There Used to Be People Here

by Kennedy Cole

Genres: General Fiction; Horror; Mystery; Police Procedurals; Thrillers; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

In 1970s Mississippi, a Black detective and his temporary partner are assigned to a case that shifts from murder to paranormal conspiracy with life-altering repercussions.

Wenton, Mississippi: A man enters the bathroom of a local gay bar and doesn't come back out. Instead he's found cold, on the floor, and facing the wall. And no one seems to know how this happened.

Samuel Barkley is Wenton's only Black detective. Assigned to the case, Samuel's one goal is to keep his head down with eyes on moving up in the police ranks. But it's not easy with Harvey, a new, temporary partner who Samuel can't seem to like...or hate. Nor with the cold, questioning eyes and fake smiles from those in town. Persistent. Judging. Wrong. Samuel is reaching his breaking point.

As his investigation leads him to a curious plane crash cover-up, Samuel's placid existence is turned on its head. Because what crashed in Wenton isn't a plane. There are others here. They like it here. And if Samuel can't stop them, they will find a way to stay.

With shades of The X-Files and S. A. Cosby, There Used to Be People Here deftly explores race, queerness, and existing as other in a society that demonizes everything different.

Release date: November 3, 2026

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 368

Sample

ONE

Wenton, Mississippi, passed in smudges of yellow and brown, a blend of Monday's sun and Samuel's scowl in the shop-front windows. He was speeding, driving milk drunk. Samuel's eyes, blurred by a half quart of cream, leaked teardrops from a lack of sleep. The gas pedal of his own Pontiac GTO-the one Samuel had splurged on for his birthday-skimmed through every stop sign and blinking yellow light. After riding a corroded curb, he found a gap between two flaking lines on the edge of Larson's Alley, the location of the Wenton Police Department's latest misfortune. And Samuel Barkley arrived with a cup of lukewarm coffee, was greeted by silence, and, according to himself, was worth nothing at all.

The boy bar was quaint. It had no windows, and its renowned name-Larson's Alley-flashed in bright neon pink and green above the entrance. At his arrival, Samuel's first thought was how unusual it was for a bar sign to be lit at such an early hour. He wondered if the famed club had been livened as a means of warm welcome, perhaps a gesture to put him at ease. Larson's Alley was likely familiar with its status among the police officers of Wenton, Mississippi. Appearing harmless would be the best option for its first impression.

A blue parade of vehicles lingered outside the establishment, one of which Samuel recognized as belonging to Harvey Wilkins. He wasn't quite sure how he recognized it, as he hadn't worked with Harvey in several months-or any detective before or since. That was a puzzle quickly put out of mind.

Beside it, a coroner smoked a cigarette through the cracked window of a van labeled WENTON POLICE DEPARTMENT. He had come for the body. His stare sliced across the parking lot, eyeing Samuel up and down with eyes as thin and white as his own bones. The detective simply sipped his morning brew, staring back until the coroner decided to smile.

Samuel, who knew how horrible holding eye contact with a stranger could go, left the cup on the hood of his car at the sound of hostile shouting. Larson's Alley was brimful with officers, mostly a forensic team performing their final checks. The noise, however, came from Detective Harvey Wilkins and one balding man draped in a bathrobe. The two of them were inches from biting each other, both with scowls and reddened cheeks.

It was the balding man, sporting a slick, greasy stache, who had raised his voice. Harvey's left hand rested coolly on a sheathed Model 28 Highway Patrolman. Clips of wind whipped Samuel's unpatterned tie, following him to the tinted double doors.

"I'm Detective Barkley," Samuel said, introducing himself.

He extended his hand as a gesture of welcome. The balding man did a double take before meeting Samuel's eyes with an uncertain glare. When neither of the men reciprocated his offer, Samuel shoved his fingers in his worn-down pocket.

"What's with all the noise?" Samuel asked.

"Tell your partner to stand down," the balding man said. He cleared the hoarseness from his throat. "He's antagonizing me, and I have half a mind to turn you both away!"

"I just asked a question," Harvey said. Samuel was unsure whether Harvey wanted the explanation to be an excuse. "I didn't mean nothing by it, honestly, but this prick started shouting at me."

Samuel considered pressing further, but there were more downsides than upsides, and an investigation at hand that he had yet to discover the purpose of. Instead, he inhaled and caught a sharp whiff of sour, decomposing meat, a smell that was out of place and not at all unfamiliar. The rot was fresh and fading.

"Stand down, Wilkins," Samuel said. "That's enough."

Harvey hesitated, briefly matching the narrowed eyes of the club's manager. Then he dropped his shoulders and walked around the bar, leaving Samuel to study the wisps of hair on the balding man's head.

"Sorry for any trouble," Samuel said. "Wilkins and I aren't partners."

