Dark Matter Presents Human Monsters: A Horror Anthology

by Sadie Hartmann, Ashley Saywers, Christopher Golden

Genres: Anthologies; Horror

Synopsis

35 BRAND NEW TALES OF TERROR

 

Not all monsters are fantasy. Some are very real, and they walk among us. They're our friends, family, neighbors, and co-workers. They're the people we're supposed to trust...and they know it. Contained within this anthology are 35 never-before-published works by supremely talented authors and best-selling novelists. Brace yourself for the unexpected and unimaginable horror of...human monsters.

 

STORIES BY

 

Linda D. Addison, Gemma Amor, Jena Brown, Nat Cassidy, Venezia Castro, Andrew Cull, Andy Davidson, L. P. Hernandez, Laurel Hightower, C. S. Humble, Emma Alice Johnson, Jeremy Robert Johnson, Stephen Graham Jones, Rebecca Jones-Howe, Caroline Kepnes, Samantha Kolesnik, Chad Lutzke, Josh Malerman, Catherine McCarthy, Francesca McDonnell Capossela, Jeremy Megargee, Tim Meyer, S. P. Miskowski, Archita Mittra, Stephanie Nelson, Leah Ning, Cynthia Pelayo, Sam Rebelein, Belicia Rhea, Stephen S. Schreffler, Greg Sisco, Elton Skelter, John F. D. Taff, Dana Vickerson, Kelsea Yu

 

Edited by Sadie Hartmann and Ashley Saywers. Introduction by Christopher Golden, author of ROAD OF BONES. Additional editing by Rob Carroll and Marissa van Uden.

 

 

Read more

Release date: October 18, 2022

Publisher: Dark Matter INK

Print pages: 413

Sample

 

 

Content Warning

This anthology contains content that may be unsuitable for certain audiences. Stories include foul language, disturbing imagery, and graphic depictions of sex and violence. Reader discretion is advised.

Introduction

By Christopher Golden

I’ll tell you a little secret. I almost never write stories about human monsters because they disturb me deeply. I’ve edited a lot of anthologies, but never one like this, for that very reason. I know horror is supposed to get under my skin, to dig deep into my softest, most comfortable places and tear them to shreds, but I prefer monsters of the inhuman kind. I like metaphor and questioning the nature of belief and the fabric of imagination. When it comes to reading these stories, or watching movies in the same vein, I’ve got to be in the mood.

TL;DR…this shit freaks me out.

But when it’s done well, it’s always worth it.

When I heard about this volume, I was instantly intrigued. Sadie Hartmann and Ashley Saywers have made their mark in the horror community by being passionate about the genre, but even more so because of their comprehensive knowledge and impeccable taste where horror fiction is concerned. These days we use the term “influencers,” but once upon a time the word of choice would have been “tastemakers,” and I like that one so much better. I have such admiration for the positions they have staked out for themselves in the genre, and confidence that this is only the beginning of a much larger impact to come in the future. So, when Sadie asked me if I’d be interested in writing the introduction to Human Monsters, I immediately said yes…even though I knew these stories would freak me out.

And they certainly did.

There are too many stories in here to run through them one by one, and I always feel it’s sort of unfair to pick favorites while writing an intro to an anthology. For a single-author collection, it’s fair game, but in an anthology, it’s bad form to name-drop half of the authors and not mention the other half. That’s okay in a review, but not here.

Even so…just to illustrate my reaction to this book, I’m going to mention one story. “Prototype” by Leah Ning is the kind of human monster story I most adore. When you read it, you’ll see what I mean. Nasty, yes, but also just fucking weird. But the best thing about the story, for me, is that I had never heard her name, much less read her work, before reading Human Monsters, and now I’m paying attention. Not only to Leah, but to so many of these writers.

