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To this day, I hate the dark. I hate small, cramped spaces. Because I know exactly where my mother ended up.

I watched him put her there.

As I leave the hardware store, the streets of Hurricane stretch before me, bathed in the soft amber glow of autumn. Main Street is just waking up. The brick buildings with faded awnings are familiar, as are the signs for Spring Hill Pastry, The Bridge Cafe, and the little library at the corner of First Avenue. Smoke curls from the bakery’s chimney, carrying the warm scent of fresh bread and coffee. At the corner, the Depot Museum stands silent, its old railway car parked like a relic of a time long gone.

It’s quaint, almost idyllic, but I know better. In a town like Hurricane, secrets are currency, and everyone is keeping tabs on everyone else. But no one looks too hard at me, not anymore. I’ve learned to blend in, to nod politely, and to stay quiet. Quiet is safe.

CHAPTER

THREE

Once I leave the town limits, the land begins to open wide. Rolling hills stretch endlessly, draped in a patchwork of fiery leaves set ablaze by autumn’s fiery palette. Maples and Oaks dominate the landscape. The reds and golds are so vibrant they look like the work of a manic painter, wild, and unhinged, as if each stroke were a scream no one bothered to hear. Every so often, the trees break to reveal open fields dotted with the occasional weathered barn or an old farmhouse, their windows glinting in the morning sun.

The road narrows as I climb into the mountains, twisting and turning like a ribbon tossed into the wind. It’s not the kind of drive you can take in a hurry, not if you want to make it to the next bend in one piece. But I don’t mind. The further I go, the quieter the world becomes.

With every mile, the noise of town fades behind me, becoming nothing more than the hum of my tires on gravel and the occasional cry of a hawk circling above. The air here feels crisper and cleaner.

When I turn onto the gravel driveway that leads home, I pass it, the white house with black accents. It sits to the left, just past the old sycamore tree that splits the drive. It’s empty now, abandoned and hollow, but it wasn’t always that way. My great-grandfather built it after he remarried, a symbol of his new beginning. For as long as I can remember, it’s barely recognizable as what it used to be. The shutters hang loose, the porch boards sag, and the windows stare out blankly like they’re waiting for something, or someone, that never came.

My cabin is about a half mile up the gravel drive, bordered on either side by towering trees whose branches arch overhead. At the end of the drive, my family’s hunting cabin comes into view. It stands proud and weathered, its dark, hand-hewn logs shaped by generations. The steeply sloped roof looks almost black against the backdrop of red and gold.

The porch wraps around the cabin, its boards worn smooth by time and countless footsteps. A pair of rocking chairs sit in one corner, facing the mountains that stretch endlessly into the horizon. Beyond the cabin, the land dips into a wide clearing, opening into a valley where deer sometimes graze and squirrels chatter as they dart between the trees. To the far right sits my shed, a large shop and the pigpen I’ve been working on.

This place is my sanctuary. Three hundred acres of wild, untamed land that have been in my family for generations. It’s the one part of my inheritance I don’t resent, the one thing untouched by the darkness of the past. Well, somewhat.

I park the truck and step out, breathing deeply. The cool air fills my lungs, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and pine. I stop and let my body relax, taking in the sounds of the land, birds, wind, the far-off rush of water. Closing my eyes, I concentrate until I hear it. The gentle ripple of the creek that winds through the back end of the property, whispering in the distance.

Above it all, the Appalachian Mountains rise like watchtowers over jagged rock and steep ridges. The land doesn’t just heal me. It listens. It holds my secrets, silent and unflinching. Out here, there are no eyes, no prying ears, just the trees and the wind, the creek, and the soil. Right here, the land is alive. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t whisper. Nor does it harm or kill. It simply exists as it always has. As it’s always meant to be, steady and eternal.

The shed behind the cabin, leaning slightly against the press of time, stands as a reminder of that history. Its weathered planks are darkened with age, the scent of earth and iron clinging to them, impossible to wash away. My grandfather used it to hang deer, his hands steady as he prepared them for winter. He taught me where to cut, how to drain the blood, and how to leave nothing to waste. He taught me all that before I entered the first grade. I knew more about butchering the wildlife that grazed in the woods that surrounded the cabin before I knew how to write a sentence.

I still use the shed.

But not for deer.

The shed holds more than the echoes of my family’s hunts. It holds my own kind of justice. Out here, in the silence of the woods, no one hears screams. No one asks questions. The land takes what I give it, burying the sins of men beneath its soil, and in return, it gives me peace.

For all its beauty, this land is also a graveyard.

And I suppose that’s fitting. Because sometimes, even the most breathtaking places are built on rot no one talks about.

CHAPTER

FOUR

I wipe my brow with the back of my hand, smearing dirt and sweat across my face as I lean against the pigpen’s sturdy fence. It’s taken months of hard work to get this pen just right, spring and summer spent cutting wood, hammering nails, and ensuring everything was secure before I brought the pigs home. Now, seven of them snuffle and root around the enclosure, their pink and black bodies glinting in the late autumn sun. I hope they feel safe enough here to breed and grow even bigger in the months to come. The more pigs I have, the easier things will be.

I built the pen behind the shed. It’s the furthest point from the cabin, tucked away and not visible from the driveway. I didn’t want to listen to their squeals at night, and I wanted them hidden, just in case. For now, they’re noisy enough with the standard pig feed. I can only imagine how much louder they’ll get when I switch their diet.

I researched as much as I could, just not in any way that could be traced back to me. The less digital breadcrumbs I leave, the better. Especially if my plans go south. Luckily, Hurricane still believes in physical books. The library has served me well, all creaking floorboards and the musty smell of pages no one else bothers to turn.

The shop sits closer to the road than the cabin, far enough from the shed that sounds from one don’t carry to the other. Pulling open the heavy metal door to the shop, I cringe as the hinges groan, the sound slicing through the stillness. Inside, the air is cooler, thick with the faint metallic tang of old tools and oil. My eyes land on the three deep freezers along the far wall, their pristine white surfaces stark against the dimly lit space.

Electricity didn’t reach this property until the 1940s, long after my great-grandfather built the original cabin. Back then, it was all oil lamps and woodstoves, and the cabin sat alone on the mountain like a sentinel. My grandfather was the one who brought modern conveniences to the property after the Rural Electrification Act finally lit up even the most forgotten corners of West Virginia.

He built this shop after the cabin got power, a space of his own where he could tinker, repair tools, and store equipment. It was modest, practical, just like him. My grandfather never cared for showy things. He preferred functionality over flair, and I loved him for that.

He was nothing like my father.