The town of Blackwood Hollow buzzed with anticipation as the annual Fall Festival approached. It was the kind of event that brought everyone out of their houses, even the recluses who usually kept to themselves. This year, the festival was set to be bigger than ever. The streets were closed off, makeshift carnival tents went up, and the smell of sweet caramel and baked pies filled the air.

Faith had barely set foot into the bakery that morning before Delia's whirlwind energy enveloped her. The aroma of cinnamon and fresh-baked bread was as welcoming as always, but Faith quickly realized that today was different. The display cases were half-empty, and a frenzy of activity filled the kitchen behind the counter. Delia’s voice rang out from the back room, barking cheerful orders and laughing as if the chaos were the highlight of her day.

“Faith! Perfect timing!” Delia emerged, apron dusted in sugar and her curly hair frizzed from the heat of the ovens. She didn’t wait for a response, grabbing Faith by the elbow and steering her toward the kitchen. “You’re just the person I need!”

“I am?” Faith managed, blinking in confusion as Delia thrust a clipboard into her hands.

“Of course! You’re organized, practical, and—most importantly—you’re here!” Delia grinned broadly, and Faith knew there was no escape.

Before Faith could protest, Delia’s husband, Marcus, appeared. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a warm smile that immediately seemed friendly to Faith. His eyes twinkled as he gave her a quick once-over, clearly curious about this new addition to his wife’s bustling world.

“So you’re Faith,” he said, extending a hand. His grip was firm but friendly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” Faith replied, her voice tinged with nervous humor.

“All good,” Marcus assured her. “Naomi’s been dying to meet you, too.”

Right on cue, Naomi bounded into the room, her energy a match for her mother’s. The 13-year-old had her mother’s curls but a mischievous spark all her own. She looked up at Faith with a mixture of curiosity and excitement. “Hi! Mom says you’re helping us with the fundraiser.”

Faith opened her mouth to reply, but Delia cut in. “She is now. Naomi, tell her your brilliant idea.”

Naomi’s face lit up. “A pie-eating contest! Dad and I thought it’d be a great way to raise money for youth programs.”

“Of course, it was Naomi’s idea first,” Marcus interjected with a playful wink at his daughter.

Delia clapped her hands together. “Isn’t it perfect? Ray’s Bakery pies are legendary, and it’ll bring the whole town together.”

Faith hesitated, glancing at the clipboard. It was filled with names, dates, and enough logistics to make her head spin. She had moved to this town for peace and quiet, not pie-eating contests. But the expectant looks on the faces of Delia, Marcus, and Naomi were impossible to resist.

“I guess I could help out,” she said finally, earning a triumphant whoop from Naomi and a grateful pat on the back from Delia.

“See? I told you she was perfect for this,” Delia said, already pulling Faith toward another corner of the kitchen. “Now, let me show you how to take sign-ups.”

Faith sighed inwardly but couldn’t help smiling.

The tent in the town square should have been easy enough to set up. Four poles, some stakes, and a canvas top—it wasn’t rocket science. Yet, as Faith quickly realized, their collective approach to "teamwork" had room for improvement.

“That pole’s wrong,” Delia said, hands on hips, frowning at Marcus.

“It fits,” Marcus replied, jamming the pole into place with the confidence of a man who would rather die than consult instructions.

“It leans,” Faith pointed out, tilting her head at the pole, which looked like a drunk uncle at a wedding.

Naomi, perched on a folding chair nearby, munched on a bag of chips and offered commentary. “I’m just saying, the instructions are right there. Literally… right there.” She pointed with a cheese-dusted finger at the crumpled pamphlet lying in the dirt.

“Instructions are for people who lack imagination,” Marcus said.

“Or people who like tents to stand upright,” Faith mock whispered to Naomi, tugging on a sagging corner of the canvas.

Delia clapped sharply. “Focus, people! I’m not explaining to our Faithful Community why we’re hosting this fundraiser under a tarp tied to a tree,” she said while eyeing the Pastor’s wife, whom she’d spotted across the square.

With Delia directing, Naomi fetching stakes, Marcus wielding a hammer like a Viking, and Faith wrestling canvas, the tent eventually took shape. By “shape,” meaning it stood upright—mostly. Faith stepped back, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Well, it’s… standing.”

“See? Creative engineering,” Marcus declared, leaning on his hammer.

“It’s not falling. Yet,” Delia said, already unpacking pies, and winking at Faith. “Now let’s get the tables set up!”

Naomi dragged over a folding table, texting one-handed. “I told my friends to come early for the good pies. Is that cheating?”

“Not cheating,” Delia replied. “It’s networking!”

Faith shook her head, laughing. This was not how she’d imagined her day, but with the tent pitched, pies arranged, and Delia’s cheerful chaos in full swing, she realized she didn’t mind.

“Faith, honey! We’re going to need at least three more pies!” Delia’s Southern drawl turned “pies” into “pahs.” Her cheeks were dark roses of excitement, and her Georgia accent was growing ever thicker.