That’s the real value of an anthology like this, and the work that Sadie and Ashley are doing and have done here. Of the authors in this book, there were twenty-two I had literally never heard of before. There were eight others whose names and reputations were familiar to me, but whose work I had not yet gotten around to reading. That leaves only five writers I had already read. That is the gift that Sadie and Ashley give us here—a broad cross-section of contemporary horror authors from superstars to rising stars to the very first sparks of hoped-for careers. There are so many small presses out there, and every year there are loads of horror anthologies of varying quality, which is the kindest way I can say that the bar is sometimes set quite low for inclusion. This is not that. Sadie and Ashley have higher goals, and as a fan, I’m grateful to them for that…and to all of the writers who contributed these deeply unsettling stories.

I hope they freak you out as much as they did me.

Terror loves company.

Christopher Golden

Bradford, Massachusetts

July 14, 2022

Kill Me With Lipstick

By Cynthia Pelayo

Blood on a wall, but not that sort of blood. Written in wasted perceptions, spiral bound.

What was the year? Punctuated by a massacre of newspaper clippings.

And what were their names? Women who were murdered again in ink.

In June 1945, let’s recall spin back into that past, our parallel.

Josephine. Stabbed. Head-wrapped round. Choked with her own pretty dress.

Months later, Frances found. Knife protruding from her throat. A bullet in her head.

Our memory is a tangled video tape. No, a newsreel. Remember them.

Remember when in that red, not that red, of panic-stricken killer’s call.

No dial tone, so sing us the high-pitched news jingle, or a symphony of worry.

Nothing is taken. Promises of sad notes displayed. They were his cutting board.

“For heavens Sake catch me Before I Kill more I cannot control myself”

And so, his infamous scrawl, a coward’s plea imprinted, the Lipstick Killer.

In 1946 Suzanne was just six when a troll crawled into her tower, leaving behind

a cold ladder leaning against a bedroom window, arrows flashing the red flag of menace.

“Get $20,000 ready & wait for my word. Do not notify the FBI or police. Bills are in 5’s & 10’s. Burn this for her safety”

Nothing was burned, except for her. Newspapers later wrote in white, black and red of

Suzanne’s head in a sewer. Her little pink and blue leg in catch basin. Other parts in a drain.

A broken doll scattered across a great city, a child as scavenger hunt, a killer’s breadcrumbs.

Suspects followed witnesses morphing into empty ransom calls.

A 17-year-old burglar interrogated and drugged.

Our monster in headline:

HEIRENS CONFESSES TO THREE MURDERS

Confessions cycle on and off, cries of guilt and pleas of innocence, blinking in and out.

Results deemed inconclusive, or conclusive? Sixty-six years later and death slips into his cell.

Those buildings still stand, but what do we really know? There’s crumpled, yellowed, faded newspaper in archives. Perhaps evidence in moldy boxes as morbid curiosities.

A cast of character witnesses all dead with time. Was Heirens innocent? Or Guilty? Do you remember Josephine, Frances and Suzanne? Do we really remember anyone anymore?

7 P.M. Awards Ceremony, Followed by Girl Scout Auction at 8

By Sam Rebelein

At six o’clock, the moms start putting shit on tables. They spread Solo plates and plastic cups and thin paper napkins from the dollar store. Everything is gold and green, the official color scheme of the Annual Awards. Crepe streamers, balloons, the banner over the stage: “129th Annual Awards,” all of it in leafy green and champagne-foil gleam. Even the M&Ms are color themed. Mrs. Dabrovitz, the Scout Troop Leader, got monogrammed ones that say “CONGRATS” on one side.

The entire event hall of the American Legion in Wallow Valley, Ohio, is bedecked. The moms have stripped Party Central of all its greens and golds. But that’s okay—Party Central buys it all in bulk a month before, to prepare.

They take the Awards very serious, here in Wallow Valley.

