The rooster crowed long before the sun crested over the horizon. Elias Brooks stirred awake with the heaviness of another day already upon him. His muscles ached faintly from the plowing yesterday, but he rolled out of bed without complaint. The air in the house was cool still, the faint smell of ash and yesterday's pork lingering. He pulled on his shirt, still damp with sweat from yesterday, and grabbed his boots by the door.
Out back, the farm was quiet save for the hum of cicadas and the faint lowing of cattle in the barn. The grass glittered with dew in the pale dawn, and the well by the side of the house stood waiting, dark and deep. Elias took up the iron-handled buckets, their weight familiar, and began lowering the rope into the black water below. The squeak of the pulley echoed in the stillness.
He worked quickly, muscles tightening as he hauled the buckets up. The cold water sloshed, dripping down his arms, and he carried the first one toward the steps of the house. He knew his mother and younger sister would need it soon—for dishes, for washing, for whatever the day demanded.
"Need a hand?"
The voice startled him. Veronica stood a few paces away, already dressed and looking fresh despite the early hour. She strode over with her sleeves rolled high and her dark hair tied back. Without waiting for him to answer, she bent down and seized one of the buckets herself.
"Didn't think the next man in line would leave me to do the heavy lifting," she teased, her eyes glinting with mischief.
Elias smirked, adjusting his grip on the bucket. "That so? Then where's Judas at, huh? Ain't he supposed to be the one you lean on now?"
Without warning, Veronica dipped her fingers into the bucket and flung a splash of cold water into his face. Elias blinked, droplets dripping down his cheeks, then let out a sharp laugh.
"You didn't just—"
Before he could finish, he lifted his own bucket with both hands and tipped the entire contents forward, drenching her in a wave of icy water. Veronica gasped, her breath catching at the shock, her dress clinging to her as she stumbled back.
"I'll kill you, Elias!" she shrieked.
Elias dropped the empty bucket with a grin, already turning to run. "If you can catch me!"
The chase was on. He darted across the yard, his boots thudding against the packed dirt. Veronica was right on his heels, her wet dress clinging and slowing her only slightly. Laughter and shouts echoed through the quiet morning.
Elias tore into the barn, the scent of hay, manure, and horseflesh thick in the air. Horses stamped nervously in their stalls at the commotion, and a cow let out a low, irritated moo. He vaulted past a stack of feed sacks, dodged a pitchfork leaning against the wall, and burst out the back.
Veronica followed close behind, skirts flying, her voice sharp with mock fury. "You're dead when I catch you, Elias Brooks!"
He vaulted over the wooden fence, landing in the pig lot with a soft thud in the mud. The pigs squealed, startled, their fat bodies shifting and grunting as Elias scooped up a clump of muck. He hurled it back over his shoulder. It splattered against the fence inches from Veronica's arm.
"Missed me!" she taunted as she clambered over the fence, landing in the muck with less grace. She grabbed her own chunk of mud and let it fly. This one struck Elias square in the stomach, staining his shirt with a cold, wet slap.
He doubled over with laughter, wiping at the mess. "All right, all right! You got me!"
But he wasn't done running. With a leap, he cleared the pig lot fence again, sprinting across the yard. His laughter cut short when he spotted two figures ahead. His father, Thomas Brooks, stood near the gate where the fence line opened to the road. Another man was there too, shifting nervously from foot to foot, his hat in his hands, sweat dripping down his face despite the cool morning.
Elias slowed, Veronica stumbling to a halt behind him, both of them forgetting the chase in an instant. They knew the man well—Joseph Campbell, one of Thomas's oldest friends and a neighbor whose farm sat just three miles east.
Joseph's voice carried, tight with panic. "I'm tellin' you, Thomas, it's real. I seen it with my own eyes. They were dead—dead as dirt—and then they weren't. My hogs tore clean out of their pens tryin' to get away. It's spreadin', Thomas. You gotta believe me."
Thomas stood firm, arms crossed, his jaw tight. His expression was carved from stone, and the morning light caught the streaks of gray in his beard. "You didn't see what you think you saw, Joseph. Men get sick, they die, and grief makes folks imagine things. But the dead don't walk."