Faith couldn’t deny that she was looking forward to the festival. The streets were lined with booths, each one run by a familiar face. The high school football players were stationed at the kissing booth, their cocky grins drawing laughs and eye-rolls from the town’s women. The thrift shop owner had set up a raffle, offering old trinkets and knick-knacks for lucky winners. And the Rector of St. Gabriel’s, much to everyone’s amusement, had agreed to sit in the dunking booth, his good-natured smile drawing a long line of eager dunkers.

Then there was the fortune-telling tent, run by Maggie Draper, who had fully committed to the aesthetic, for better or worse. She’d wrapped herself in a flowy shawl with enough fringe to upholster a small couch and topped it off with a turban that could only be described as “aggressively purple.” Faith stifled a laugh as Maggie waved her hands over a crystal ball—pink swirls and glitter, definitely from someone’s garden—while wide-eyed kids stared at her as if she might actually know their deepest secrets. But Maggie wasn’t just performing for the kids. Positioned just so, on the edge of her table was her phone, propped up on a sparkly stand. She was streaming live on social media, narrating her every mystical move for an audience of, apparently, thousands.

“Ooooh, the spirits are whispering!” Maggie intoned dramatically, giving the crystal ball a theatrical swirl. Then, without missing a beat, she glanced at her phone. “And thank you for the rose, @StarSeeker420, —blessings upon you.”

Faith bit her lip to keep from smirking outright. Maggie Draper might not have the gift of foresight, but she clearly had the gift of multitasking.

The air was thick with the sounds of carnival music, laughter, and the occasional cheer from someone winning a game. Faith found herself caught up in the moment, helping Delia set up another table for the pie-eating contest that was quickly becoming a popular attraction.

As the hours flowed happily by, children ran between booths, their faces painted with pumpkins and ghosts. At the soccer field, a large screen had been set up, and later that evening, the kids would sit on blankets and watch an old cartoon while the adults danced under twinkling lights.

Faith couldn’t remember the last time she had been to anything like this. The noise, the people, the chaos—it should have overwhelmed her, but instead, she found herself smiling as she helped a group of teenagers sort through raffle tickets, their excitement infectious.

Mrs. Whitley had made a considerable effort to get into the spirit. She was dressed in what she apparently believed was the epitome of regal Egyptian splendor: a cascade of Mardi Gras beads, clinking trinkets that might have been relics, if ancient pharaohs had shopped exclusively at garage sales, and a Cleopatra “crown” that looked suspiciously like the aftermath of a DIY hot-glue session. Her wig—a mass of cornrowed synthetic hair topped with the brightly-colored plastic bauble-encrusted crown—bobbed as she sashayed through the festival, her eye makeup winged so dramatically it could have doubled as festival signage.

Beside her stood Mr. Carson, his contribution to the festivities consisting of his usual fishing attire, complete with a pole slung over one shoulder and a tackle box dangling from his hand. Faith couldn’t help but snicker at the sight of them together: Mrs. Whitley, glimmering like Cleopatra on a budget, and Mr. Carson, looking as though he’d accidentally wandered in from a bass fishing tournament.

Mrs. Whitley, clearly reveling in the attention, struck a dramatic pose. “And what do you think?” she asked Faith, jutting out her hip and tilting her head regally.

Faith tried to keep a straight face. “You look like a queen,” she said, giving a small bow.

“She looks like a lure,” Mr. Carson muttered, loud enough for both women to hear.

Mrs. Whitley turned to him with a glare sharp enough to filet a fish. “You wouldn’t know royalty if it sat on your…tackle box,” she sniffed, flicking a bead over her shoulder for emphasis.

Faith had barely stifled her laughter when she noticed the glint in Mr. Carson’s eye—a glint that could only mean mischief. As Mrs. Whitley turned to preen for a passing group of onlookers, Mr. Carson adjusted his fishing pole. Purposefully. Faith watched in horrified fascination as he gave the line a careful flick, sending the hook up and over Mrs. Whitley’s Cleopatra wig.

Faith opened her mouth to warn her, but it was too late. With a deft tug, Mr. Carson reeled in just enough to lift the wig off Mrs. Whitley’s head, the plastic baubles jangling like a wind chime in a hurricane. The wig dangled from the fishing line, swaying in the breeze as if it were some rare and exotic bird.

Mrs. Whitley froze, her hand flying to her now-bare scalp. “Did—did my crown fall?” she asked, her voice trembling with alarm.

Faith, barely holding back laughter, pointed wordlessly at the wig as it floated up behind her, shimmering in the festival lights. Mr. Carson, pretending to be oblivious, gave his line another tug, lifting the wig higher and causing a ripple of giggles to spread through the crowd.

“Hank Carson!” Mrs. Whitley shrieked, spinning around and catching sight of her Cleopatra masterpiece swaying above her like a festive piñata. “You give that back this instant!”

“Give what back?” Mr. Carson asked innocently, though the sparkle in his eyes gave him away. “Oh, you mean this?” He gave the line a little jiggle, making the wig dance in the air.

Mrs. Whitley lunged for the wig, her beads jangling furiously. Mr. Carson stepped back, reeling in just enough to keep it out of reach. “Now, Beatrice, you’ve got to let me reel it in nice and slow. Don’t want to lose the catch of the day.”