The dads stay home while the moms set up. They’d only get in the way. They’d fold the napkins all wrong. But dads do have the very important job of holding down the forts at home while the kids get ready and hang out in their rooms until it’s time to go. All across town, dads sit downstairs in their wood-paneled living rooms, watching the game, drinking cans of Lenny’s Lager from a brewery in Kentucky, which is the only beer they can get from outside Wallow Valley, but there are rumors that Sam Adams might start importing, too. Wallow Valley gets liquor, of course, but most of the moms’ll smell whiskey on your breath if you drink and drive like that. Or the kids’ll smell it, and they’ll blab. Beer’s a safer buzz, and besides, cocktails are gay (“I mean, cock’s right there in the name”). If one of the dads brought White Claw to an event, the rest’d fuckin’ laugh in his face. “What, your balls fall off?” But White Claw doesn’t sell in Wallow Valley anyway, so it’s a moot point.

At about six-thirty, the dads should start getting ready to head to the American Legion. The moms start getting nervous about everyone being late, so they text all the dads that it’s time to go. The dads, per tradition, ignore the first text. It’s like hitting snooze. But when they get the secondtext, they better get off their ass. They grumble as they turn off the game, dump their empties in the recycling. They don’t text the moms back as they shove into their shoes, and so the moms call, which of course only delays the dads even more. The moms say way too nonchalantly, “I think we’re all set up here, so please lemme know when you’re on your way. And oh. My. God. Remind me I have to tell you. Ronnie is getting under my fuckin’ skin. She is so anal.”

The dads manage to herd the kids into the car, and almost all of the kids have a last-minute emergency, like, “Dad, I can’t get my tie right!” Because all the kids have to wear ties to the Awards. Dads don’t, but it’s highly encouraged, according to the moms. Highly. Or, “Dad, I spilled ice cream on my shoes!” Kids gotta wear shined shoes, too (with buckles, is the tradition). Or, “Dad, I can’t find my shears!” Because, of course, all the kids bring their shears.

It’s a pain in the ass, but the dads finally hustle the kids into the cars. This is an important bonding moment, the getting ready, because the dads get to spit on your stained shoe, rub it clean, or fix your tie knot, find your shears, and they wink at ya, say, “Good as new,” and for a second, you’re like, Dad’s actually pretty cool. It’s easy to think that because you’re ten, your first time being a double-digit (and no turning back now). Most of the things your parents do still seem like magic. And as you drive to the Wallow Valley American Legion, staring out the window while Dad listens to the country station on the radio, you wonder when these adult-superpowers and their odd side effects will transfer to you. When will I be able to magically locate random items in drawers, but constantly misplace my phone, like Mom? When will I be able to tie my own tie, but also get really hairy, like Dad? As you ponder these mysteries, you hug your shears to your chest and wonder what the future will be like.

Let me tell you: things will be smaller than you imagine them. You’ll return to your third-grade classroom five years from now and believe that someone has shrunk the chairs to squirrel size. You’ll visit your old favorite playground (where you got that infamous splinter) and it’ll be, like, knee high. It used to be as tall as trees. What happened? Or, better yet, you’ll look back at life itself and think, How did it get so small?

The dads feel a jerk of anxiety as they turn into the American Legion parking lot. This arrival in the lot is the first very social thing they’ll have to do over the course of a very social evening. Smile and small talk. Horrible. But invariably they’ll see, pulling up at the same moment as them, Henry or Jeremy or Putts (“Still mini golfing, Putts, or didja piss your pants again? Oh, come on, don’t be sensitive, it’s just a joke,” but it’s the same joke they’ve been telling since middle school). They’ll feel relieved, because even though they have to be very social now, at least it’s with guys they know. As long as they can avoid getting sucked into some weird-ass conversation with Ronnie (who is extremely anal), it’ll be a fine evening. Free food. Havin’ beers with Henry and Jeremy and the gang. Maybe their kid will even win an award.

While the dads shake each other’s hands, the kids greet each other tentatively in the parking lot. They admire each other’s suits and dresses and shears. Most of the shears still have blood on them.

“Think you’ll win anything tonight?” one eight-year-old boy asks.

“Nah.” His friend shakes her head. “I only got one sinner this year.”