"Lucky duck," the man said. "Tammy. I manage the building, faults and all. You probably already know why you're here."

"No," Samuel said. He sniffed again and shook his head at the scent of blood. "But I think I can figure it out."

"Murder," Tammy said, emphasizing the word with a brow shrug. "Cleaners found him in the bathroom around seven this morning. Poor guy must've been killed at the end of the night. No one saw a thing until the regulars were gone."

Samuel scribbled the details on an inch-thick notepad bound in leather, his third arm when it came to any investigation. The pages were thick with unreadable scribbles and stochastic thoughts, but to Samuel, the notebook's contents were perfectly legible.

"The bathroom, you say?" Samuel asked.

Tammy pointed to a corridor opposite the front door, the lack of windows casting a shadow over a single door marked MEN. The word jutted like a cold shoulder from the depths of the rounded room.

"Body's still in there," Tammy said. "I'm not surprised this happened. Lord knows they'll take any chance to hurt us. I just hoped they wouldn't be hurting us here."

"At a boy bar, you mean," Samuel said.

Larson's Alley sat pretty on the outskirts of town, unclaimed by both Wenton and its neighboring city to the east. It was this that kept-or was supposed to keep-the boy bar safe, its distance from the southern heartlands and its private, isolated corner only ever used by loyal visitors. Even the Wenton Police Department had no stakes in the matter. Samuel guessed the case he'd been assigned had been passed down and passed down and finally assigned to him-the detective that wouldn't refuse-by default.

Tammy's eyes gathered Samuel from head to toe, from his leather boots to the combed bush of hair above his brown lips. He lingered on Samuel's face, as if tucking the color of his skin into a pill he could swallow.

"So, you're a detective," Tammy said.

Samuel paused, reflecting on the manager's quiet tone. He thought to flex his hands but gestured with his notepad instead.

"I am," Samuel said. In the silence, he decided it was a good time to pluck the case file from his pocket. "The man was Bill Bethany, white, forty-six years old. Recorded for speeding one year ago. An employee with the United States Post Office."

Tammy trudged his way to the bathroom as the detective spoke, and Samuel nearly cut his heels with how closely he followed. A team of forensics officers exited the door with duffel bags, loudly announcing their disgust at having been in such a room. They caught Samuel's eyes when they passed, then flashed yellow smiles. Samuel heard a laugh and "faggot" and something about stains before tuning out the drivel.

Harvey was already inside, crouched by the fleshy corpse a foot or so from the wall. The terrible smell was stronger there, so Tammy chose to stand outside and hold the bathroom door. Harvey reared his head when Samuel entered the room, pointing to the body like a kid picking a puppy.

"You seeing this?" Harvey asked. "Anyone tell you we were getting murder?"

"No," Samuel said. "No, they did not."

Wenton, being as small as it was, had little need of a police station with specialized divisions. Crimes were tossed into a melting pot and divided among the fittest. Most of them-hate crimes, shoplifting, speeding-were about the most exciting offenses Wenton's detectives ever handled.

Murder was interesting, albeit common amid America's efforts against crime. Street crime, to be exact. With the law in Wenton's pocket, some of its own citizens had decided to take the problem into their own hands. It hadn't been stated directly, but permission to kill had been granted in the most backhanded way: as long as the victims were colored, Wenton's murder count remained untallied. Numbers shrank; statistics bloomed.

This murder, however-white murder-was rare. The fact that it had been given to WPD's only colored detective was ridiculous, even to him.

Samuel took a deep breath, gulping as if the toxins were a shot of whiskey. Harvey didn't seem to notice the sound. The detective, who had arrived early for an unknown reason, hovered over the remains in a fixed trance. He shifted closer to a blood splash, inches from staining his shoes.

"His stomach's all caved," Harvey said. "It's like he was sucked dry. Clothes still there, T-shirt, jeans. But he's missing his gut."

"He died facing the wall," Samuel said. Harvey gawked at him; Samuel didn't blink. "The murderer was against the wall. Bethany was facing him."

Harvey pinched his lips, then moved to chewing them instead. He examined the wall, then the victim, then the distinct positioning of the victim's feet. He'd fallen onto his back, and if Bill were alive and he decided to stand, then he would, in fact, be facing the wall. Harvey placed his hands on his hips and clicked his teeth, an action that he believed would enhance his pondering. For Samuel, the sound of Harvey's twitching was worse than the rotting smell.

He'd remembered, too, why the name Wilkins was so familiar. They'd worked together five months before, on a robbery case at Wenton's local Beef Shoppe. Samuel had been able to stand Harvey's lip puckering for three minutes before stepping away to clear his mind. He preferred the sound of honking cars or his morning alarm. The Beef Shoppe thief was an open-and-shut investigation, and Samuel hadn't worked with Harvey since. He'd spent the last five months savoring every other sound in the world. Now the puckering and clicking had returned.