“You are a menace!” Mrs. Whitley huffed, hands grasping at the air as the wig dangled just out of reach. The onlookers, by now thoroughly invested, erupted into laughter as Mr. Carson expertly kept her at bay, grinning like a man who’d just hit the jackpot at the county fair.

Finally, with a dramatic sigh, Mr. Carson reeled the wig in and handed it over with exaggerated care. “Here you go, Your Majesty,” he said, giving her a mock bow. “A prize fit for a queen.”

Mrs. Whitley snatched the wig back, her face flushed with indignation and exertion. She jammed it onto her head at an angle that made Cleopatra look slightly tipsy and smoothed her beads with as much dignity as she could muster. “You are lucky this is a charity event,” she muttered, turning to stomp off.

As she disappeared into the crowd, Mr. Carson turned to Faith with a wink. “I’ll admit, that was the best catch I’ve had all season.” Faith, tears of laughter streaming down her face, could only nod in agreement.

It wasn’t until the sun had dipped low, casting the sky in hues of orange and pink, that Faith felt a tug on her arm. She turned and found herself face to face with Sam, the son of the local factory foreman and general handyman around town.

He was a cheerful, kind-hearted boy with a big smile that seemed to light up the room. His almond-shaped eyes, framed by a mop of soft brown hair, sparkled with curiosity and joy. While he had Down syndrome, what stood out most about him was his infectious enthusiasm and the way he greeted everyone with genuine warmth, making them feel special. He had a knack for finding happiness in the little things and sharing it with those around him.

“Miss Faith,” he said, his voice soft but sure. “Would you dance with me tonight?”

Faith blinked, her heart warming at the innocence in his request. She hadn’t danced in years, but the way Sam looked at her, his kind eyes full of hope, melted any hesitation she had. She bent to look him in the eyes with her hands on his shoulders.

“I’d love to, Sam,” she said with a gentle smile.

Sam beamed, nodding enthusiastically. “Great! I’ll find you at the dance!”

As he hurried off to tell his father, Faith stood for a moment, her heart full of little butterfly wings. She turned her attention back to the milling townsfolk, children with candy apples and licorice whips, being chased by older siblings, teenagers beginning to pair off and sneak away. Somewhere across the fair, a donkey ride was being hosted by an Amazon woman. A girl’s squeal rose up from inside the corn maze, followed by the guffaws of a few boys. Darth Vader and Voldemort amicably debated over pistachio topping at the ice cream stall. Pikachu and a tiny princess galloped by in front of her, heading towards the bathrooms and smelling of a full diaper.

And a strikingly accurate version of Betty Rubble in white tennis shoes was speaking with a man in homemade cardboard armor. He had been the winner of the pie-eating contest and now had an overly full belly which he rested at a nearby picnic table. Betty sat with her back comfortably against the man’s duct tape-clad shoulder holding his prize - another huge pie.

As Delia stood to greet a friend and potential buyer of their baked goods, a balloon popped, startling the clown who was making balloon animals for a group of children who jumped and giggled. The evening was a constant rush of people in costumes, customers, talking and smiling. Faith was tired but not overwhelmed. It was an unusual sensation for her, and she drank it all in slowly.

Movement at the edge of the festival caught Faith’s attention, a flicker in the shadows just beyond the glow of the carnival lights. Her gaze snapped to a figure standing under a sprawling oak tree. At first, it was difficult to make out who it was, just a silhouette etched against the darkness. But then the figure shifted slightly, and the faint light from a distant streetlamp caught her profile.

Ava Marlowe.

Faith’s stomach did an involuntary flip. Ava had positioned herself far enough from the festival to remain unnoticed by most, but close enough to keep a watchful eye on the festivities. Her tall, graceful frame was cloaked in shadow, her dark green coat blending seamlessly with the night. She wasn’t moving—at least, not in any way that felt normal. Her head tilted down sharply, her posture rigid, and her lips moved in an animated conversation. Except… no one else was there.

Faith squinted, trying to make sense of the scene. Ava wasn’t talking to a person. She was talking to the tree.

At least, that’s what it looked like.

The base of the tree seemed to hold her full attention. Her head cocked to one side, then the other, as if listening intently to whatever it—or something near it—was saying back. Her hands, pale and delicate as porcelain, gestured subtly like she was emphasizing a point in a quiet argument. Every so often, she’d nod or shake her head, her movements sharp, almost birdlike. The whole scene was strange, but not overtly concerning. Yet.

Faith felt a cold prickle work its way down her neck, the kind of instinctive unease that whispered, Something isn’t right here. But she couldn’t tell if it was Ava who wasn’t right—or herself. Ava’s lips moved faster now, her words too far away to hear but carrying a rhythm that Faith could almost feel. There was something about it—about the way she was standing there, utterly absorbed in a conversation with nothing visible—that made Faith’s throat tighten.

What is she saying? Faith thought. And to what?

The moment stretched uncomfortably long. Faith glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed, but the townsfolk were wrapped up in the music, the laughter, and the fried-dough smells of the festival. Kids ran past her, clutching oversized stuffed animals, their squeals of delight as bright as the string lights above. Nobody else was looking at Ava.

