stretched tight over sharp bones. His hair hung in greasy strings around a face that might have been handsome once, before whatever had been eating at him from the inside finally broke through.

"Liam." Neil's voice was barely above a whisper. "You came."

"Yeah, well." Liam stepped past his brother into the dim hallway, fighting the urge to gag at the stale air that reeked of mold and something else—something organic and wrong. "Someone had to deal with Dad's shit."

The house felt smaller than he remembered, cramped and suffocating. Dust motes danced in the weak afternoon light filtering through grimy windows, and every surface bore a layer of neglect thick enough to write in. Neil shuffled behind him, movements jerky and uncertain, like a broken marionette.

"I've been... I've been keeping things together," Neil said, wrapping his arms around himself. "As best I could."

Liam turned to look at his brother properly for the first time, taking in the hollow cheeks, the way his clothes hung loose on his frame, the nervous energy that seemed to vibrate just beneath his skin. "When's the last time you ate something?"

"I eat." Neil's response came too quickly. "I eat plenty."

Before Liam could press the issue, the smell hit him again—stronger now, cloying and putrid. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen. He pushed past Neil, following his nose through the cluttered hallway lined with family photos whose faces had been deliberately turned to the wall.

The kitchen was a disaster. Dishes piled in the sink, counters sticky with God knew what, and in the corner by the back door, an overflowing trash can that reeked like a slaughterhouse in summer.

"Jesus, Neil." Liam grabbed the garbage bag, hefting its considerable weight. "When's the last time you took this out?"

"I meant to—I was going to—"

The bag split as Liam lifted it, spilling its contents across the linoleum floor in a wet, revolting cascade. Most of it was what you'd expect from a bachelor's kitchen—empty cans, moldy takeout containers, coffee grounds. But there, scattered among the mundane detritus, were chunks of something that made Liam's stomach lurch.

It looked like meat, but wrong. The color was off—a sickly greyish-red that no animal flesh should ever be. The texture was worse, slimy and somehow fibrous, like it had been partially digested and regurgitated. And threaded through it all, catching the kitchen light like spun silver, were long strands of hair. Human hair, wavy and grey.

"What the fuck is this, Neil?"

His brother had gone very still, pressed against the doorframe like he was trying to melt into the wood. "It's just... it's spoiled meat. Deer meat. From hunting season."

"Hunting season was six months ago."

"I forgot about it. Left it in the freezer too long." Neil's words tumbled over each other in his haste to explain. "It went bad, started to smell, so I threw it out. That's all."

Liam crouched down, studying the putrid mass without touching it. The hair was definitely human—too fine and smooth to be from any animal he knew. And the meat itself... there was something about its consistency that made his skin crawl. It didn't look like it had rotted. It looked like it had been processed, broken down by something with purpose.

"Deer don't have hair like this."

"Maybe it got contaminated somehow. Mixed up with something else." Neil was sweating now, despite the house's chill. "I don't know, Liam. I just threw away some bad meat. That's all."

But it wasn't all, and they both knew it. Liam had seen plenty of spoiled meat in his years as a mechanic, cleaning out coolers from hunting trips gone wrong. This wasn't spoilage. This was something else entirely.

He stood slowly, wiping his hands on his jeans even though he hadn't touched anything. "Clean this up. All of it. And bleach the floor when you're done."

Neil nodded frantically, already moving toward the utility closet. "Of course. I'll take care of it right now."

Liam watched his brother for a moment longer, noting the way Neil's hands shook as he pulled out cleaning supplies, the way he avoided looking directly at the mess on the floor. Whatever this was—whatever Neil was hiding—it went deeper than spoiled venison.

"I'm going to look through Dad's things," Liam said. "See if there's anything important before we put the house on the market."

"You don't have to—I mean, I can help—"

"Just clean this up, Neil. That's enough."

He left his brother kneeling on the kitchen floor, scraping unidentifiable chunks into a fresh garbage bag, and headed for the garage. If his father had left anything resembling an explanation for the mess he'd made of their lives, it would be out there among his tools and projects.

The garage was a monument to his father's obsessions. Workbenches lined the walls, covered with half-finished repairs and jury-rigged contraptions that served no purpose Liam could fathom. The air was thick with the smell of motor oil and sawdust, familiar scents that should have been comforting but somehow weren't.

He was searching through a cabinet of old coffee cans filled with screws and bolts when his fingers encountered something that didn't belong. Hidden behind a stack of automotive manuals was a small, heavy box made of what looked like carved stone. It was roughly the size of a shoebox but felt like it weighed thirty pounds.

The stone was dark grey, almost black, and covered with symbols that hurt to look at directly. They seemed to shift and writhe when he wasn't focusing on them, like they were alive. The whole thing was sealed with what appeared to be melted wax, though the surface was too smooth and uniform for any wax he'd ever seen.

There was no note, no explanation. Just the box, hidden away like a secret his father had been desperate to keep.

Liam hefted it in his hands, feeling the weight of it, the wrongness of it. The stone was warm to the touch despite the garage's chill, and he could have sworn he felt something moving inside—not rattling, but shifting, like liquid finding its level.

From the kitchen came the sound of Neil working, the scrape of plastic against linoleum, the splash of cleaning chemicals. Normal sounds that should have been reassuring but somehow made the box in Liam's hands feel heavier, more ominous.

Whatever his father had hidden in here, whatever secrets this house still held, Liam was going to find them. He owed himself that much. He owed his family that much.

Even if the truth turned out to be something he'd rather not know.

The box seemed to pulse in his hands like a second heartbeat, warm and patient and terribly, terribly wrong. Behind him, the house settled with a groan that sounded almost like a sigh, as if it had been holding its breath and was finally allowing itself to exhale.

In the kitchen, Neil had gone very quiet.