They ran together into the dark.

"Most years?" Maya whispered.

Leo pointed to the garden. No flowers grew there. Instead, rows of wooden stakes held up something that looked like drying laundry—but closer inspection revealed it was human skin. Tanned. Stretched. Sewn into crude quilt squares.

They made it to a highway gas station at dawn. Police were called. The hollow was searched. They found the farmhouse, the garden, the amphitheater. But the family was gone. So were the bodies—Bo's wired jaw was the only evidence left. The officers exchanged looks. One of them, an older sheriff with a scarred neck, pulled Maya aside.

That night, Maya woke up in her own bed. Safe. Clean sheets. City lights through the window. She reached for her inhaler—and froze.

Her window was open.

Leo knelt by the tire. He didn't touch it. "This wasn't a nail." He pointed. The gash was too clean, too straight. And wedged deep in the tread was a hand-forged spike, black iron, twisted like a corkscrew.