Faith shifted uneasily, unsure whether to approach or to stay put. Ava Marlowe wasn’t her problem. At least, she hadn’t been until this moment. But still, something about the scene kept her rooted in place, watching. Ava was a fixture in the town, known but not exactly known. She had this detached, elegant air about her, the kind that made people assume she was either too sophisticated to care about small-town gossip—or had secrets she didn’t want anyone to dig into. Faith had always leaned toward the latter.

Now, though, Ava looked... fragile. Vulnerable in a way that made Faith feel an unexpected pang of pity. Whatever conversation Ava was having with that tree, it seemed important to her, urgent even. Maybe she was one of those eccentrics, the kind people chuckled about behind their backs but left alone because, hey, they weren’t hurting anyone.

Or maybe this was something else entirely.

Faith felt her pulse quicken. She couldn’t shake the familiarity of this moment, the echo of something she’d felt too many times before. That slow, creeping dread of noticing something slightly off—the way her ex-husbands had sometimes looked at her, or the way a coworker’s casual comment could land wrong, sending an uneasy ripple through her gut. And every time, she’d pushed it down, told herself it was nothing. That she was overthinking, paranoid, seeing things that weren’t there.

She’d been wrong before. But she’d also been right.

Now, under the warm glow of carnival lights and the distant hum of laughter, Faith found herself teetering between those two poles: the part of her that wanted to laugh off Ava’s odd behavior and the part that wanted to grab someone—anyone—and say, Hey, does this feel weird to you?

Ava’s head snapped up suddenly, her sharp, green eyes cutting through the shadows like headlights catching a deer. For a moment, Faith felt pinned in place, like Ava could see straight into her, through her, as if she were just another shape in the crowd. But then Ava’s gaze slid away, disinterested, and her lips resumed their silent, urgent movement.

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Faith’s throat felt tight as she turned away, back toward the festival. She told herself it wasn’t her business. Ava Marlowe wasn’t her problem. She told herself to enjoy the music, the lights, the smells of fried dough, and the cheerful chaos of the crowd.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling that, once again, she was ignoring something she shouldn’t ignore.

She pushed the thought aside, forcing herself to smile when she saw Sam coming toward her, his grin lighting up the night.

The scent of caramel apples and roasted chestnuts lingered in the cool autumn air as Ava watched Faith from the shadow of a maple tree. The fall festival was in full swing—children laughing, parents chatting, the golden light of lanterns illuminating the quaint little town square. Faith moved through the crowd with an ease that grated on Ava’s nerves. She was too bright, too curious. Her energy disrupted the fragile balance Ava had meticulously cultivated in this place.

Ava’s cat, Nox, padded silently by her side, his sleek black fur blending into the evening’s shadows. He sat at her feet, curling his tail around himself, his piercing yellow eyes fixed on her.

"She doesn’t belong here," Ava muttered, more to herself than to Nox. Her voice was a low growl, barely audible over the laughter and music drifting through the air. "She’s an anomaly. A disruption."

Faith paused at one of the booths, her warm smile drawing the vendor into conversation. Ava could see the way the townsfolk were beginning to orbit around her—drawn in by her liveliness, her openness. She hated it. The town was hers. Her sanctuary. Faith’s arrival felt like a crack in the delicate foundation she had built, threatening to topple the entire structure.

Nox yawned, showing sharp white teeth, and gave her an unimpressed look.

"Don’t you start," Ava snapped, crossing her arms tightly. "I can feel your judgment, you know."

The cat blinked lazily and then stretched out his front paws, settling deeper into the grass. His silence was damning.

Ava tore her gaze from Faith and crouched down to Nox’s level. "Why is she here, of all places? Is this punishment? A test? Some divine intervention, just when I thought I could finally have peace?"

Nox flicked an ear, his only response.

Ava’s mind churned. Faith had come to town only a few months ago, but already, her presence was an itch Ava couldn’t ignore. The woman’s vibrant energy didn’t match the carefully muted calm Ava had overseen in the townsfolk. She wasn’t like the others—malleable, subdued, easy to guide. Faith was sharp and unpredictable. She asked too many questions, her thoughts darting around in ways Ava couldn’t quite pin down.

"Maybe I should just eliminate her," Ava mused, her voice icy. She reached out to scratch Nox’s head absently, her nails raking gently over his fur. "It would be quick. Clean. One less variable to upset things. No one would question it—not when I could erase her from memory."

Nox’s eyes narrowed, and he let out a low, disapproving growl.

"What? Don’t look at me like that," Ava snapped, standing abruptly. "You know as well as I do that she doesn’t belong. I’ve worked too hard to let some... outsider waltz in and ruin everything."

She turned her gaze back to Faith, who was now chatting with a group of townsfolk near the hayrides. Her laughter rang out, clear and bright, cutting through the controlled tranquility like a blade. Ava clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.

"But what if..." Ava’s voice softened, her anger giving way to uncertainty. "What if her being here is deliberate? What if it’s Him? Testing me. Mocking me. Pushing me to prove myself again."

The thought made her stomach twist. It wasn’t the first time she’d wondered if her exile was more than punishment—if it was some game to toy with her, to see how far she could be pushed. There was the possibility of being tested. And now, here was Faith, a reminder of everything Ava had lost and everything she still couldn’t attain.

