The gravel path stretched ahead of the group, winding toward the graveyard, and Leslie felt like her mind was running in circles. The morning was cool, and the air was crisp, but none of it could cut through the confusion swirling in her head. She kept her pace with the others—Josiah, Ivy, Coop, and Willy—but it felt like she was walking in a dream, watching herself move while everything inside twisted into knots.

Leslie didn't understand anything. She thought silently to herself about the secret she was harboring, that she knew in her gut she couldn't tell anyone.

The night she had been lost in the woods, when Old Sam had found her, she had been so scared, panicking, unsure of where she was or how to get home. And then he'd appeared—quiet and steady, his weathered hand outstretched. She'd taken it without thinking, her fear of being lost overriding everything else. Old Sam had led her home that night, through the dense trees and shadowed paths, neither of them saying a word. There had been no malice in him, no sign of the danger everyone claimed he posed to children like her. Just a silent presence that, if anything, had felt safe.

But that hadn't been the end of it.

After that night, whenever she was alone—walking along the back roads behind her house or anywhere else in the woods—the old man had been there, too... watching. He never spoke unless she did. Then, slowly, they started talking. Short conversations at first. She had kept her distance, guarded, as the whispers of what a predatory old man he was echoed in her head. But Old Sam had never done anything to harm her. He'd listen when she talked about school, about Emily and her cruelty, about the loneliness that followed her around like a shadow.

Old Sam had become her only friend in town, until Josiah showed up and took her to Pam's.

Leslie glanced at Josiah now, walking just ahead of her, his hair catching in the breeze. There was a warmth to him, a steadiness that drew her in—a light in all the darkness she'd been swallowed by for so long. But Josiah wasn't just Josiah. He was a Loomridge. Old Sam had warned her about that family after she told him she was connecting with Josiah lately.

"You can't trust a Loomridge," Old Sam had told her, his voice low and certain. "Not ever."

Leslie remembered being startled by his tone. "Why not? He's... he's been nice to me."

Old Sam's eyes narrowed. "Doesn't matter how nice they seem. The Loomridge family is bad news, girl. Always have been. They... they take more than they give."

She hadn't known what to say to that. It felt like such an unfair judgment, so harsh and final. She remembered shaking her head, trying to brush it off. "Josiah's not like that. You don't even know him."

"I know enough," he replied, his voice calm but firm. "They get inside your head. Make you trust them. But you'll see. Sooner or later..."

She wanted to believe in Josiah, in the connection she felt with this group walking beside her now. Could this feeling of belonging be trusted? Yet, they also made judgments about Old Sam, the only person who had been kind to Leslie from day one. The way they talked about him, dismissing him as dangerous, reminded her of the way the kids at school talked about her.

What proof did they have that Old Sam was actually bad?

None of them had seen him the way she had. None of them had spoken with him or listened to him. So why were they so sure he was something to be feared? Was he like the spiders in the story of the Weaver? Misunderstood, shunned because of rumors and fear? She remembered the way the Weaver had been ostracized by the people, just like how everyone in town ostracized Old Sam, pushing him to the edges of their world. But what if that fear was wrong?

She kept quiet as they walked, her eyes on the gravel beneath her feet, her mind spinning. The others were talking, but she wasn't really listening, not fully. Her thoughts were louder than their voices. There was something else gnawing at her, something that made the knot in her stomach even tighter.

Why wouldn't any of them tell her what their dreams had been about?

When it came up, there was this uncomfortable silence, this hesitation that told her they were keeping something from her. And now, heading to the graveyard, that silence felt even louder. She knew the dreams were about her, but she wanted to know more. Wasn't she owed some kind of explanation?

Leslie's pulse quickened as they passed Loomridge Haven on their right. They were growing closer to the graveyard, and her thoughts were still a chaotic mess. She didn't know who to trust anymore—not completely. Not Old Sam, not Josiah, not any of them. Not when everything felt so tangled, so uncertain...

She knew the truth was out there, buried beneath layers of fear, judgment, and secrets. She just didn't know where to find it yet...

They entered the graveyard. Past rows of gravestones the Ashbury Mausoleum loomed ahead, its foreboding stone walls darkened by moss and years of weather and erosion. The iron door, heavy and rusted, hung slightly ajar, as though something—or someone—was already there. Leslie could feel the collective unease ripple through the group.

Josiah narrowed his eyes at the door. "That shouldn't be open. Who'd come at this hour? Besides us, I mean."

Willy swallowed. "Something's wrong," he said.

He stared at the mausoleum, and his eyes darted between the door and the others. The fear was practically dripping off of him. He was terrified; Leslie could see it in the way his body stiffened and twitched.

Coop noticed too. He glanced at Willy, then down at the axe in his hand. Leslie was suddenly grateful he had made them wait before they left so he could get his axe from the car. Without saying a word, Coop hefted the axe over his shoulder and took a deep breath.

"I'll go in first," he said, his voice firm but low. Leslie saw a flash of relief in Willy's eyes, though he said nothing and nodded.

"Be careful," Ivy murmured, her voice thick with concern.

Without another word, Coop strode forward, pushing the heavy door open with a groan of metal. The darkness inside swallowed him whole as he disappeared into the mausoleum. The rest of them stood there, frozen in place, holding their breath.

The silence stretched out, growing more oppressive with every second. Then, cutting through the quiet like a blade, they heard it—a scream.

Who screamed? Keep reading to find out...