PART 2

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We slammed into the door with the force of our combined momentum, fists pounding, voices raw as we screamed for help. Everything shrunk down to just that door—the only thing standing between us and what we'd seen in those woods. The howling wind, the relentless rain, the accusatory caws of the crows—it all faded to white noise, drowned out by the thundering of our hearts and the desperate mantra pulsing through my mind:

Let us in. Please, let us in. Make it not real. Please, just let us in.

The door swung open, revealing Paul Mayer, Austin's father. His eyes, a cold steel-blue beneath heavy brows, swept over us with predatory focus. We stared back, helpless and shivering, at a face that could've been carved from granite—all sharp angles and shadows, framed by thick dark hair swept back from his forehead. His beard, meticulously maintained despite its wildness, did nothing to soften the cruel set of his mouth or the sharp cut of his jaw. Even in the station's dim light, there was something wolf-like about Officer Mayer's features—a barely contained violence in every line of his face.

"Good God," he muttered, one hand instinctively touching the silver crucifix at his throat—a gesture I'd seen him make countless times before delivering judgment. "Get in here, all of you." He turned, barking over his shoulder, "Joey, make some tea for the boys."

The police station was dimly lit, a few scattered lamps fighting a losing battle against the encroaching darkness. Paul and Joey seemed to be the only officers on duty – not that our sleepy village usually needed more.

Paul ushered us to a bench near a radiator, its warmth a shock against our rain-chilled skin. "And grab some towels!" he called after Joey, who had disappeared into the recesses of the room where a kettle sat, incongruously placed next to a fax machine and a teetering stack of files. The place was even messier than my room—which Mom would say was impossible, but here was the proof.

Paul grabbed the first-aid kit, his movements sharp and efficient, the same way they were when he gave orders. He crouched in front of Austin, inspecting the gash on his leg.

"You should've been more careful," Paul muttered, the crucifix swinging forward as he bent over Austin's leg. "Suffering builds character—isn't that what Father Matthews always says?" Each movement was a reprimand, every touch carrying the weight of disappointment that seemed to follow Austin like a shadow whenever his father was near. "A Mayer man doesn't stumble in the dark like some scared kid."

When the antiseptic touched Austin’s torn skin, he hissed in pain, but he bit down hard on his lip, eyes darting to his father, waiting for the usual response.

"Don’t make a scene," Paul muttered, pressing a compress against the wound with the same no-nonsense attitude he used for paperwork. "It's not that bad."

"Yes, sir," Austin murmured, his voice tight. His fingers gripped the bench, knuckles white, but he kept his face blank, refusing to let the pain show. He shot a glance my way, lips twitching in a weak attempt at a smile, but it fell flat. I could feel it—that same heavy silence that always fell when Austin disappointed his dad. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

"You should go to a doctor tomorrow," Paul added brusquely. "Though I expect you'll walk it off."

"Yes, sir," Austin repeated, his voice quieter now, the exhaustion creeping through.

But I could see the strain on his face—each breath shallow, each movement cautious. His body was tense, like he was waiting for the next jolt of pain to hit.

We huddled together on the bench, our shoulders touching, seeking comfort in proximity. My wet hair hung in my face, water still dripping down my neck. My brain kept switching between not believing what we'd seen was real, and then remembering it all over again in horrible flashes. Like when you wake up from a nightmare, except you can't wake up from this one.

Joey reappeared, draping towels over our legs and shoulders with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his bulky frame. He pressed mugs into our trembling hands. The steam from our tea rose up between us, and for a second I could pretend it was just another normal night, that we hadn't seen what we'd seen.

Crouching before us, concern etched deep in his features, Joey asked softly, "Boys, what happened out there?", and something in his tone made me look up. For a split second, his eyes seemed different - sharper, more focused than his usual easy-going expression. But then he blinked, and he was just Joey again.

"Give them a minute, for Christ's sake!" Paul snapped. Joey rolled his eyes but nodded, retreating to a desk where he began scribbling something down.

The silence stretched, broken only by the soft patter of rain against the windows and the occasional rumble of distant thunder. It felt like the calm before another storm – one that would break the moment we spoke of what we'd seen.

"Joey, call their parents," Paul instructed, his voice tight but steady. "Tell them to get down here. Now."

Joey nodded and shuffled to the phone, muttering something under his breath about kids getting into trouble.

"She’s dead." Austin’s voice was barely more than a whisper, swallowed by the quiet of the room.

The words hung in the air like they didn’t belong there, like they were part of some other, far-off nightmare. I turned to Austin, blinking, hoping I’d heard wrong. But the look on his face—pale, his eyes wide and hollow—said otherwise.

"What did you say?" Paul’s voice cut through the stillness, sharp with disbelief. His entire body tensed, hands frozen mid-motion over the first-aid kit. He turned to us, his eyes narrowing as though he needed to hear it again to make it real.

Austin swallowed, his throat bobbing as he struggled to push the words out. "Ms. Gabrowski…" He paused, his voice catching on the name, and then he forced himself to say it. "She’s dead."

