The Fear of Stonneville

Chapter 2 Shadows in the

Morning Light

I wake up in a cold sweat, the saline sting of the water seeping from my skin soaking into my pink nightdress. I sit up slowly, staring into the gloom of my room. It should be a sanctuary—a haven of peace—but all I see is an extension of the dark world I escaped in my dream. Every shadow seems alive, every corner hiding the echoes of things unseen. But society expects a façade, so I slip it on like a second skin. I brush my hair, dress myself, and prepare for the monotonous routine of another day at high school.

“Hi, Mum. I’m fine. Yep, nothing’s wrong at all.” The lies come easy, rehearsed and hollow. I eat breakfast, going through the motions, my limbs moving as if under another’s command. Even as I step into my used Ford Focus—a clunky 2002 model with a stubborn engine that refuses to give up—the images of my dream claw at the edges of my thoughts. The drive to school, once a rare moment of solace, does nothing to soothe me. My mind churns, replaying the nightmares in vivid clarity.

Lost in those visions, I barely notice the boy on the bicycle at the pedestrian crossing until it’s almost too late. My foot slams the brakes, the car lurches to a stop. For an instant, the boy’s face twists into something familiar—a look of terror etched in every line, every feature. Chase Hoodlands. That same look, that same dread I saw in his final moments. My hands tremble on the wheel as I struggle to breathe, to regain control. Only the shrill blare of a horn from the car behind me snaps me out of it.

I drive on, still shaken, and pull into Lane’s driveway. My boyfriend climbs into the passenger seat, all sunshine and ease. His presence is a balm, his corny jokes a fragile lifeline. Lane is new to Stonneville, a fresh perspective in a town burdened by its past. He’s my light, my tether to something brighter, and for a moment, I let myself smile. I kiss him, thankful for his warmth. Together, we arrive at school, the world just a little less heavy with him by my side.

The routine of the day grinds on. Michelle greets me with her usual grin, asking to copy my homework. “Why don’t you do it yourself? That’s cheating, you know,” I say, the words automatic. She laughs, brushing it off with one of her cryptic remarks about climbing corporate ladders. Chives lurks nearby, trailing after her with the persistence of a shadow, though she hardly gives him a glance.

The twins, Trent and Lizzie, catch my attention next. They seem off—somber, weighed down by something I can’t yet name. I don’t get the chance to ask. The bell rings, calling us into the monotony of class. But as I take my seat, something feels wrong. Two desks stand empty—Rodney’s and Krystal’s. The silence they leave behind is louder than any classroom chatter.

Trent and Lizzie sit with their heads bowed. A growing unease coils in my stomach. Then Mr. Hilla walks in, his usual cheerful demeanour replaced by an oppressive gloom. I already know what he’s going to say. He confirms it with each heavy word: Rod and Krystal are dead. Their bodies were found mutilated on the Stonneville mountain trail. The police say it was a black bear.

My mind rejects the explanation. Bears avoid people, keep to the other side of Lake Chrysalis where their food is abundant. The mountain trail is busy—too busy for a bear to wander so close. But maybe this was a once-in-a-thousand anomaly, a freak accident of nature. Or maybe it wasn’t.

As Mr. Hilla speaks, his voice becomes distant, drowned out by the thoughts swirling in my mind. Two of my friends are dead. What was it like for Trent and Lizzie to lose their cousin? For all his ambitions, his plans for the future, Rod is now just a name etched into Stonneville’s tragedy.

I stare out the window, my eyes catching on the shifting branches of a tree. For a moment, I almost smile, admiring the beauty of the day. But then I see it—him. A tall figure in a maroon hoodie, standing at the edge of the trees. I can’t make out his face, but he feels wrong. Out of place. A familiar dread seeps into my chest, heavy and cold. It’s as if he’s watching me, waiting. The moment stretches endlessly, until the sharp slam of Mr. Hilla’s hand on my desk startles me.

“Linda, something you wish to share with the class?” he asks. My throat is dry; words fail me. I glance back at the window, but the figure is gone. Moved on, or perhaps just imagined? The line between reality and my fraying thoughts blurs further.

“Perhaps, Linda, you’d like to solve the problem on the board,” Mr. Hilla presses. I manage to scrape together an answer—the subject happens to be one I know well enough to avoid detention—but my reprieve is temporary. Whatever shadowed truths lie ahead, they wait for no one.