Samuel ground hot palms against his pant legs to distract his ears. He glanced about the room for something else to focus on and landed on a window propped just enough to filter out cigar smoke. The frame touched the ceiling, and the gap wasn't large enough for anyone to climb through. Still, the forensics team had marked the exit with a yellow board.

Samuel took another pass over Bill Bethany's body. His eyes grazed the corpse from toe to head and stopped at the mailman's cheeks, soaked maroon. Samuel would remember this moment fondly-the familiar thrill of things to do, of open-and-shut work. Though he didn't know it then, this was his last chance to turn away. His hands, grasping at the puckered cloth of his pants, seemed to drag him into a crouch. His attention remained on the elastic framing of Bill's mouth, lips stretched so far that the corners had split and shriveled.

Turn away. Someone should've screamed it then. Run.

Samuel leaned closer. The stench hit twofold, a slap of raw rust and morning breath. Bill's teeth shimmered red, his own blood clotted between the jagged gaps.

Then Samuel found the worm. Glistening with deadened warmth, it pulsed along the corpse's fractured jaw. It puckered into a fleshy kiss, with rows and rows of barbed teeth lining the rim. It breathed. Samuel could see it breathing, wriggling back and forth like a second tongue. And there, tucked in the worm's sagging mouth, were gleaming, glass-like lumps. A string of blubber leaked from the maggot, puddling on Bill's chest and beginning a second mystery.

Harvey, who was busy puzzling on how Samuel had recognized the victim had been facing the wall, didn't appear to notice. So Samuel called for a pair of gloves and knelt closer to the edge of the pool. He pushed the worm with his forefinger-he guessed the length of it was much longer than it seemed-and plucked a lump from a pile of eight or ten others. Samuel's hand magnified the subject: a translucent orb, approximate to a small, three-carat pearl.

When he could recognize the shape, more of them appeared, like a trail of crumbs leading to the open window. Samuel wasn't sure what to make of the lumps. There was a slight pulse, a shapeless, sequenced throb, soundless and celestial. Samuel would've pinched it if not for the low, rumbling groan from Harvey, which was followed by a sudden fit of gagging.

"That's disgusting," Harvey spat. "What the fuck is that?"

"Some kind of worm," Samuel said. The thing writhed against Bill's rotting gums. "And possibly bloat." He knew it took three days for a body to bloat. He kept that to himself. "We'll see what the forensic report says."

He returned the pearl to its clump and stood, eyeing the sweat beads twinkling on Tammy's forehead and the fingers pinched firmly around his nose.

"Was Bill a regular, Tammy?" Samuel asked.

"Never seen him before in my life," the manager said through his nasal block. "I'd recognize him if he'd been here just once. Must've been his first time out. Unlucky."

"Are there cameras?"

"Yeah," said Tammy. "They're around."

Harvey snapped, cutting off Samuel's attempt to volunteer.

"I'll take a look," Harvey said. "I want to see what's what."

Samuel considered probing his eagerness but decided to leave it alone. Harvey seemed to have a profound kinship to cameras. There was nothing left to examine, so Samuel went to shake Tammy's hand, forgetting the gloves and the blood trickling to his palm. Tammy squealed at the sticky squelch of their grip, then scrubbed his hands four times in two different sinks. Samuel left to trade places with the coroner, who smothered his cigarette against the side mirror of his van. Then the morgue attendant rolled a stretcher into Larson's Alley.

When Bill Bethany's body had been carted away, and the forensics cleaners made camp in the bathroom after staring at Samuel for a few minutes too long, and Samuel had finished the coffee he'd left on the dash, Tammy and Harvey finally exited the boy bar.

"Nothing on the cameras," Harvey said. "The guy followed Bill into the bathroom, kept his face hidden. He left shortly after. Alone."

Samuel nodded. Of course, he noticed the glance that Harvey had given Tammy in the middle of his statement and the odd lack of eye contact from the manager of the boy bar. His mind, however, was only on the lumps posing inside of Bill Bethany's swollen throat. There his mind would remain for the next six days.

"Did you hear about the plane crash?" Tammy asked.

Harvey glared at him, as if they had both made an agreement that the balding man would stay silent. Samuel shook his head.

"Don't know if it's true or not," Tammy continued, casting his eyes down. "A couple of my guys said they overheard Bethany talking about some crash in Juniper Valley." He lingered, as if he were unsure whether he should keep talking. "Said he came from there."

TWO

The tragic plane crash in Juniper Valley was live on air in Tippler County for one hour. Within that hour, reporters were instructed to leave the scene by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and all transmissions were stopped. When questioned, the federal agents dismissed their order as a means of hiding the crash's visceral horror, the guts and the rubble and the shattered glass.