The rain began just before dawn—thin, hesitant drops that whispered against the rooftops of Redpine. By the time Sheriff Reeves reached Main Street, the downpour had turned steady, blurring the world into a gray watercolor of lamplight and motionless storefronts.
He parked his cruiser outside the bakery. The air was thick with the scent of wet dough and fear. Yellow tape fluttered in the wind, strung loosely around the alley beside the shop. Deputy Miller was already there, his face pale and drawn.
"Another one, Sheriff," he said quietly, stepping aside. "Same as before."
Samuel's stomach turned as he ducked under the tape. The alley was narrow, hemmed in by two brick walls slick with rain. The body lay near the dumpster—sprawled, eyes wide open, lips slightly parted as though trying to breathe in air that would never come.
A man in his mid-forties, local mechanic. Name: Harold Tate.
No blood. No wounds.
Samuel crouched beside the corpse, brushing rain from his brow. The air around the body felt colder than the rest of the alley, a chill that seemed to rise from the ground itself.
He glanced at Miller. "Who found him?"
"Teenager delivering bread. Says he saw the body when he came for supplies. Poor kid's shaking so bad he can't talk straight."
Samuel nodded grimly. "Get him home. We'll take his statement later."
He looked down again, eyes narrowing. The expression on Tate's face was eerily familiar—frozen shock, pupils dilated, jaw slack. The same look Thomas Greeley had worn.
He touched the man's neck—cold, stiff. "How long?"
"Maybe two hours," Miller guessed. "The coroner's on his way."
"Don't wait for him," Samuel said, standing. "Get the photographer. And Miller—no one outside this alley hears the details yet. The last thing we need is the town losing its mind."
Miller nodded, hurrying off through the rain.
Samuel stayed where he was, staring down at the lifeless man as the storm soaked his hat and jacket. For a moment, the sound of rain faded beneath a deeper silence—one that pressed against his skull and made the world tilt.
He closed his eyes, breathing through it, then turned away.
By midmorning, the coroner's van had come and gone, leaving behind nothing but wet footprints and unease. The report came through before noon, and when Samuel read it, he felt that same chill crawl up his spine again.
Heart missing. No external injury. Cause unknown.
He dropped the paper on his desk and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Two deaths in three days. Both men local, both ordinary. And both robbed of something vital without a single mark on them.
Coincidence didn't stretch that far.
He grabbed his coat and headed out.
Harold Tate's house was on the southern edge of town—a modest blue one-story with a rusted mailbox and a yard scattered with children's toys. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, turning the dirt path into a ribbon of mud.
His widow, Laura Tate, met him at the door, her eyes hollow. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, though it had been less than twelve hours since her husband's body was found.
"Mrs. Tate," Samuel said softly, removing his hat. "I'm sorry to come so soon, but I need to ask you some questions."
She nodded mechanically. "I understand."
They sat at the kitchen table, a pot of untouched coffee between them.
"Did Harold seem… different last night?" he began.
Her hands twisted in her lap. "He wasn't feeling right. Said his chest felt heavy, like someone was pressing on it. I told him to rest, but he went out to the garage anyway. Said he heard something outside."
"What kind of something?"
"A sound," she whispered. "Like… humming. Not from the machines. It was coming from the woods behind the house."
Samuel felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. "Did he say what it sounded like?"
She hesitated. "Like a voice. Low and far away, calling his name."
The kitchen seemed to grow colder. Samuel stared at the condensation running down the windowpane, tracing paths like veins.
"Mrs. Tate," he said after a moment, "I want you to stay with a friend or family for a few days. Keep the doors locked at night. Don't go out alone."
She nodded again, not asking why. Some part of her already knew this wasn't a normal death.
That evening, Samuel sat in his office with two files open before him—Thomas Greeley and Harold Tate.
Side by side, they looked identical. Time of death between two and four a.m. No witnesses. No forced entry. No blood. No heart.
He flipped through the reports again, pen tapping restlessly against the desk.
Something connected them—something he couldn't yet see.
Both men had lived on the outskirts of town. Both near the woods.
He stood abruptly, pacing. "The woods," he muttered. "It's always the damn woods."
Miller looked up from his desk. "Sir?"
"Get me the county maps. I want every property near those woods marked. And pull records—anything about unusual activity in the area over the past month. Break-ins, trespassing, animal attacks, anything."
Miller nodded and hurried to fetch the files.
Outside, thunder rolled distantly.
Samuel turned toward the window. The rain had stopped, but the fog had thickened, settling low over the streets like smoke. Beneath the hum of the office lights, he thought he heard something—a faint, rhythmic thud.
He froze, listening.
It came again. Thud… thud… thud.
He stepped to the window and looked out. Across the street, a single lamppost flickered weakly. The street was empty. Then, for an instant, he thought he saw movement—something pale slipping between the trees at the edge of the park.
When he blinked, it was gone.
He stood there a long time, the echo of the sound still pulsing in his ears.
Near midnight, Samuel drove home under the heavy quiet of a moonless sky. His hands gripped the wheel tightly, every sense sharp, listening for something he couldn't name.
He turned onto the dirt road leading to his farmhouse. The engine's hum filled the silence, until—
A shape flashed in his headlights.
He slammed the brakes, heart jolting. A deer, standing motionless in the middle of the road, its eyes reflecting the light like two silver coins. But as he watched, something about it seemed wrong.
It didn't move. Didn't blink. Its chest didn't rise or fall.
And then it turned—slowly—and slipped into the darkness, vanishing among the trees without a sound.
Samuel sat there for a long minute, pulse pounding.
When he finally drove on, he glanced once more into the rearview mirror.
The road behind him was empty.
But for just a second, he could have sworn he saw something standing there—tall and human-shaped, watching him drive away.