Maya stared at the paper map. "This road isn’t on here, Bo."

"Oh God," Caleb whispered. "We need to run."

The Hollow Creek Harvest

Her window was open.

Then it raised a rusted meat hook to its lips and shushed them.

Too late. The porch light flickered on. The door didn't open—it slid sideways, like a barn door. Standing in the frame was a figure. It had once been a man. Now, its spine curved in a permanent hunch, left arm ending in a fused claw of bone and gristle. Its face was smooth, waxy, like melted candle wax—except for the mouth. The mouth had been cut wider, stretched to the ears, then crudely sewn back, giving it a perpetual, wet grin.

An hour later, the sun bled out behind the Blue Ridge. That’s when the tire blew. Not a pop—a shredding . The Jeep slewed sideways, clipped a rotten guardrail, and nosed into a ditch. Steam hissed from the cracked radiator.

The matriarch stepped forward. She wore Jenna’s jacket. Fresh blood painted the sleeves. She pointed one long, crooked finger at Maya and spoke in a wet, gurgling whisper: