The rain does not fall so much as it hammers, a grey weight pinning the hollow to the mud. Ruth stands by the hearth, her fingers tracing the rough grit of the stone where her mother’s bone-bargain lies buried. Then comes the sound—not the wind, but a rhythmic, wet thud against the wood of the front door. It is a desperate sound, heavy with the gravity of a man who has run out of places to hide.
She pulls the heavy bolt back, and the gale shoves its way inside, smelling of ozone and iron. Caleb Rourke is slumped against the jamb, his breath coming in jagged, shallow pulls that rattle in his chest. His white Sunday shirt is a ruin of soaked linen and spreading crimson, the blood blooming like a dark flower over his ribs. He looks up, his eyes glassy and bright with a fever that hasn't yet broken.
“Ruth,” he rasps, and the name sounds like a prayer he’s forgotten how to say. He reaches for her, his boots caked in a strange, bioluminescent blue mud that glows faintly against the floorboards. Beyond him, the dark woods shiver. A shadow detaches from the tree line and staggers heavily toward her steps.
