Clara Voss stepped off the creaking wagon train at midday, the sun already burning through the thin fabric of her dress. The air smelled of dust and sagebrush, the same scent that had clung to her mother’s apron when she’d left this town a decade ago. She adjusted the brim of her hat, squinting at the row of wooden buildings that made up the heart of Red Creek. The saloon’s sign creaked in the dry wind, its paint peeling like old skin. She hadn’t come back for nostalgia.
The sheriff’s office stood at the end of the street, its wooden plank door swollen from the humidity. Clara pushed it open, the bell above it jingling. Inside, a man in a faded uniform slouched behind a desk, chewing on a plug of tobacco. His eyes flicked up, sharp and assessing.
“Ain’t seen you around before,” he said, spitting into a tin can.
“I’m here about my brother,” Clara replied. Her voice was steady, but her fingers curled against the wood of the desk. The sheriff’s expression didn’t change.
“That’d be Eli Voss?” He leaned back, stretching his legs out. “He was a troublemaker. Got what he deserved, if you ask me.”
Clara’s stomach tightened. She’d known the man was corrupt, but hearing it aloud made her blood run cold. “He was my brother,” she said, the words tasting like ash. “I want to see the body.”
The sheriff snorted. “You ain’t got no right to that. But go ahead. The coroner’s tent’s back by the river.”
She turned on her heel, the door slamming behind her. The sun beat down as she walked, her boots crunching over gravel. The tent was a tarp stretched over sticks, the air thick with the sour stench of decay. A man in a white coat stood beside a wooden slab, his face hidden beneath a cloth.
“You here about the Voss boy?” he asked without looking up.
Clara nodded. The man pulled the cloth aside, revealing Eli’s face—pale, still, and frozen in a grimace. His throat was slit, the wound jagged and deep. Clara’s breath caught. This wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. This was something else.
“Cause of death?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Same as the others,” the coroner said. “But this one’s different. He was alive when it happened.”
Clara’s knees nearly gave out. She’d heard the rumors—the disappearances, the bodies found in the desert, all with the same mark on their skin. A symbol carved into their flesh, like a warning. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the steady thud of her heartbeat. Whatever this was, it wasn’t over.
That night, she rented a room above the general store, the floorboards creaking under her weight. The town slept in uneasy silence, broken only by the distant howl of a coyote. She pulled the curtain aside, peering into the darkness. The moon hung low, casting long shadows across the street. Something about this place felt wrong, like the air itself was holding its breath.
The next morning, she found the first clue. A scrap of cloth, torn and stained, tucked beneath a loose board in the store’s back room. It was blue, the same color as Eli’s shirt. She pressed it to her nose, catching a whiff of lavender—his favorite soap. A shiver crawled up her spine. Someone had been here, recently.
She spent the next week digging, following threads that led her deeper into the town’s secrets. The sheriff avoided her, his eyes shadowed with something she couldn’t name. The townsfolk spoke in hushed tones, their smiles tight and forced. Even the children seemed to know better than to ask questions.
Then there was the letter. It appeared on her doorstep one evening, sealed with black wax and bearing no return address. Inside, the words were scrawled in a shaky hand: *They’re coming for you next.*
Clara stared at it, her pulse hammering. She hadn’t told anyone about Eli’s murder, hadn’t even mentioned his name to the storekeeper. Whoever had left this note knew more than they should. She folded it carefully, tucking it into her pocket. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just about her brother anymore.
The confrontation came at dusk. She’d been waiting by the river, the water glinting like shattered glass in the fading light. A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and broad-shouldered. Clara’s hand went to the knife she’d hidden in her boot.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” the man said, his voice low and gravelly. “This town doesn’t need outsiders.”
“I didn’t come for the town,” she replied, her voice steady. “I came for answers.”
The man stepped closer, his face half in shadow. “You don’t understand what’s at stake. Those people—your brother, the others—they were part of something bigger. Something you can’t stop.”
Clara’s grip tightened on the knife. “Then why kill them? Why hide it?”
The man exhaled, a slow, measured breath. “Because they knew too much. And now you do, too.”
Before she could react, he lunged. Clara twisted aside, the blade slicing through the air where her throat had been. She drove her knee into his ribs, feeling the impact reverberate through her body. He grunted, stumbling back. She didn’t wait to see if he’d come again—she ran, her boots pounding against the earth as the night swallowed her whole.
She didn’t stop until she reached the edge of town, the river’s edge where the trees grew thick and dark. The air was cooler here, the scent of damp earth mingling with the distant sound of water. She collapsed against a tree, her chest heaving. The note, the letter, the man in the shadows—everything pointed to one thing: this wasn’t over.
As dawn broke, she made her decision. The sheriff would never help her. The townsfolk would turn their backs. But there were others—people who’d seen what happened, who’d kept quiet out of fear. She’d find them. She’d uncover the truth, no matter the cost. And if that meant standing against the entire town, so be it.
Clara stood, brushing the dirt from her dress. The sun rose over Red Creek, casting long shadows across the land. Whatever awaited her beyond this town, she’d face it head-on. The dust of forgotten trails would no longer hold her back.