She was weak from hunger, but Ava’s need wasn’t physical, not exactly. It gnawed at her just the same—a sharp, relentless thing that refused to let her rest. The steady calm she had worked so hard to instill in the townsfolk sustained her in a way, but it was like trying to fill a well with a leaky bucket. It kept her afloat, yes, but it never quite filled the emptiness. Faith, on the other hand, was something else entirely. A storm. A raw nerve. A live wire humming with unguarded emotion. Ava could feel it from here, radiating off Faith in waves: the hope, the doubt, the restless need.

It was infuriating.

Ava leaned against the oak tree, her sharp eyes fixed on Faith as she stood under the warm carnival lights. That irritating woman. That oblivious woman. Faith didn’t know the first thing about what she was toying with, about the balance Ava had fought tooth and claw to maintain in this town. Faith didn’t understand the risk she posed simply by existing the way she did—untethered, unfiltered, and too damned curious for her own good.

Ava felt the slow burn of anger rise in her chest, hot and bitter. It would be so easy to wipe her away, to snuff her out like a candle. But no, not here. Not now. There were too many people around. And then there was him.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to spot Sam weaving through the crowd, his tousled hair catching the glow of the festival lights. The boy was always nearby, always watching, his sharp little eyes missing nothing. Sam was clever and worse, he was loud. If she so much as twitched in Faith’s direction, the boy would see, and he’d make a fuss. He always did.

Ava’s fingers curled into a fist at her side. Faith must have sensed her glare because, almost instinctively, the woman turned her head, locking eyes with her across the distance. For a moment, Ava felt her anger spike, sharp enough to make her nails bite into her palm. She held Faith’s gaze, her expression carefully blank but seething just below the surface. Faith didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, and something about her steady gaze only fueled Ava’s frustration.

Finally, Ava exhaled, slow and deliberate. She released Faith from her glare, turning her attention to the base of the oak tree as though Faith had never existed. She couldn’t risk anything now—not with the boy wandering so close. Not with the carnival lights still glowing and too many eyes that might notice.

She reached down, her slender fingers brushing through the thick fur of the cat winding around her ankles. Its purr rumbled low, a steady vibration that seemed to calm the sharp edges of her frustration. "Not tonight," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the distant hum of the festival. She scratched behind the cat’s ears, the way she’d seen it seem to prefer, though it was hard to tell with a creature as ancient and inscrutable as this one.

Sam passed closer now, his laughter sharp and clear over the festival’s dying hum. Ava straightened, slipping back further into the shadows of the tree, her presence retreating like a low tide. She watched as Faith turned away, oblivious to the moment that had just passed, and Ava allowed herself a small, bitter smile.

"Not tonight," she repeated, quieter this time, her voice barely a whisper.

“Ready, Miss Faith?” Sam asked, holding out his hand.

Faith took it, grateful for the grounding warmth of his presence, letting herself be swept into the evening’s laughter and joy. The shadows that lingered around Ava could wait—she’d spent her whole life ignoring shadows, hadn’t she?

She laughed softly as Sam led her to the makeshift dance floor, exuding an air of chivalry. The band played an upbeat tune, and soon they were twirling together, Sam’s joy infectious. He was offbeat, but his enthusiasm made up for it, and soon Faith found herself laughing out loud—a genuine belly cackle that felt vulnerable in public, but a cathartic release of tension.

Sam and Faith did a funny little jig, ran in place, shook their hips, and raised their arms to the sky. They flipped their hair, pointed their toes, and spun in circles until Sam got too dizzy. The other townsfolk danced around them, but Faith barely noticed. She was too wrapped up in the moment, in the warmth of this small town, in the kindness of a young man who had asked her to dance without judgment or expectation. She let everything out on that dance floor, guided by an unpretentious and genuine partner. For the first time in years, she felt... happy.

As the third song came to an end and a slow, jazzy tune began to play, Sam bowed dramatically, making an out-of-breath Faith laugh even more. “Thank you for dancing with me, Miss Faith!” he said.

“Thank you, Sam,” she replied, squeezing his hand. “You’re a wonderful dancer.”

As they parted ways and she returned to the bakery’s tent, Faith glanced toward the spot where Ava had been standing. But she was gone now, the street empty. That was fine by her. Faith decided she’d have to avoid her strange neighbor, which would be easy. Ava was creepy and made Faith feel uncomfortable. With that thought, she had put Ava in a corner on a high shelf in her mind.

The children gathered on the soccer field to watch their movie. Delia, Faith, and Marcus packed up the bakery table and tent. Faith and Delia stood near the Bakery’s window, brushing crumbs from their hands. Delia gave Faith a tired but warm smile. “Thanks again for everything. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

Faith waved it off. “You’d have managed.”

“Maybe, but it wouldn’t have been as fun.” Delia grinned, then nudged Marcus, who had just joined them after putting the folding chairs inside.

“Well Faith, nice to have met you,” Marcus said with a grin—and then, to Faith’s surprise, pulled her into a quick hug. She stiffened, caught off guard, but Marcus seemed unfazed. “Take care of yourself,” he added as he stepped back.