"They do," Joseph said, his voice breaking. His hat twisted in his hands. "I swear it on my soul. They do. And they don't just walk—they bite. They feed. My brother-in-law… he…" His words faltered, throat tight with grief. "I put him in the ground three days ago. Last night he come scratchin' at my door."
Elias felt his stomach twist. He knew Joseph's farm, knew the family, and knew it wasn't far from here.
Thomas shook his head, his voice sharp. "Enough. You're scaring yourself blind. You'll rile up every fool in the county if you keep talkin' like that."
Joseph stepped closer, desperation in his eyes. "You got children, Thomas. You can't ignore this. It's real, and it's comin' fast."
Thomas's gaze flicked past Joseph then, landing on Elias and Veronica. His face hardened further. "That'll be all for now, Joseph. Go on home. Tend to your land. Don't spread this nonsense here."
Joseph hesitated, then gave Elias and Veronica a hollow look before nodding stiffly. "Lord help you, Thomas. Lord help us all." He turned and walked back down the dusty road, his shoulders heavy.
Thomas waited until he was gone, then turned on his children. His large hand gripped Elias's shoulder, spinning him so that Veronica faced him too. His eyes, cold and hard, bored into them both.
"Don't listen to that foolishness," he said flatly. "Dead men are dead men. They stay in the ground. Don't matter what tales you hear. Ain't no man ever climbed outta his grave to eat another. You hear me?"
"Yes, sir," Elias said quickly, bowing his head.
But Veronica's lips tightened. "But what if he's right, Father? What if—"
Thomas's voice cracked like a whip. "Listen, girl! I told you it ain't true. I won't have fear and lies takin' root in this house. The world's hard enough without fillin' your heads with ghost stories."
The air was thick, silence pressing heavy after his words. Elias shifted uncomfortably, mud drying on his shirt. Thomas's gaze lingered, sharp as a knife, then dropped to the state of them both. Veronica soaked, Elias filthy.
"Now," Thomas said, his tone like iron. "Were you two meant to be playin', or workin'?"
Neither answered. Elias kept his head down. Veronica crossed her arms but said nothing.
Thomas's voice lowered, dangerous. "Boy?"
Elias swallowed hard, nodding quickly. "Sorry, Pa. Won't happen again."
He turned away before his father could press further, jogging back toward the barn to finish his chores. But as he ran, his chest felt tight. It wasn't just the weight of his father's authority—it was memory.
Because this wasn't the first time Thomas Brooks's discipline had cut deep.
---
Years earlier, when Elias was just a boy, he had played the same game in the pig lot. He would crouch low, fling a clump of mud at Veronica when she wasn't looking, then hide. Each time she spun around in frustration, unable to find him, his laughter nearly gave him away. He thought himself clever.
But Thomas had been watching.
The big man strode into the lot without a word, his boots sinking into the muck. Before Elias even knew he was there, a rough hand seized his arm and yanked him clean off the ground.
"Boy," Thomas's voice thundered, "didn't I tell you to brush them horses?"
Elias barely had time to whimper before the first strike came—Thomas's palm landing sharp and hard. Tears sprang to Elias's eyes at once. The second strike fell heavier, accompanied by words that cut deeper.
"And what did I say about botherin' your sisters while they work?"
Pride flared in Elias then, hot and blinding. His little body shook, not from fear, but from the stubborn fire that lived in him even then. Through tears, he spat words he didn't fully understand.
"You're just a father who thinks he's better than everyone else. I wish I had a different dad."
The change was instant. Thomas's face darkened, rage and pride colliding in his eyes. He threw Elias down into the mud, his belt already unbuckling.
The metal tip of the strap bit into Elias's back once, twice, over and over. Pain seared through him, white-hot, until his cries grew hoarse. Margaret's voice rang out then, shrill and desperate, but she was too late. Blood trickled down the boy's temple where one strike had caught his head. His small body went limp in the mud before she reached him.
---
The memory snapped away as quickly as it came.
In the present, Elias wiped at his shirt with his sleeve, swallowing down the bitter taste of old pain. He glanced back at his father, who still stood near the gate, his posture unyielding, his expression carved of stone.