Inside the event hall, the moms are all aflutter. They descend on the kids as they enter, and the kids stand Medusa-ed for a moment while the moms floof dresses and adjust hair and ties and tucked-in shirts, and then line them all up so they can take pictures under the balloon arch, posing with their shears. The green and gold balloons shine in the reflections of a hundred camera snaps. Lightning rips through the hall as picture after picture after picture flashes. But the kids don’t mind the fuss. It’s a chance for everybody to see everybody else dressed up. Some of the boys eye the girls, and the girls eye the boys. A couple of the girls eye the other girls, and some of the guys catch each other eyeing them, but that kind of thing isn’t allowed in Wallow Valley. Ain’t natural.

Everyone finds their tables (Anal Ronnie has given everyone specific places, which some of the boys flat-out ignore). Everyone carries their paper plates to the troughs along the back wall by the kitchen, where they scoop up pulled pork, lasagna, and Mrs. Dabrovitz’s mac and cheese in big steaming dung heaps. Everybody eats, and by the time the youngest kids (the younger siblings) are running around blowing off calories, the cake has magically appeared. This is the magic of the moms: to make food magically appear.

While everyone is eating their cake, Ronnie goes up to the podium by the stage. She adjusts the mic and gives everyone a plastic smile. She says “Good evening” in that way that just tells you this is gonna be boring. But you have to hand it to her, she also knows how to say, in a way that gets you pumped every time, “Welcome. To the One Hundred and Twenty-Ninth Annual Awards.”

Applause. The dads pretend to be chewing still, so they can look disinterested in the applause. A little girl has fallen and skinned her knee on the hardwood floor. She cries over Ronnie’s voice. “Every year, every child aged seven through twelve in our great town of Wallow Valley is nominated for five awards.” She goes on, but she doesn’t say that they also all get an award now, which the dads call the Gimme Ribbon. “When I was your age, you weren’t rewarded for just participating. That’s counter-fuckin’-intuitive.” The dads think it’s some real liberal pussy bullshit, these Participation Ribbons, but the moms don’t care. “Everyone deserves an award.”

Gimme a break.

As Ronnie explains, the five major awards are given in order of social clout, like the Oscars. First, though, Anal Ronnie gives the whole spiel about the reason behind the Awards. It’s stuff you can mostly tune out, you know, like you’re eating your cake with the TV on in the background. Really, it’s for her benefit she gets to say all of this. She doesn’t have kids of her own.

She goes on to recite the part about how, every year, Wallow Valley’s youth are sent out into the world on an excursion, to seek and cleanse, blah blah blah. They’re given seven days, armed with a pair of shears, yadda yadda. When the week is up, the children return to Wallow Valley using only their wits and an allowance of seven dollars (one dollar for each point of the Wallow Valley Star). Then, of course, she explains everything about the Star’s history. How She fell that night in September, 1885, and took the form of “a woman made of light, striding down from the hills.” And this Star-woman? She “made demands” of the farmers and tanners and cidermen of Wallow Valley. “Build a fence,” She said. “Block the roads into the Valley,” She said. “Shun the never-blessed.” Blah blah, yeah yeah.

I mean, we all know the story.

Henry looks up from his pulled pork, chewing. He catches Jeremy’s eye, cocks an eyebrow. Jeremy rolls his eyes. Henry laughs silently, takes another shovelful of pork. The children sit around, eager to hear who won. They grip their shears tightly. One of the girls reaches over to her friend’s shears and scratches at a clump of hair stuck there.

“Cool,” she says.

The friend grins, proud. “You shoulda heard him scream.”

At the podium, Ronnie gives the crowd another plastic smile. “And now,” she concludes (she was born to say, “And now,” into microphones), “it’s time to announce this year’s winner of Best Light.”