“Uh, you too,” she replied, unsure what else to say.

Just then, Marcus’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen. “Naomi,” he said with a knowing look at Delia before answering. “Yeah? What? No, you’re not staying out that late… Ten minutes. That’s it.”

Delia rolled her eyes and grinned at Faith. “She’s been working up to this all night.”

Marcus smirked as he hung up. “She’s testing the limits. I gave her ten minutes, or I’m bringing the dad lecture.”

Delia laughed. “She won’t risk that.”

Turning back to Faith, Delia gave her hands a quick pat. “Thanks again. Really. Goodnight, Faith.”

“Goodnight,” Faith said, and as the couple walked off together, she started her own way home, the festival lights and music fading behind her. She walked home with a small keychain flashlight and an LED pumpkin necklace lighting her way. On Foxbend, Trouble darted between her feet, and her heart was lighter than it had been in a very long time. She grinned at the memory of the flying Cleopatra wig and wished she had thought to snap pictures of the day’s festivities on her phone.

“It was a good day,” she told the black cat with yellow eyes, who watched from the undergrowth around her porch, while she climbed her steps. Trouble darted towards the bigger cat and raised his hackles before rolling in the dirt at its feet. Faith was already stepping inside when the two felines disappeared into Ava’s dark and moldering side of the rickety old fence.

That night, Ava Marlowe sat in the dimly lit parlor of her home, her fingers drumming restlessly against the arm of her chair. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, casting the room in midnight shadow, the only light coming from the flickering flames of the fireplace. The cat, Nox, watched her warily from the edge of the room, slinking low to the ground as if sensing the storm brewing inside her.

Faith.

The name alone sent a surge of anger through Ava’s veins. She stood abruptly, pacing the length of the room, her heels clicking sharply on the polished hardwood floor. The old photographs on the walls seemed to watch her, silent witnesses to her growing fury. Glass cases filled with relics from her past—small, strange oddities, pieces of a life no one in Blackwood Hollow could ever understand—lined the room. To most, they were curiosities, fragments of history. To Ava, they were reminders of what she had endured, what she had become.

She had rid herself of husbands and had done it without hesitation. They had pushed her, tried to control her, break her spirit. But no one controlled Ava. No one could bind her to their petty, human expectations. She had always done what needed to be done. Removing obstacles, and clearing her path—it was second nature to her, as simple and necessary as picking off fleas. Husbands who had overstayed their welcome, families who had misunderstood their place, anyone who dared to stand in her way—it all came down to the same thing in the end. An inconvenience dealt with, a nuisance brushed aside, a problem quietly and efficiently... handled.

Faith, on the other hand, had endured misery for years, clinging to the scraps of a life that barely held together. Weak. Clumsy. Stupid. Ava clenched her fists at the thought of it. Faith had been too fragile to see the dangers around her. Too trusting. Too blind.

And Ava—foolishly fettered Ava—had been sent to guide her. Not by choice, but by the rules. The rules, ancient and unyielding, had dictated her role. She had watched Faith from a distance, intervening when necessary, always staying in the shadows. Faith had never known she was there, never realized that Ava had pulled the strings to save her time and again from the horrors that sought to consume her.

But now, Faith was here. In her town. That was unacceptable.

Ava stopped pacing and turned toward the window, her breath coming in short, angry bursts. She hadn’t asked for this. She had built her life in Blackwood Hollow, a place where the rules left her alone. She had peace here, solitude. She had control. But with Faith’s arrival, everything was at risk. The rules had shifted, changed in a way that made her feel loosely adrift, without a rudder.

Matches like this weren’t chosen, at least not by her. They were decided somewhere beyond her understanding by forces she could neither see nor question. It also wasn’t random—she could feel that much in her bones. There was always a purpose, even if it wasn’t clear to her. Pairings seemed to align with something deeper, something intrinsic to her nature, as though the forces shaping the world knew exactly what was needed from her.

She didn’t know why she had been bound to Faith, why the pull toward this woman was so sharp, so unrelenting. It wasn’t desire or affection, and it certainly wasn’t choice. The connection was woven into her existence, as essential and immutable as the structure of her being. Whatever she was made of—DNA, soul, or something else entirely—it had been forged with the singular purpose of finding and … preserving.

She hated it sometimes, this lack of agency. Unlike the fragile, self-absorbed humans she was tethered to, she had no free will, no ability to refuse or resist. Her role wasn’t a privilege; it was a compulsion, as inescapable as gravity. That was what separated her from everyone else. They stumbled through life with their ridiculous choices, often making everything worse for themselves and others, while she was left to clean up the pieces, bound by rules she didn’t create.

And yet, despite the resentment simmering in her, she couldn’t ignore the need—raw and primal—to stay with Faith, to instruct her, protect her. It was always there, thrumming just beneath the surface. Whatever had brought them together, whatever purpose had chosen her, it couldn’t be denied.

But why here? Why now? Ava gritted her teeth. Faith wasn’t supposed to come to her. The rules—if they could even be called that—had always worked the same way. Ava was sent to watch from a distance, to step in only when things veered too far off course. Clean up the messes. Fix what was broken. That’s how it was supposed to be, anyway.