A thick silence settled over the room, pressing in like the weight of the storm outside. My stomach twisted, bile rising in my throat. Saying it out loud made it worse—made it real. I glanced at Wei, whose hands were clasped so tightly in his lap his knuckles were white, his eyes staring at nothing.

"She’s… beheaded." Austin’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper, the horror of the word too much to say aloud. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, his body tense with exhaustion and pain.

Paul's jaw tightened, that familiar tension that made everyone in the station—hell, everyone in Aves Grove—brace themselves. Joey subtly shifted away, the way people always did when Officer Mayer's mood darkened. "Speak up," he said, his voice hard as stone. "You’re not a kid anymore, Austin. Say it like you mean it."

Austin swallowed hard, his fingers trembling slightly as he forced the words out again, louder this time. "Ms. Gabrowski... she was beheaded." His voice shook despite his best effort to steady it.

As Paul leaned in to question us, Austin shifted uncomfortably beside me. His leg was stretched out in front of him, the bandage already spotted with fresh blood. I saw him wince as he tried to move, his breath catching.

"You okay?" I whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

Austin gave a quick nod, but his hands trembled as he wiped his face with the back of his hand. The usual Austin—the one who shrugged off pain and laughed in the face of danger—was nowhere to be found. He was exhausted, and the weight of everything was pressing down hard.

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Paul slowly lowered himself into the chair in front of us, his jaw tight, like he was trying to keep control. "What—" he began, his voice faltering for the first time. He cleared his throat, his face pale beneath his beard. "Your teacher? What are you tal—"

The station door burst open with a bang that made us all jump. "Theo Dempsey!" My mother’s voice broke through the tense silence, high with panic. She rushed toward me, still in her rubber gloves and apron from the salon, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. The smell of hair dye hit me before she did—a jarring reminder of the normal day she’d been having just hours ago.

"Saints preserve us, what's happened to my boy?" Her voice cracked, but she stopped short when she saw the state we were in—soaked, bloodied, haunted. For a moment, words failed her, and her eyes darted between us, trying to make sense of it all.

As she reached out, her trembling hand hovering just above my arm, something inside me broke. Great. Breaking down in front of everyone like a kindergartener. Austin's dad was watching, probably thinking what a weak kid his son was friends with. But here I was, falling apart in the police station.

"Mom," I choked out, reaching for her like I was a little kid again. "Mom, it was horrible. We saw... we found..."

But I couldn't finish. How could I possibly explain the nightmarish scene we'd stumbled upon? How could I put into words the way Ms. Gabrowski's lifeless eyes had seemed to stare right through us, accusing us of some unnamed betrayal?

"You're coming home right now," my mother demanded, her voice trembling as she snatched the tea from my hands and tugged at my arm. The panic was clear in her wide, anxious eyes, darting over us—Austin’s bleeding knee, the mud and blood streaking my jacket. Her face drained of color. "Oh my God," she whispered, her grip loosening, her free hand fluttering up to her mouth as if she couldn’t quite process it.

She turned to Paul for help, her expression helpless, but almost childlike in its worry, like she didn’t know how to fix what had just broken in her world. The hard set of Paul’s jaw softened briefly as he looked at her. "Felicity, sit down," he said, his voice firm yet kind. He gestured to a chair beside him. "The boys were about to tell me something." She nodded quickly—maybe a little too quickly—and made her way toward the chair, only to trip slightly over the leg of the table.

"Oops!" She caught herself, letting out an embarrassed little laugh, brushing her damp hair from her forehead. "Sorry, it’s just… everything’s so…" She trailed off, her words as scattered as her thoughts, before sinking into the chair. Her right leg began bouncing anxiously—a habit I’d seen countless times when she was nervous or out of her depth, which, truth be told, happened more often than she’d ever admit.

Paul ignored the stumble, his focus shifting back to us. "What about Ms. Gabrowski?" he asked, his voice probing but gentle, almost as if he were trying to coax the truth out of us like he might with a frightened child.

I swallowed hard, the words feeling thick and unnatural on my tongue. "She’s dead," I said softly, the sentence sounding like it belonged to someone else.

"Theo… what?" Mom gasped, her voice little more than a whisper. She leaned forward, her eyes growing wide with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. "What do you mean ‘she’s dead’? She… she was fine—"

Paul shot her another warning glance, and Mom covered her mouth again, realizing she’d been talking over me. Her shoulders hunched slightly, as though she were physically shrinking into the chair to keep herself from interrupting again. Her wide, innocent eyes darted between me and Paul, her worry written all over her face.

"Where exactly is Ms. Gabrowski?" Paul leaned in like Principal Martinez did that time he caught us skipping assembly—that same 'I know you're hiding something' look that made your stomach drop no matter how innocent you were.

"In the forest," I answered, finally lifting my gaze to meet his. Over his shoulder, I saw Joey, who had leaned against the doorframe, listening intently. His usual laid-back vibe was gone, replaced by an alertness that made the dimly lit room feel even smaller.

"Where in the forest?" Paul asked, his voice pressing, though not without a thread of sympathy. "Can you take me there?"