Scattered applause. Best Light is an honorable award to get. You don’t have to try very hard for it, but hey, it’s nice to be acknowledged. You just have to blatantly draw attention to yourself, then slip away, make it back over the fence and into the Valley before you’re caught. Don’t worry, the police never go past the fence. Not after What Happened Back in ’83. A night so awe-inspiring, it’s always referred to in hushed tones and capital letters: What Happened Back in ’83…

So Sarah McGinnis wins Best Light, which is fair. She’s short and slick. She can maneuver fast across the soccer field. She’s proud to win this award. She holds her shears up for everyone to see. It’s an impressive display. These shears have been in her family for a long time, almost since She first came into the valley. They’re rusted and the handles wobble, and years upon years of caked sinner blood are spattered ’cross their surface.

Sarah McGinnis takes her small golden trophy and returns to her table, where her dad squeezes her bare shoulder.

Best Clip goes to Benton Carr, a beefy kid who smiles without showing any teeth. He has a doughy face and the dads don’t trust him. The moms love him, but the dads can’t shake the feeling that he’s…up to something. It’s that weird, close-lipped smile. No wonder he got Best Clip. “Anyone with that kind of face,” Henry texts Jeremy under the table, “knows how to hack off limbs easily.” He almost wants to ask Benton what happened out there, but he knows that’s against the rules. Nobody knows what happens on the excursions except the kids and the Awards Committee. You only go on the excursions five years running, from seven to twelve years old, and some dads miss the rush of it. Some moms, too, but they won’t admit it. Henry wants to ask Benton so bad, “Was it a finger, a toe, a whole arm? I clipped a whole arm once when I was your age. Walked right up to the bus stop and just shick. Clipped off some guy’s arm and his tweed sinner sleeve. Star as my witness.” Henry likes to think of that time as his glory days, which is sad because, you know, he was nine.

Best Mimic goes to the kid who can blend in the best. Over the years, the police in the towns surrounding Wallow Valley have wised to the annual dispersal of dirty children from that fenced-in town. They set up roadblocks and post warnings. “For the first week of September, stay in your homes with the doors locked as much as possible. Beware of alleys, as they may contain what appear to be homeless individuals but are actually WV children.” Local celebrities even film commercials warning everyone in the local towns to stay indoors. There are hashtags: #WallowValley. #StopWallowValley. Some of the Valley children are even “rescued” during their excursions and foisted on foster families on the outside, “safe from that abominable cult.” This is a fate worse than death, according to Wallow Valley, and the families of these children are shunned.

Simply put, the outside-people know Wallow Valley is a problem. “We shouldna even let it get this far.” But that fence? The electrified eight-footer with guard towers that Wallow Valley erected many years ago “to keep the sinners out?” The police will not go over that fence. Not after What Happened Back in ’83. The way the stars moved that night—it drove men mad.

In the wake of all this outside interference during the excursions, Best Mimic is the kid who does the best job of slipping unnoticed into nearby towns. They’re the one who manages to pass as a local and sneak into a school or a Walgreens or a Burger King. They’re the one who slips right up behind you as you’re pushing your cart down the Wal-Mart aisle, slides those shears from their shirt, slips them round your ankle, and shick. Drains the sin from your leg. Or shick, snaps an arm in half, drains the sin in great red gouts from the stump of your elbow. And then scampers away before you even know what hit you.

Throughout Ohio, there are many campfire stories about Wallow Valley kids. Even adults in the nearby towns won’t sleep with their hands drooping over the side of the bed. Anything could be waiting under there, shears at the ready. Some people say you can tell sometimes, a second before it happens, but by then it’s too late. Because right before they cut you, the children whisper, “Star be my witness.” And then you’ll feel that metal slice…

So Danielle Talbot gets Best Mimic. She got, like, four people in a single evening by pretending to be part of the Cincinnati Children’s Choir. She even brought the fingers home to show. Her dad taught her how to dry them and hang them on her wall for good luck. She wanted to wear them tonight, but her mom said they didn’t go with her dress.

Best Remainder goes to that girl with the clump of scalp stuck to her shears. She deserved it, really. It’s a gnarly leftover, that clump. She holds the shears high so everyone can see the long dark hairs, the shred of skin.

Applause.