The Wards, she called them. Her charges. The ones she was bound to. Once, the term had felt noble, almost sacred. Now, it felt more like a bitter joke. They weren’t charges—they were pawns. Pieces to move around the board, problems to solve before they spiraled out of control.

Faith had been one of the worst. Ava had watched as Faith stumbled through her life, making all the wrong choices, and collecting all the wrong people. The first ex-husbands was the first to test her patience, a man who drained Faith dry and left her hollow. Ava had nudged him away, quiet, subtle shifts that made him disappear before his cruelty broke her completely. Most of the time, it worked. Most of the time, Ava’s hand was invisible.

But not that night. The night when Faith’s second husband had pushed too far.

Ava hadn’t planned to intervene—not directly. She never did. But something had cracked open inside her that night. A line crossed, a silent alarm that rang so loud she couldn’t ignore it. She didn’t remember deciding to act. One moment, she was watching from the shadows, and the next, it was over. The man was gone, swept off the board like a useless piece, and Faith was safe again. Ava told herself it had been necessary. That it was her duty.

But Faith didn’t know. She couldn’t know. That was how it had to be. The rules were clear—protect from a distance. Interfere, but never get close. Never let the Ward see her hand in things.

Ava’s lip curled in disgust. Faith would not be here if it had been me in her place, she thought bitterly. I would have ended them both before they had a chance to leave a lasting impression, never mind a mark on my psyche.

Faith had survived, somehow, by stumbling through life with that naive innocence that made Ava’s skin crawl. Now, here she was, back in her orbit, as if the universe were playing some cruel joke.

Ava turned and glared at Nox, who had been watching her tantrum from the corner of the room. His yellow eyes followed her every move, cautious but calm. He had seen her like this before and knew better than to get in her way. The sleek cat had been with her for many years, a constant companion, and in some ways, the only creature in the world who understood her.

“Why, Nox?” Ava hissed, throwing up her hands in frustration. “Why here? Why her?” She stalked across the room and grabbed the back of a chair, her knuckles white with the force of her grip. “I had peace. I had quiet. She’s going to ruin everything.”

The cat said nothing, of course, but his ears twitched, his gaze unwavering as Ava ranted. Ava’s chest rose and fell with each deep breath as she tried to calm herself. This wasn’t just an inconvenience—this was a threat. Faith’s presence had always drawn trouble. Her vulnerability, her softness, it was like blood in the water for predators. And in Blackwood Hollow, there were things lurking beneath the surface that even Faith wouldn’t recognize.

Ava’s mind flashed back to the festival. She had watched from the safety of the Maple, hidden in the shadows, as Faith mingled with the townsfolk, oblivious to the undercurrents of danger that swirled around her. Ava had seen it before, how Faith’s presence stirred things, and disrupted the delicate balance that kept the darkness at bay.

Then there was that dance. Ava’s hands clenched into fists at the memory of Faith dancing with Sam. Faith’s clumsiness, her awkward grace—it was as if nothing had changed. But Ava wasn’t fooled by the laughter and the smiles. Faith’s arrival was a disturbance, one that threatened to bring everything Ava had worked so hard to bury back to the surface.

“This is my home,” Ava muttered under her breath, her voice cold. “She doesn’t belong here.”

Her eyes drifted to the wall, to the photographs that hung like silent witnesses to a life she’d rather forget. Two of the frames held images of people who no longer mattered. Their faces, frozen in time, had been reduced to nothing more than faint memories for everyone else. But not for her. Ava’s hands had ensured their absence, her will stronger where Faith’s had faltered.

Faith never would have made it without her. That much was certain. She had stepped in when no one else could and done what needed to be done. Ava had fixed it by sweeping the broken pieces into the shadows where they belonged. Now, against all odds, here the two of them were again, their paths crossing in the same town like some cruel cosmic joke.

The thought tightened something in Ava’s gut, a knot of bitterness and something darker, sharper. Her peace, hard-won and precarious, had come at a cost. A steep one. And she’d paid it willingly, folding her secrets into the cracks of this quiet little town, hiding the truth in plain sight.

She glanced back at the photographs, her jaw tightening. She wouldn’t let Faith undo it all. Not after everything. She’d already erased what needed to be erased. If it came to it, she would do it again. Some things were too dangerous to leave untouched. Some things demanded silence.

A sudden noise broke through her thoughts—the soft padding of Nox as he slunk toward her, his eyes wide, sensing the tension in the air. He stopped just short of her, his tail twitching nervously.

Ava forced herself to calm down, her shoulders rising and falling as she took one more deep breath. “I’m not going to let her ruin everything,” she said, her voice cold and sharp. “She won’t even know I’m watching. She never does.”

But even as the words left her lips, Ava knew that this time was different. Faith’s arrival here wasn’t just a coincidence. The rules had changed. Faith wasn’t supposed to come to her. Ava had always been the one with the calling. This—Faith being in Blackwood Hollow—was an unacceptable shift. One that Ava couldn’t allow to continue.

“I’ll fix this,” Ava whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes hardening with resolve. “I always do.”

