Chapter 3: The Town's Ghost

The general store sat on Main Street like a relic from another century, its wooden facade weathered to a silver-grey that matched the overcast sky. Bell's General Store—the same faded sign had hung over the entrance for as long as Liam could remember, swaying gently in the autumn breeze that carried the smell of dying leaves and something else. Something that reminded him uncomfortably of the kitchen back at the house.

Liam pushed through the screen door, wincing at the familiar jangle of bells that announced every customer's arrival. The interior was exactly as he remembered—narrow aisles packed floor to ceiling with everything from fishing tackle to canned goods, the air thick with dust and the ghosts of a thousand conversations.

Behind the counter sat Mr. Smith, looking like he'd aged a decade in the seven years since Liam had seen him last. His hair had gone completely white, and new lines carved deep trenches around his eyes. But those eyes were sharp as ever, studying Liam with an intensity that made his skin crawl.

"Well, I'll be damned." Smith's voice was a rasp, like sandpaper on wood. "Liam Thorne. Heard you were back in town."

"Word travels fast." Liam grabbed a shopping basket, trying to keep his voice casual. He needed supplies—food for himself and Neil, cleaning materials for the house, basic necessities for however long it took to settle his father's affairs and get the hell out of here.

"Always has in a place this size." Smith's eyes followed him as he moved through the store. "Sorry about your father."

Liam paused in the canned goods aisle, a jar of peanut butter halfway to his basket. "Thanks."

"Shame, the way it all ended. Though I suppose some might say it was a long time coming."

The words hung in the air like smoke. Liam turned to face the old man, trying to read the expression on his weathered features. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Smith shrugged, but there was nothing casual about the gesture. "Man carries guilt long enough, it's bound to eat him alive eventually. Your father carried more than his share."

"Guilt about what?" Liam set the basket down, giving Smith his full attention. "About what happened with Neil?"

"Among other things." Smith leaned forward on his elbows, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. "You know, there's folks in this town still remember your mother."

The words hit Liam like a physical blow. In all the years since Amy Thorne had disappeared, no one had ever spoken about her directly. Not to him, not to Neil, not even at the trial when his father's violence had finally caught up with him. She'd become a ghost story, a whispered legend that children used to scare each other on dark nights.

"What about her?"

"Amy was something special, your mother. Beautiful, sure, but more than that. Had a light about her, you know? Made everyone around her feel... better, somehow. Brighter." Smith's eyes had taken on a distant quality, like he was looking at something only he could see. "Funny thing, though. After she married your father, that light started to dim. Like something was draining it out of her, bit by bit."

Liam's throat felt dry as sand. "She left. Dad said she couldn't handle being a mother, so she left."

Smith's laugh was bitter, humorless. "That what he told you boys? That she just up and left?" He shook his head slowly. "Son, your mother didn't leave. She vanished. One day she was there, pregnant and glowing like mothers-to-be ought to be, and the next..." He snapped his fingers. "Gone. Like she never existed at all."

The store seemed to grow smaller around them, the walls pressing in. "What do you mean, vanished?"

"I mean no one saw her leave. No packed bags, no goodbye to friends, no sign she was planning anything. Hell, her car was still in the driveway. Just... gone." Smith's voice had dropped even lower, as if he was afraid of being overheard. "Night little Hayley was born, matter of fact. Your father showed up at Doc Peterson's place in the middle of the worst storm we'd had in years, carrying that baby and screaming about Amy being sick. Doc went back to the house with him, but by the time they got there..."

"What?"

"Nothing. Empty house, empty bed. No sign of your mother anywhere. Just blood on the sheets and that newborn crying like her heart was broken." Smith's eyes were fixed on Liam now, sharp and penetrating. "Doc asked your father where Amy was, and you know what he said?"

Liam shook his head, not trusting his voice.

"Said she'd gone to get help. Said she'd be back. But she never was, and your father never spoke of her again. Anyone who tried to bring her up, well..." Smith gestured vaguely. "You seen what your father could do when he got angry."

The pieces of Liam's childhood began to shift and rearrange themselves like puzzle pieces finding new configurations. His father's violent outbursts whenever anyone mentioned their mother. The way family photos had been turned to face the wall. The careful, deliberate silence that had surrounded Amy Thorne's disappearance like a shroud.