"Never again," Elias muttered under his breath, though no one heard him.
He bent his head and jogged toward the barn, finishing his chores in silence.
Veronica lingered, her arms crossed, her jaw tight. She shook her head slowly, her voice quiet but firm. "You're a harsh man, Father."
Thomas didn't flinch. "Maybe so. But harsh makes men strong. And that boy will grow to be a fine man yet."
His words hung heavy in the morning air as Veronica turned back toward the house, her wet dress clinging as she walked.
The farm stood silent again, but for Elias, the weight of both past and present pressed heavy on his shoulders.
---
The morning sun had just begun to stretch its fingers across the land, painting the wheat fields in gold. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air of the farmhouse, glowing where the light pierced through cracks in the shutters. Inside, Sarah sat perched on the edge of the wooden windowsill, her thin hands gripping the frame as though holding onto it for courage. Her young face, still round with childhood, carried a tremble in the lips as her wide eyes scanned the horizon beyond the fence line.
Behind her, Margaret sat quietly with a thick leather-bound book open on the table. The woman's hair, once a bright chestnut but now touched with strands of gray, hung loose down her back as she bent over the pages. Her lips moved faintly as though mouthing the words she read, though every so often her eyes flicked up toward her youngest daughter.
"Ma," Sarah's voice broke the silence, soft but heavy. "Do you think… do you think those rumors are real?"
Margaret blinked, lifting her gaze from the text. "Rumors?" she asked, though she already knew.
Sarah turned to face her, her cheeks pale. "The ones about the dead…" She hesitated, lowering her voice as if speaking the words too loud would make them true. "People say the dead are walking, ma."
The book shut with a soft thump. Margaret took a slow breath, composing herself before she answered. She had heard the whispers herself—when she went into town, when neighbors stopped by. But she also knew the power words had over children.
She set the book aside and gave Sarah a gentle smile. "No, sweetheart. I don't believe them." She paused a moment, her own brow furrowing. "But… it is strange, isn't it? How fast a tale can spread. Like wildfire, carried by the wind."
Sarah hugged her knees to her chest, looking back out the window. "I hope it ain't real. That'd be… that'd be real scary."
Margaret stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her apron as she walked to the window. She knelt beside Sarah, her arms wrapping around her small shoulders. "Don't worry, honey. Even if such a wild story were true, you have your father here… and your brother too."
Sarah's eyes softened. She tilted her head back to look at her mother, her little voice steadying. "Yeah. Elias would protect me."
Margaret kissed the crown of her daughter's head, rubbing her hair gently. "Always."
But as she said the words, her mind wandered.
A memory surged up, vivid and unbidden. She remembered bursting out the door, heart hammering, only to see Sarah stumbling toward her, tears streaking her cheeks, blood splattered across her dress. Margaret caught her in her arms immediately, hands running over her little body in a panic.
"What happened? Are you hurt? Tell me, Sarah, tell me!"
Sarah sobbed, clutching at her. "No, ma, I'm okay! But… but Elias…" She turned, pointing a trembling finger toward the tree line where the shadows of the forest loomed thick and dark.
By then Thomas had thundered out behind her, his double-barrel shotgun already in hand. His voice came sharp and quick. "Where is he, girl?"
Sarah choked on her words. "The woods… he's in the woods! A bobcat came at me—he saved me, pa!"
Margaret remembered Thomas's face tighten like iron. He barked at her to take Sarah inside, then ran without another word into the trees.
Minutes crawled by like hours until he came crashing back, Elias in his arms. The boy was limp, blood streaking his face and arms, claw marks and bites across his skin. Thomas had laid him on the living room floor while Margaret wept, trying to wash the wounds. Sarah never left her side, too shaken to do more than cry silently into her mother's dress.
The memory faded, replaced by the soft sound of Sarah's breathing. Margaret forced a smile and hugged her closer. "Yes, your brother will always be here for you."
---
The shed stood in its usual shadows. The smell of raw wood, oil, and faint iron from dried blood lingered in the air. Inside, Judas crouched at a workbench, his knife steady as he carved into the small body of a squirrel he'd trapped that morning. He hummed low under his breath, more out of habit than cheer, slicing carefully to keep the hide intact.
