Christopher sat on the front porch, the chill of the late September evening biting through his hoodie. He held the newspaper tightly, the headline glaring back at him in bold ink:
"THIRD BODY FOUND DRAINED—SHERIFF BAFFLED"
He muttered under his breath, "That's three people in a week…"
The screen door creaked open behind him.
"You've been reading that same article for twenty minutes," his mom said softly, stepping out with a steaming mug of tea. "You'll wear the ink off."
Christopher sighed and folded the paper. "They found Mrs. Lancaster this time. The piano teacher. I used to walk past her house every day."
Maria Deleon handed him the mug. Her hands were shaking.
"She was kind. A little odd, but kind," Chris continued. "Now she's just... dead. Like the others. No blood, no wounds, just two little pinpricks on her neck like something out of a horror movie."
"Stop," Maria snapped sharply, her voice trembling more than her hands. "Don't talk like that."
Christopher blinked. "Mom—"
"Please," she whispered. "Don't go out after dark. Promise me."
Chris stared at her. "You're scared."
She didn't answer. Just turned and walked inside, the screen door shutting with a creak.
Later that night
Christopher paced in his room, the floorboards creaking beneath his bare feet. He pulled out his phone, hesitating only a second before dialing.
The line rang twice before it was picked up.
"Christopher?" a smooth, familiar voice answered.
"Thomas." Chris sat on the edge of his bed. "We need to talk."
There was a pause. "What's going on?"
"You heard about the killings, right? From the hometown news alerts?"
"I've seen the headlines."
"It's not random," Chris whispered. "It's weird. People are being found pale, bloodless. The police don't know what to make of it."
Another pause. Then: "How many?"
"Three. All in one week."
Thomas's voice shifted, lost some of its usual arrogance. "That's not good."
"You're not going to say I'm crazy?"
"I've seen enough things in San Francisco to believe just about anything these days." He exhaled slowly. "You think it's... supernatural?"
Chris hesitated. "I don't know what to think. But I don't like what it feels like."
Thomas's tone dropped low and serious. "I'll be on the next bus home."
Two Days Later
A black Dodge Charger pulled up in front of the Deleon house. The engine purred like a beast.
Christopher was already waiting on the porch.
Thomas stepped out in black jeans, a fitted coat, and designer boots. Blue eyes, slicked-back hair—he looked like someone out of a GQ magazine.
Chris stood and smirked. "Look who decided to dress for a funeral."
Thomas smirked back. "When half the town is dying, might as well be prepared."
They pulled into a quick hug—brothers, but not touchy.
"You look good," Thomas said, stepping back. "A little too thin, though. Are you eating, or just drinking cheap coffee and paranoia?"
Christopher rolled his eyes. "Cut the crap. You're not here for fashion advice."
Thomas's face shifted, the sarcasm falling away. "No. I'm here because something's killing people in our town, and I think it's only just getting started."
They both looked down the street as the fog rolled in, thick and heavy.
Christopher crossed his arms. "So where do we start?"
Thomas gave a small, grim smile. "We start where it ended. The woods behind the church. That's where the last body was found."
"And if we find something?"
Thomas's voice was ice.
"Then we find who—or what—is behind it… and we stop it."