"The police—"

"Sheriff Kowalski was your father's drinking buddy back then. Took his word that Amy had left of her own accord. Case closed." Smith straightened up, his expression growing troubled. "But folks talk, you know? Especially about the Thorne place. Strange things been happening out there for years. Sounds in the night, lights where there shouldn't be any. And the smell..."

"What smell?"

"You know the one I'm talking about, son. Same smell that's been following your family around like a curse." Smith's eyes narrowed. "You got it on you right now, matter of fact. Death and rot and something else. Something hungry."

Liam looked down at himself, suddenly aware of the lingering odor that clung to his clothes. The smell from the kitchen, from that putrid mass of meat and hair. It had followed him here, marked him like a brand.

"People in town, they got theories about what happened to your mother," Smith continued. "Most of them ain't the kind of theories you'd want to hear spoken out loud. But there's one thing everyone agrees on—whatever took Amy Thorne is still out there. Still hungry. And it's been feeding ever since."

The bell above the door jangled as another customer entered, breaking the spell that had fallen over the store. Smith's expression shifted immediately, becoming the bland, professional mask of a shopkeeper greeting a regular customer.

"Mrs. Henderson! How's that arthritis treating you today?"

But his eyes remained on Liam, sharp and knowing and full of warning. As the elderly woman began discussing her prescription needs, Smith leaned across the counter one last time.

"Bit of advice, son," he whispered. "Some things are better left buried. Especially on Thorne land. You'd do well to remember that."

Liam grabbed his basket and headed for the door, his mind reeling. The story Smith had told him painted a very different picture from the one his father had crafted over the years. His mother hadn't abandoned them—she'd vanished under circumstances so strange that even the local police had chosen to look the other way rather than investigate.

And Hayley... sweet, innocent Hayley had been born the same night their mother disappeared. Born into a house where something terrible had happened, where blood had stained the sheets and Amy Thorne had simply ceased to exist.

Outside, the afternoon air felt thick and oppressive, like the atmosphere before a storm. The town looked different somehow, smaller and meaner, full of secrets that festered in the shadows between buildings. Every face that passed seemed to carry knowledge he didn't possess, stories he'd never been told.

As he loaded his purchases into the truck, Liam caught sight of his reflection in the passenger window. Smith was right—he did smell different. The odor clung to him like smoke, marking him as something other than human, something that belonged to the darkness gathering around the Thorne name.

The drive back to the house seemed longer than it should have, the familiar roads stretching out like paths through an alien landscape. The woods pressed closer to the road than he remembered, their shadows deeper and more substantial in the fading afternoon light.

When he finally pulled into the driveway, Neil was waiting on the porch, his thin frame silhouetted against the dying light. Even from a distance, Liam could see that his brother's nervous energy had intensified, his hands moving restlessly at his sides.

"Did you get everything?" Neil called as Liam approached with the grocery bags.

"Yeah." Liam studied his brother's face, looking for signs of the secrets Smith had hinted at. "Neil, what do you remember about Mom?"

Neil went very still, his hands freezing mid-gesture. "Mom?"

"Yeah. What do you remember about the night she left?"

"I..." Neil's voice cracked slightly. "I was just a kid, Liam. Seven years old. I don't remember much of anything from back then."

But his eyes said otherwise. His eyes said he remembered everything.

"Smith at the general store says she didn't leave. Says she vanished."

Neil's face went pale, then flushed red, then pale again. "Mr. Smith is an old man who likes to gossip. You shouldn't listen to—"

"He says she disappeared the night Hayley was born."

The grocery bags slipped from Neil's hands, cans rolling across the porch with hollow, metallic sounds. His breathing had become rapid and shallow, like he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

"Neil?"

"I need to..." Neil scrambled to collect the scattered cans. "I need to get dinner started. You must be hungry."

But as his brother hurried toward the door, Liam caught sight of something that made his blood run cold. There, on Neil's forearm where his sleeve had ridden up, were scratches. Deep, desperate scratches that looked fresh, like they'd been made with fingernails or claws.

The same kind of scratches he'd seen on the inside of the pantry door.

The door slammed shut behind Neil, leaving Liam alone on the porch with the growing darkness and the weight of questions that no one seemed willing to answer. In the distance, he could hear the first rumbles of thunder as storm clouds gathered on the horizon.

Inside the house, something was moving around with purpose, and the smell of rot and hunger was getting stronger.