The door creaked, letting in a streak of sunlight. Veronica stepped inside, brushing dust off her skirt. Her face looked thoughtful, almost troubled.
"Well," Judas muttered without looking up, "if it ain't the queen herself gracing us common folk." His lips curled into a grin. "Come to check if I'm butchering properly? Or just bored of bossing everyone else around?"
Veronica rolled her eyes, though her mouth twitched with the faintest smile. "You're insufferable, Judas."
"Ah," he said, pulling the gloves tighter on his hands, "but charming. You forgot charming."
She shook her head, leaning against a post. "Hardly."
For a while, the sound of the knife against bone filled the space. But Judas was observant, and he noticed the way she crossed her arms tighter than usual, her gaze fixed on the dirt floor rather than him.
He set the knife down with a soft clink. "Alright," he said, turning toward her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
He raised a brow. "Don't give me that. I've known you too long. This about the rumors?"
Veronica hesitated, then sighed. "Yes… but that ain't the only thing."
Judas studied her, his grin fading into something softer. "Your dad?"
Her silence was all the answer he needed.
He tugged the gloves off, tossing them aside, and walked over. He took her hands in his, rough from hunting but warm. "What happened now?"
Her voice lowered, her eyes darting away. "It's Elias."
Judas frowned. "Elias? What about him?"
"He doesn't belong here."
That pulled his eyebrows together. "What're you talking about? Course he does. He was born here. Raised here. Same as you."
Veronica shook her head, frustration bleeding into her voice. "That's just it. He's been raised here his whole life, Judas. He's never left the farm. Not once. The forest is the farthest he's ever been. He barely talks to anyone but us. That's not living."
Judas tilted his head, processing. "So you're saying he's lonely."
She gave him a sharp look, as if he'd missed the point entirely. "Lonely, yes. But it's more than that. You know what father expects of him. To inherit the farm. To live and work here 'til the day he dies. To never question. To act exactly how father wants."
Her voice cracked slightly. "That's cruel, Judas. You've seen what he does to Elias when he steps out of line."
Silence stretched. Judas finally let go of her hands, dragging a palm across his face as if wiping away the weight of her words. Veronica turned, pacing a few steps.
Then Judas spoke, his voice steady. "I've been taking Elias out hunting. Teaching him to shoot."
Veronica stopped mid-step, spinning back. "What?"
"I've been showing him the woods, teaching him how to track, how to fire a rifle. Don't look at me like that. He's good at it. Better than I expected."
Her eyes widened. "You'll get him killed! If father ever—"
"He won't find out," Judas cut in quickly. "I promise."
She shook her head, fury in her movements. "You don't understand. If he catches Elias out there with you, that'll be the end of it. He'll beat him half to death again, maybe worse. And you know it."
Judas stepped closer, his tone more urgent. "Listen to me. You said you wished Elias could just be himself, right? That he deserves more than this life. Well, I've seen him when he's hunting. You should see it, Veronica. It makes him alive. Happy. Genuinely curious about something for once."
Her lips parted, but the words stuck in her throat.
He softened. "Out there, he ain't just Thomas's son. He's Elias. And he's damn good at it."
For a long moment, silence filled the shed again, broken only by the faint buzzing of a fly near the carcass on the bench. Veronica's fists clenched at her sides, conflict written across her face. Finally, she shoved Judas hard in the chest.
"Maybe that's true," she snapped, "but what happens when father finds out? What then?"
She stormed toward the door, yanking it open.
"Veronica," Judas called, grabbing her arm before she could leave. His grip was firm, desperate. "I'm telling you—this is good for him. You've always wanted him to have more. Well, this is it."
She stared at him, her jaw trembling. Then she wrenched her arm free. "You're playing with fire, Judas."
And with that, she was gone, the shed door slamming shut behind her.
Judas stood in the silence, breathing heavy, his hands still stained with blood from the squirrel. He looked down at the knife on the bench, then toward the door she'd left through.
"Damn stubborn woman," he muttered, though his voice carried more worry than jest.