Nox, sensing the storm had passed, padded quietly to her side and brushed against her leg. Ava stared into the flickering flames of the fire, her mind spinning with plans. She had done it before. She could do it again.

Faith would never know the danger she was in. And Ava would make sure of it.

Because this time, Ava wasn’t just protecting Faith from the world. She was protecting her own life—her own peace—and she wouldn’t let anyone, not even Faith, destroy what she had built.

The Marlow House had always been there, a hulking Victorian monstrosity on the edge of Blackwood Hollow, just shy of where the town met the dark embrace of the Okefenokee Swamp. Locals said the house had eyes, that it watched you when you walked past, its warped shutters half-drawn like squinting lids. Ava Marlow had lived there as long as anyone could remember—an ageless, pale figure who melted into the slow-moving rhythms of small-town Georgia life like a drop of poison in a glass of sweet tea.

It was 1962, and the world was changing, though Blackwood Hollow tried to pretend it wasn’t. Integration was sweeping across the South like an unwelcome tide, and preachers from Atlanta or Albany would sometimes show up, talking about equality and justice, about God’s plan for all His children. Most of them didn’t stay long. But then came Abraham Ray.

He was young, fresh out of the University, brimming with a kind of hope that hadn’t been seen in Blackwood Hollow for years. He had a wife named Clara who played the piano with a voice like a Sunday morning breeze, and a boy named Abel who was just old enough to read Bible verses aloud without stumbling. Abraham rented the little shotgun house on Cross Street, a rickety thing too small for dreams as big as his, and started holding services on Sundays. People came—Black folks mostly, but a few white faces would show up in the back pews, the curious ones, the restless ones.

Ava didn’t like that. She’d been watching from her high windows, the lace curtains barely shifting, her presence as silent as the snakes that coiled in the swamp. She didn’t mind the whispers, the sideways glances from townsfolk who said she was strange, maybe not quite normal. She’d let them believe whatever they wanted, so long as they didn’t disrupt her way of doing things. But Abraham Ray? He was a disruption. He would bring change and an intellectualism that would make her people question everything they’d ever known.

She began to move through the town like a shadow, her voice soft and slow, pouring poison into the ears of the right people. “That preacher’s trouble,” she whispered to one man over his porch fence. “You know he’s stirring up things that are best left alone.” To another, she said, “You think it’s good for our town, a man like that teaching your children to question the way things are?” Ava had a way of making her suggestions feel like truths you’d always known but had just forgotten to act on.

One humid night, with the summer sky hanging low and fat like a bruise, the mob came for Abraham Ray. They didn’t bother with speeches or declarations. They came in the dead of night, their faces shadowed under the brims of their hats or obscured with bandanas, their boots heavy against the dirt. Abraham’s wife and child never stirred, never woke, and therefore, never knew about the men who slipped into the house like ghosts, dragging Abraham from his bed before he could let out more than a grunt of alarm.

By the time they reached the old oak tree near the swamp, the noose was already tied. They moved quickly as if they’d done this before. Maybe one or two of them had. The knot was perfect, the pull precise. The swing of the rope was smooth and practiced. It was over in moments. His body swayed in the moonlight, casting jagged shadows across the gnarled bark of the tree.

They cut him down just as fast, careful not to leave a groove in the thick bark. A smaller group now, the few men worked quietly as if the weight of their shame could be outrun by their silence. There were no discussions, no words at all. Each man knew his role and carried it out with grim precision, their eyes avoiding each other, their faces set in cold determination. They carried him like a broken thing, a weight they wanted to be rid of. The swamp stretched out before them, inky water still and serene, as if it, too, was holding its tongue.

The gators came quickly, their movements lazy and certain, like they knew what was coming. The body disappeared beneath the surface with barely a ripple, dragged into the hungry depths by claws and jaws. The swamp swallowed him whole, its dark waters slithering back into place as if nothing had happened.

Two remaining men stood at the edge for a moment, their lanterns casting pale circles of light on their boots. They didn’t look at each other, didn’t speak. They just turned and walked back the way they’d come, their shadows long and silent against the trees.

Ava Marlow’s house seemed to shudder in the faint light of dawn. Its windows gleamed like the eyes of some hungry thing, and the crooked tilt of the roof seemed sharper now, more alive. The house leaned into the morning as if stretching after a long, satisfying meal.

No one spoke of Abraham again, but the swamp remembered. It always did. And so did Ava Marlow.

If Ava had thought that was the end of the Rays, she had been wrong. Abraham had planted something in Abel before he died, something stronger than fear. The boy grew up with his father’s voice echoing in his ears: Truth is your protector. God’s light will always shine through the darkness. Abel Ray didn’t leave Blackwood Hollow, though no one would’ve blamed him if he had. He stayed, built a life, and opened a small business right in the middle of town - Ray’s Bakery.

And he had a daughter.

Delia Ray was born into a world that felt the weight of its past, a world where whispers of Ava Marlow and the horrors of Blackwood Hollow’s history still clung to the air like Spanish moss. But Delia had her grandfather’s fire in her veins and her father’s unshakable faith. The Marlow House loomed as it always had, and Ava still watched from her high windows. But the Ray family carried a light that would not be extinguished.