Chapter 6: The Lambs for the Slaughter

Chapter 6: The Lambs for the Slaughter

Juniper left Doctor McKenty’s office and stepped back into the suffocating silence of Havenwood. The world had shrunk to the size of a mousetrap, and she was the mouse. Every drawn curtain was a hiding place for an enemy, every silent porch a judgment. McKenty’s clinical words echoed in her mind: They tried to save us. From her. The doctor hadn't threatened her directly, but the warning was clear. She was an obstacle, and this town had a brutal way of removing obstacles.

She couldn't go back to the cabin. Not yet. Going back meant huddling behind a broken door with a sick old woman and a half-empty bottle of failing poison, waiting for either the forest or the town to come for them. She needed to know more. She needed to know who.

Dusk was bleeding into the streets, painting the world in shades of bruised purple and grey. The weak sun, her only shield, was abandoning its post. She slipped into the alley between the doctor's office and the general store, pressing herself into the shadows. From here, she could see the length of the main street. A few dim lights flickered on in windows, but the town remained deathly still.

Then she saw it. A figure detaching itself from the shadows of the butcher shop—Silas Thatcher. He moved with a furtive haste, glancing over his shoulder before heading toward the edge of town, where the old, derelict Grange Hall stood silhouetted against the encroaching Deepwood. A moment later, another man followed, and then a woman. They were gathering.

The Grange Hall. Gran had spoken of it once, a place where the founding families met to reaffirm their grim duties. Now it was a place for conspiracy. Juniper’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. This was it. This was the faction.

She gave them a five-minute lead, then followed, a ghost in the deepening gloom. She circled the dilapidated building, its white paint peeling like sunburnt skin. The windows were caked with decades of grime, but one on the side, partially hidden by a skeletal lilac bush, had a crack in the pane. It was just high enough. She found a stack of rotting apple crates, tested them for stability, and carefully pulled herself up.

The air inside was thick with the smells of dust, mildew, and fear. About a dozen people were gathered in the main hall, their faces illuminated by the unsteady, golden light of a few kerosene lamps. They stood in a rough circle around a hard-faced man with a jaw like a block of granite and eyes that burned with the cold fire of absolute certainty. She recognized some of them from her brief trip to the town's center. Silas was there, his expression deeply troubled, standing slightly apart from the main group. But he was there.

"The old ways are broken!" the granite-jawed man was saying, his voice a low, powerful rumble that filled the hall. Juniper recognized him as Jedediah Carver, the head of a family whose name appeared in the journal almost as often as her own. "Elara Raven clutched her dusty book and her useless rituals while the sap thinned and the Hunters grew bold enough to knock on her own door! She would have us all sit and pray while the stomach's hunger grows until it consumes us all!"

A murmur of angry agreement rippled through the small crowd.

"Elias Thorne," Carver continued, his voice taking on a preacher's cadence, "Juniper's father—he saw the truth thirteen years ago! He knew appeasement was not enough. He knew a great hunger requires a great meal. He was a martyr, not a fool! His only mistake was in the offering. One is not enough for a god. It's an insult."

Juniper felt a wave of nausea. He was twisting her father's disastrous failure into a heroic blueprint.

"The woods are in pain. Its slumber is disturbed," Carver declared, spreading his hands wide. "It lashes out. Like a sick beast. It needs medicine. A powerful dose to lull it back into a deep, lasting sleep. A blood sacrifice. Not of one, but of many."

The room was silent, the terrible words hanging in the air.

"But where do we find such a thing?" a woman asked, her voice trembling. "We can't just—"

Carver held up a hand, a grim smile touching his lips. "Providence," he said softly. "The woods itself has provided. Two days ago, we found them, wandering in circles near the eastern ridge, their compasses spinning, their phones dead. A group of campers. Outsiders."

Juniper’s blood ran cold.

"We told them we were a rescue party," Carver said, and the euphemism was the most chilling thing she had ever heard. "They were so grateful. We brought them back, gave them food and shelter. They're safe now, waiting in the old cannery basement."

The cannery. A derelict brick building by the river, with boarded-up windows and a reputation for being haunted. Haunted by far more than ghosts, it seemed.

"Three of them," Carver announced, his voice ringing with triumph. "Two college kids and a man on his own. Lambs for the slaughter, delivered to our door."

Silas, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, his voice strained. "Jedediah, this is madness. To kill innocents... it's what Elias did. Look what it created! The Hiker—"

"The Hiker was a mistake in the ritual!" Carver snapped, turning on him. "A flawed offering, improperly consecrated! This time, we will do it right. At the Heartwood, on the night of the new moon, when the veil is thin. We will give the Deepwood a meal it cannot ignore. We will buy ourselves another generation of peace. It is their lives, or the lives of our children!"

He stared down Silas, and Silas, though he looked sick to his stomach, dropped his gaze and said no more. The argument was over. The verdict was passed.

Juniper slid down from the crates, her body trembling uncontrollably. She stumbled back into the shadows, her mind reeling. This wasn't a plan anymore. It was a countdown. They had victims, a location, and a date. Three innocent people were sitting in a dark basement, believing they'd been rescued, while upstairs their saviors sharpened the sacrificial knives.

Her fear, a cold and personal thing focused on her own survival, was burned away by a sudden, hot rage. This wasn't about her anymore. It wasn't about Gran or the cabin or the failing sap. It was about the three lambs waiting in the dark.

She was the only one who knew. The doctor wouldn't help. The town was complicit. She was the obstacle. And for the first time since this nightmare began, she was glad of it. An obstacle was something that stood in the way. She looked from the lamplit windows of the Grange Hall to the deep, swallowing darkness of the woods. She was trapped between two monsters. And she would have to fight them both.