“And now,” says Anal Ronnie, “the moment we’ve all been waiting for.” A dramatic pause. Everyone’s done eating now. Ronnie smiles. “Best Live Capture.”

She slides a long finger into the green envelope, neatly pops the gold wax seal. She reads the name, “Tucker Graham.”

Everyone applauds again. Tucker tromps onstage. He’s a tall blond smirk. Very handsome. He bows several times, knowing how handsome he is.

Henry’s daughter huffs, crossing her arms. “I woulda won that one if she’d stopped squirming.”

“Well, you know the saying,” says Henry. “Only sinners squirm.”

The previous four winners from tonight join Tucker onstage. They all beam and bow. Then they head backstage to retrieve the catch. Brian Graham, Tucker’s dad, has parked his truck out behind the American Legion so they can haul the catch right from his truck bed to the stage door. It’s a large burlap sack, five ropes stretching out of it. The ropes, of course, are painted green and gold. The five children each take a rope in hand and pull. The sack thumps off the truck onto the ground. They drag it across the floor, onto the stage. With a flourish, Tucker removes the burlap, and the catch lies there, hogtied, blinking against the lights and the flash as all the moms snap pictures with their phones.

Now the five winners lift their shears up high. They beam out at all the parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and Mrs. Dabrovitz. The moms begin to film as Tucker leads them in the prayer: “This we offer, in all our grace. We hope this off’ring’s to your taste. Star be our witness, feel our light. Drain the sin from this man tonight. We are blessed, he is not. Help us cleanse him, of his rot.”

And they begin to hack. To slice. The catch screams. He screams for a long time, longer than anybody would expect. Blood is already cascading off the stage, and still he’s screaming.

“Yes,” yells Henry, cheering them on. “Yes!”

When it’s done, the stage is covered in steaming ribbons. Ronnie leads everyone in another round of applause. The blood-soaked winners get to join their parents again, who hug them and peel the guts off their hair to stick on their lapels. Henry gets a piece of skull, tucks it in his breast pocket like a handkerchief. The parents say what a good job everyone’s done. There are more pictures. It all goes on Facebook, and it’s all evidence, of course. The police could arrest everyone on sight. But what can you do? Nobody is willing to cross that fence. Not since What Happened Back in ’83. The way the gate in that long solid chain-link motherfucker slid open slow, and the things that came through…

Mrs. Dabrovitz and a handful of other moms mop up the stage and the floor. The rest of the moms take a breather and slip out of their heels. They’re drinking white wine straight from the bottle now. “Well, we did it. We pulled off another Awards.” It’s done now. Good job everyone. “I never want to see green and gold again.”

Ronnie turns down the lights and steps outside the hall to the parking lot. She smokes a Camel in the twilight. It’s the only brand that’ll send its trucks through the gate in that fence. Sometimes it’s hard to get good products, down here in Wallow Valley.

Some of the families break off and head home to shower, enjoy their own private celebrations (i.e., more cake). About half the crowd remains. The dads get another drink from the bar, and the kids all run around playing with chunks of the catch.

The Girl Scouts wash up in the bathroom. The bathroom only has one flickering light, and it makes them nervous. “Star protect me,” they murmur. “Lend me your light.” But if ever there’s a time and place when they feel She can’t hear them, it’s in this bathroom, on this night.

When they’re all sparkly in their Girl Scout uniforms, they line up on the shiny wood stage. They beam. It’s dim now in the hall, half-empty and eerie. All the fathers stand in shadows in the back, by the bar, holding drinks, whispering lewd compliments to each other. “Your little Casey really filled out this year, Putts.” The moms at the tables all clasp their hands together proudly and grin, lobotomized and unvaccinated. They were Scouts once, too. It’s a rite of passage.

Lined up on the stage, the Girl Scouts smile. They flick their eyes nervous but steady over the crowd. Perky in their little sashes, skirts, and knee socks.