"Absolutely not," my mother said firmly, standing abruptly. The chair scraped loudly against the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice. "Theo’s not going back out there." Her voice wavered as she took in the mud streaking my clothes, the pallor of my face. "He’s freezing. He needs… a bath, something warm to eat…"

She trailed off, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides, the wild gestures she usually made in moments of panic kept tightly restrained, like she was fighting to hold herself together. "He’s not going back out there," she repeated, softer this time.

"Felicity," Paul said, rising to his full height, his shadow falling over her like judgment day. His voice carried that signature weight that had shut down town council meetings and silenced bar fights. "Stop fussing over him." Mom shrank back instinctively—the way everyone did when Officer Mayer gave an order. "Let me do my job."

"The boys are talking nonsense," she hissed, lowering her voice, trying to hide her words from me. She glanced nervously toward us, as if hoping I hadn’t heard her disbelief. "I cut Ms. Gabrowski’s hair two hours ago—she’s fine."

Paul placed his large hand on her shoulder, his voice softening, though the underlying tension was still there. "A lot can happen in two hours, Felicity."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, clearly flustered by the contradiction. Finally, she nodded, mumbling an apology as she backed away from Paul and sank back into the chair. She adjusted her sweater absentmindedly, her eyes flicking between me and Paul, still looking a bit overwhelmed by the situation she couldn’t control.

A sharp knock echoed through the station. "It's Vivien. Open the door!" came the clipped, impatient voice from outside.

Paul sighed. "Joey, get the door," he muttered, but Vivien didn’t wait. As soon as the door cracked open, she swept in, her tailored trench coat barely disturbed by the wind outside.

Vivien looked perfect as usual—makeup flawless, not a hair out of place in her sleek updo. She paused, surveying the room like it was some mess she needed to clean up. In the dim light of the station, she looked even more out of place than usual, the gold accents on her handbag gleaming in the low lamplight.

Without a word, she marched directly to Wei, her eyes narrowing as she took in his disheveled state.

"Wei! Look at you!" she exclaimed, her voice more accusatory than concerned. She immediately brushed at his wet sleeves and disheveled hair, the concern finally breaking through. "You should know better than to be out in this weather—and your clothes! Completely ruined!"

Her eyes shifted to Paul, the challenge clear in her gaze. "I trust you’ll have him home soon? He’ll need a change of clothes and a hot meal." The words weren’t a request. Vivien never requested anything.

"Mrs. Wang," Paul interjected, his voice cutting through her sharp tone like a blade, "I need your son here for a moment longer."

Vivien raised an eyebrow, clearly not used to being interrupted. But after a brief pause, she gave a small, tight nod. "Very well, but I’ll be staying until you’re done." She crossed to a chair beside my mother, taking a seat with the elegance of someone used to being in control, even in situations she wasn’t.

"Vivien," my mother greeted her nervously. She offered a tentative smile, but it was clear she felt out of her depth with Vivien’s polished presence beside her.

"Felicity," Vivien replied curtly, her tone cool, as if they weren’t in the same room but across a boardroom table, mid-negotiation.

Paul exhaled, his patience clearly stretched. "Now, hopefully that’s the last of the mothers," he muttered, turning his attention back to us.

I swallowed, my throat dry despite the dampness that clung to me. "Ms. Gabrowski is in the forest," I began, my voice low but steady. "Beheaded. Maybe a hundred meters from here." The words hung in the air like stones, heavy and unshakable. Both our mothers gasped, their faces draining of color.

"Oh my God," Vivien whispered, her perfectly composed exterior finally cracking as her eyes snapped back to Wei. It was the first time I’d ever seen her unsure of what to do.

Paul stood up slowly, his large frame casting shadows over the dimly lit room. "Thank you, boys," he said softly but with finality, his face stern. "Joey, get ready." Joey moved quickly, grabbing his yellow warning jacket and pulling a cap over his head, ready to face the still-drizzling rain outside.

Turning to our mothers, Paul said, "You can take the boys home now. I’ll contact you once we’ve found something." Both women were eager to comply, rising from their chairs as if staying in the station any longer might cause more damage.

"Come on, Theo," my mother murmured, her hand gentle as it brushed through my hair. I stood, glancing back at Austin and Wei. Our eyes met, and though no words were spoken, there was a shared understanding between us—a bond forged in terror.

"Felicity," Paul called as we moved toward the door. "Could Austin stay with you tonight? This might take a while." My mother hesitated, glancing at Austin, but then nodded. Her hand reached out, guiding him toward us, her protective instinct extending to him now too.

Paul offered a rare, small smile, and Austin limped over, his arm slung over my shoulder again, just like in the woods. The weight of him felt reassuring, though it didn’t make the dread any lighter.

As we stepped outside, the rain had softened to a light drizzle, but the air was still thick, charged with something dark and unresolved. The quiet that had settled over the town felt eerie, as though it was holding its breath, waiting for the storm to fully pass—but I knew this storm was far from over.

Austin’s grip tightened on my shoulder as we walked in silence, our steps heavy, our thoughts even heavier. We both knew that no matter how far we walked from the forest, the image of Ms. Gabrowski’s lifeless eyes would follow us. It was burned into our minds—a grim reminder that our quiet town would never be the same again.