Chapter 8: The Town Watches

Chapter 8: The Town Watches

The adrenaline from the creek bed faded, leaving behind a toxic residue of exhaustion and gnawing dread. Trey sat at the kitchen table, the ripped, crumpled ward-page laid out before him like a holy relic. Across the room, Neil was curled into a tight ball on the floor, wrapped in a thin blanket, his trembling finally subsiding into a shocked, unnerving stillness. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d bolted the door, his eyes wide and vacant.

Trey felt the walls of the house closing in. His victory at the creek had been a fleeting, desperate act. Now, reality set in. They were trapped in the very heart of the curse, with dwindling supplies and a supernatural predator patrolling the perimeter. The flashlight that had guided him through the woods was already flickering, its batteries dying. The pantry held little more than a few cans of beans and stale crackers. You couldn’t fight the ancient darkness of Harrow Creek if you were starving to death in a dusty kitchen.

"I have to go out," Trey said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Neil’s head snapped up, a flicker of raw terror in his eyes. "No. Trey, no. You can't. That... that thing is still out there."

"It's not in the town, Neil. It's tied to the woods, to the creek," Trey reasoned, trying to convince himself as much as his brother. He tapped the journal, its leather cover seeming to absorb the dim light. "It's a hound, but this house is its kennel. The town... the town should be clear." He ignored the part of the journal that whispered of watchers, of conspiracies. He had to believe in some pocket of neutrality, some place that wasn't saturated with this evil. He needed supplies. It was a simple, practical need that felt like the only sane thing left in the world.

"Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone. You hear me? Anyone," Trey commanded, his voice harsher than he intended.

He grabbed his keys and slipped out the front door, feeling a hundred unseen eyes on him from the black maw of the woods. The short walk to his truck felt like crossing a minefield. The drive into the hollowed-out heart of Harrow Creek was worse.

The town was mostly dead after sundown, but tonight it felt different. It felt preserved. The handful of streetlights cast long, distorted shadows that writhed and danced. The darkened windows of the shuttered businesses weren't just empty; they felt observant. He remembered his father's words from the journal: The old men know. Smith at the hardware store, old Wajeski. They watch me. They watch the boy.

He needed batteries and food, which meant avoiding Smith’s Hardware. That left one option: Wajeski's General Store, a cluttered, dusty institution that had been here since before his father was born.

The bell above the door chimed a feeble, rusty welcome as he entered. The air inside was thick with the scent of sawdust, old licorice, and something else, something metallic and faintly unsettling. Behind the counter stood a man as ancient and dusty as his surroundings. Old Man Wajeski. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, his eyes small and bright like a bird’s, buried in loose folds of skin.

"Well now," Wajeski said, his voice a dry rustle of leaves. "Trey Blackburn. As I live and breathe. Heard you were back in town."

"Just grabbing a few things, Mr. Wajeski," Trey said, forcing a casualness that felt like a costume. He moved down the narrow aisle, grabbing a pack of D-cell batteries, a loaf of bread, and several cans of stew, his senses on high alert.

"Came back for your brother, I hear," Wajeski continued, his voice following Trey down the aisle. "Good of you. Family's important. Blood looks after blood. It's the natural way of things."

Trey froze, his hand hovering over a can of peaches. Blood looks after blood. The phrase was innocuous enough, a common country saying. But here, now, it felt loaded, a piece of a conversation he wasn't supposed to understand.

He gathered his items and brought them to the counter, dumping them beside the register. "That'll be all."

Wajeski began ringing up the items, his movements slow and deliberate. He paused, looking up at Trey, a thin, knowing smile stretching his lips. "It's a terrible business about your father. Body going missing like that. Things have a way of getting restless when a debt isn't paid, you know. They go looking for what they're owed."

Trey’s blood ran cold. This wasn’t small talk. This was a message. Wajeski knew. He knew everything. Trey’s hand instinctively tightened on the keys in his pocket, the metal biting into his palm.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Trey said, his voice a low growl.

"Don't you?" Wajeski’s beady eyes glittered. "A boy like you, a son of the Blackburn line... you always know. Deep down in the marrow. It's your inheritance." He pushed the bag of groceries across the counter. "You be careful now, son. The night has teeth."

Trey threw a handful of cash on the counter without waiting for change and grabbed the bag. He backed out of the store, the rusty bell sounding like a mocking laugh behind him. He stood on the cracked sidewalk, his heart hammering against his ribs, trying to catch his breath.

And then he saw him.

Across the street, in the dim glow of his own darkened storefront, was Mr. Smith. He wasn't looking at Trey, not directly. He was meticulously polishing the front window of his hardware store with a rag, his movements calm and rhythmic. But as Trey watched, Smith paused, his head turning just enough to catch Trey in his peripheral vision. He held Trey's gaze for a single, chilling second, and a slow, yellow-toothed smile spread across his face. It was the exact same smile he’d given Trey just before he’d taken the scissors to his hair.

Trey fled. He threw the bag in the passenger seat of his truck and peeled out of the town center, his tires screeching in protest. He drove wildly, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his mind a maelstrom of Wajeski's cryptic warnings and Smith's predatory smile.

Blood looks after blood. Things go looking for what they're owed. A son of the Blackburn line... It's your inheritance.

The pieces clicked together with the sickening finality of a coffin lid shutting. He thought of the journal entry, the one that had chilled him to the core. They will mark the true blood with tokens—hair, nail clippings, blood—to guide the hunter away from the flock and towards the shepherd.

He had assumed it was a misdirection. A way for the town to protect itself by offering the Vessel a different target. But he was wrong. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, a raw, desperate sound tearing from his throat.

They weren't trying to distract the hunter. They were helping it.

The lock of hair wasn't a diversionary tactic; it was a goddamn tracking marker. A beacon. Mr. Smith hadn't been protecting the town from the creature; he'd been serving it, politely painting a target on the true heir of the bloodline. Wajeski, Smith, all of them—they weren't just watchers. They were keepers. Zookeepers for the monster in the woods, and they were trying to lead it straight to its meal.

He pulled up to the house, the headlights cutting through the darkness and illuminating the peeling paint of his family’s home. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs.

He was completely and utterly alone. There was no neutral ground. There was no escape to a neighboring town, no calling a sheriff from another county. The conspiracy wasn't just his family. The curse wasn't just his house. It was the entire town of Harrow Creek. The town was the prison wall, and every resident was a guard. They had been waiting for him. Not just for him to come home, but for him to fulfill his part of some terrible, generational bargain he was only just beginning to understand. The house was no longer the epicenter of the curse; it was his only foxhole in a war where he was surrounded on all sides.