It’s Mrs. Dabrovitz’s turn to speak now. She goes to the microphone, adjusts it with her red nails, and says, “Welcome, everyone, to our annual Scout Auction. This year, we have some exciting items lined up for you. The first item…is Casey Ciotta. Casey likes watching reruns of The Bachelor and horseback riding. Casey Ciotta, everyone. We’ll start the bidding at five hundred.”

One of the dads lifts a paddle. Dabrovitz inclines her head. “I see one thousand. Do I hear two thousand.”

Another dad puts up his paddle. Casey’s smile falters for a second, but she holds it. If you were up close, you’d see her lips quivering.

By eight-thirty, every item at the Scout auction has been sold. Dabrovitz flicks off the rest of the lights, and everyone puts on their masks for the next event at nine. Dabrovitz goes outside to bum a cigarette off Anal Ronnie. They never participate in the nine o’clock event. “It’s too silly for me,” claims Dabrovitz. “Not enough action,” claims Ronnie.

Which is a shame, because this is always a fun one, I think. Except they’re tuning it down this year. Did you hear that? I know, I know, they’ve been tuning it down every year. It’s the moms’ fault. They’re getting sucked into more and more of that liberal pussy bullshit. Those fuckin’ participation ribbons were just the beginning of the end.

Get this: This year, when the clock strikes nine, only four people get knives, and only three of the Scouts are gagged.

Can you believe that?

I know. You ask me, Star as my witness, Wallow Valley’s goin’ downhill fast.

The Heartbreak Boys

By Andrew Cull

If you’re really gonna murder someone, there comes a time, a moment, a millisecond, when all the talking, all the planning, the nightmares, when all of that is done, and there’s nothing but the cold weight of the hammer in your hands and that look in their eyes. They know.

That moment, it’ll test the depth of your hate. The depth of your anger, your greed, whatever it is that drove you to think murder would be the answer. I was twelve years old, standing in the corn field behind the Randall place, sun so bright I could barely see, sweat streaming into my eyes, holding a hammer so large it took me both hands to raise it over my head. In that moment, you better hope your hate runs deep. That it runs to the bone. Because if it doesn’t, everything after that is hell, broken loose and hungry.

I held the hammer above my head, my arms shaking. I could have just as easily dropped it on my own head, it weighed that much. Greg Hayward knew it was coming.

“Fucking do it already!” spat Zeke.

• • •

We’d talked about it. Planned it. Planned all the details. We’d sat in that same cornfield, talked it through every evening for two weeks. The four of us. Four boys. Three ten-year-olds and me, the older one, the ringleader, I guess.

We’d acted it out. Taken turns to be Hayward. Worked out who’d be best to play each part. Lucas was fast. He’d be the bait. He’d flag down Hayward’s truck. Tell him that Zeke had had a fall, a bad one, and that he needed help.

Zeke was stocky, muscular. He’d be waiting, a way into the field, hiding between the corn rows. He’d have a shovel. When Hayward was far enough in, Zeke would rush him from behind. Hit him across the back of the head, or the legs, just take him down. Hard.

Once he was in the dirt, Lucas, Zeke, and Ethan would hold him down. I’d deliver the final blow. That was my right.

When it was done, we’d empty his pockets. We knew he’d be carrying plenty of cash on him. Takings from the scout stall at the county fair the day before. We’d take that and split it up. Then I’d drive his truck to Three-Mile Creek and roll it off the edge, sink it. No one would ever believe it was us. That four kids, from four of the most respected families in Carver, would team together to murder their Scout Leader.

• • •

I’d never been a scout. Never saw much point in learning to tie knots or navigate by the stars. Most times any knot will do, and you can keep your stars, I’ll take a map with me. I didn’t see any point in it, but Jesse did.

Jesse learned every damn knot, and insisted on following me around the house, showing me how every damn knot got, well, knotted. Jesse was about as much a pain in the ass as any younger brother could be. He followed me everywhere. Sometimes I’d open my bedroom door in the morning, and he’d just be standing there. Some toy, or comic book, or that damn rope in his hands, waiting for me to wake up so he could show me.

It was Jesse who told me about Hayward’s trip with the county fair money. ...