"Officer Lyne."
Peter pulled back the police tape and stepped into the blood-slick living room of his cousin Louis's house. The air inside was heavy with metallic tang and lingering fear.
Outside, neighbors huddled in anxious clusters, whispering theories. Red and blue lights from police cruisers painted the front windows in strobe-like pulses.
Peter's jaw clenched as he approached the uniformed man. "What happened?"
Officer Lyne exhaled and gestured to the floor. A dried, dark pool of blood stained the carpet near an overturned lamp.
"We got a call from a neighbor," Lyne explained, eyes scanning a worn notepad. "Said they heard screaming. When we arrived, Louis and his wife were gone—no bodies, just signs of a struggle and a whole lot of blood."
Peter frowned, studying the living room. The broken furniture. The claw marks gouged into the walls.
"So, they were likely attacked."
"Looks that way," Lyne agreed. "Could be they were kidnapped. We'll test the blood, but either way—we're treating it as foul play. Not a home invasion gone wrong."
Peter nodded absently, his mind racing.
Clark had said he saw little Terry—Louis's son—standing behind the curtain at this very house.
And Peter had visited the corpse-raising ground earlier this week. The soil around Terry's grave had been disturbed.
It was no coincidence.
Just like in The Monkey's Paw, the dead child had returned home. Only this time, it wasn't fiction.
But if Terry had returned... as a ghoul... would he have killed his own parents?
Peter recalled the grotesque strength and madness of Bill's resurrected hounds. They had become feral, brutal monsters.
Still—if Terry had killed Louis and Vanessa, where were their bodies?
There was blood, yes. But no flesh, no bones. No teeth, no fragments. Not a shred.
It didn't make sense.
Gazing toward the cloudy horizon outside the broken window, Peter felt a creeping dread settle in his chest.
Something dark was seeping into this town like rot.
He exchanged a few more words with Lyne and turned to leave.
As he exited the crime scene, his boots crunching against gravel, a figure in the distance watched silently from beyond the tree line—his clerical collar barely visible under a heavy coat.
Father Norma.
The same man who had blessed little Terry's coffin.
---
When the police finally cleared out, the priest turned and walked away, face sunken and pale.
Inside his car, parked several blocks away, Father Norma coughed violently, gripping the steering wheel as if it were the only thing tethering him to life.
He pulled over and dug into his glove compartment for a vial of medication. His hands trembled as he injected the fluid into his arm.
Lung cancer.
The disease had devoured his body slowly, cruelly, and medicine only delayed the inevitable.
But Father Norma had made a different kind of bargain.
"It's almost complete," he whispered hoarsely, starting the car again.
He drove to the outskirts of town, where the houses got older, sadder. His own blue house sat like a relic, vines climbing its broken siding, wind chimes clinking mournfully in the cold air.
Two stray cats dashed off the porch as he stepped out.
Inside, the house was dark and silent. He tossed his keys on the table, locked the door, and walked into his study.
Then, he moved the bookshelf aside.
Behind it, a narrow stairwell led to the basement.
And in that basement—dim, damp, and smelling of death—was an altar.
At its center lay a monstrous book bound in what looked like human skin. Faint whispers seemed to rise from it when the priest approached.
This was no holy scripture.
This was the Codex of Umbral Resurrection—a forbidden text filled with necromancy and dark resurrection spells.
Father Norma stared at it with reverence. With need.
He had once believed in God. Preached his word. Offered hope.
But God had not answered when he prayed for a cure.
The Codex had.
The swamp on the outskirts of town, where meteorites had struck years ago, had become fertile ground for the Codex's power. Corpses buried there came back—twisted, obedient, undead.
Ghouls.
He had given people hints—like Bill, who buried his dog in grief. The more people used the land, the more creatures rose. And every creature returned gave Norma more strength.
More time.
"This isn't enough," he growled, staring at the Codex. "I need more deaths."
His eyes flicked to the calendar nailed to the concrete wall.
A date had been circled in red.
The Harvest Festival.
---
Kent Farm – The Next Day
"You okay, Peter?" Jonathan asked, handing him a steaming cup of coffee.
Peter stood by the window, watching the cattle graze in the morning mist. The sun hadn't yet pierced the overcast sky.
He turned slightly. "I'm fine. Just... a lot happening."
Jonathan nodded solemnly. "I heard what happened to Louis. The family's been through enough."
Peter didn't answer.
He wasn't mourning.
He was investigating.
And all signs pointed to Father Norma.
He had even used his superspeed to scan the priest's house, but found nothing—no corpses, no rituals, no physical evidence.
Should he take Norma in? Interrogate him?
And afterward... would Peter have to kill him to protect the secret of his powers?
He pushed the thought away.
"Jonathan, do you know much about Father Norma?"
"Not personally," Kent replied, placing the coffee pot back on the stove. "But around town, he's got a good rep. He's run the Harvest Festival for years. People love him."
Peter's brow raised. "The Harvest Festival?"
Jonathan smiled. "It's coming up soon. Might be a good time to talk to him."
The festival was a Smallville tradition, going back centuries—originally a celebration of abundance and gratitude among Puritan settlers.
Today, it featured parades, traditional games like Bread Snatching, Apple Stands, and, of course, a community feast.
---
Patrick Farm – That Evening
Peter returned home to find Adam and Clark playing tag in the yard.
Later, over dinner, he leaned back and asked, "So, are you two excited about the Harvest Festival?"
"YES!" they shouted in unison.
Adam's eyes lit up. "Dad, what's 'Bread Snatching'? Sounds like fun!"
Peter chuckled. "It's a game. They toss loaves of bread into the air, and everyone scrambles to catch them. Total chaos."
Clark leaned in curiously. "What about the Apple Stand?"
"That's where people sell homemade applesauce, pies, or cider," Peter said, ruffling Clark's hair. "You can even learn to make your own apple pie."
Clark grinned. "Will you teach me?"
"Sure," Peter replied. "But only if you help clean up afterward."
Adam raised his hand. "Can I eat all the samples instead of making them?"
Peter smirked. "Only if you don't burn the stand down with your Laser Eyes."
Both boys laughed.
But behind Peter's smile, something gnawed at him.
The Harvest Festival wasn't just tradition this year—it was a deadline.
Whatever Father Norma was planning... he was counting the days.
Peter would have to be ready
.
Because more deaths were coming.
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