Chapter 1: House of Secrets

In Minnesota’s frozen north, even beauty can rot. Derek Walker, the town’s heartthrob, had a secret that would stain Maple Heights forever.

Antiques and rare coins can develop a patina—and so can corpses. In the icy reaches of northern Minnesota, there lived a strikingly handsome man, part Russian, part American, whose looks made women trip over themselves in grocery aisles and church pews alike.

His high cheekbones and ice-blue eyes could stop hearts on Main Street. In Maple Heights—a place where the only stoplight blinked yellow after 9 p.m. and the Dairy Queen sign was the brightest thing for miles—Derek Walker’s name was on every tongue at the Friday fish fry.

But behind closed doors, Derek’s charm curdled into something monstrous—something the town would never whisper until it was too late.

Beneath that magnetic smile, the real Derek was a monster. In the dark, after the snow piled against the farmhouse windows, nobody could imagine the horrors he harbored beneath the floorboards—his charm was just a mask hiding cruelty that seemed bottomless.

Police unearthed forty-one bodies from his home—so many that the forensic pathologist was poisoned by corpse toxins. The story spread from the Twin Cities out to the Dakotas: Maple Heights was now Minnesota’s own house of horrors, its name forever linked to a darkness that made seasoned deputies turn pale and coroners lose their breakfast.

Maple Heights, a small county town up north, was the kind of place where the county sheriff also coached football. Folks scraped ice off their windshields, prayed their radiators would make it till spring, and the land stretched flat and white, broken only by frozen lakes and sagging barns.

In a battered farmhouse on the edge of town, three men huddled around a wood-burning stove, eating mac and cheese straight from the pot. The tang of wood smoke mixed with the sharp bite of cheap whiskey, making the air taste like old secrets. The stove’s old iron belly glowed orange, fighting off the endless cold, and their breath fogged the air each time they laughed. On the battered farm table—scarred by an ancient gouge—mismatched mugs of whiskey clinked beside the cheesy dinner, the room thick with the scent of processed cheese and pine smoke.

Steam swirled, but nothing could hide Derek’s striking features. Even with a battered beanie and two-day stubble, he looked like he belonged in a cologne ad, not this busted-up kitchen. Magazine jaw, sly grin—he’d have made the Vikings’ poster boy, but here he was, passing a bottle and cracking jokes that made his friends howl.

At twenty-eight, Derek moved with a confidence that made people watch and wonder. He poured whiskey, ladled out food, and kept his buddies laughing—clapping Marcus on the back, teasing Big Lee about his appetite, topping off every cup. He played king of the kitchen, sliding the battered pot their way, making everyone feel like they belonged.

"C’mon, Marcus—eat up. Maybe you’ll finally grow a pair."

Derek’s eyes sparkled with mischief, egging Marcus and Big Lee on as he cut thick, greasy slabs of steak, holding one out on the tip of his knife, eyebrows raised in challenge.

Marcus and Big Lee gritted their teeth, forced down their nerves, and stuffed the meat into their mouths. After the first bite, they really did feel a little bolder.

Marcus wiped his mouth, shooting Derek a shaky grin. Big Lee whistled low, pretending to be braver than he felt. The kitchen filled with laughter, the whiskey burning away their hesitation, and for a moment, it felt almost normal—just three guys on a Friday night, ghosts silent beneath the floorboards.

The meal filled more than their bellies—the warmth from the stove, greasy fingerprints on chipped plates, the clatter of forks. For a heartbeat, it was just another winter night in Minnesota.

But as their bellies filled and whiskey flowed, the air changed. Derek shouted for two women from the back room to join them. He leaned back, stretching like a man in charge, a crooked smile on his lips.

One was the alluring mistress, Aubrey; the other, Derek’s plain-faced wife, Lillian. Aubrey, in too much eyeliner and a cocktail dress, shimmied out of her heels at the foot of the bed. Lillian, cardigan buttoned to her chin, eyes downcast, hovered at the doorway.

Lillian hesitated at the threshold, her eyes flicking to Aubrey, then down to her own hands. She forced herself forward, heart hammering, and perched at the edge of her chair, while Aubrey slid in close to Derek, hand on his shoulder. Even in silence, their rivalry was clear—there was no doubt who held the power here.

In front of everyone, Derek yanked Aubrey into his arms and kissed her hard. It was a show, possessive and theatrical—his lips lingered, his hand knotted in her hair. Lillian looked away, face ghostly in the lamplight.

Watching Derek with a woman on each arm, Marcus and Big Lee exchanged glances, envy plain on their faces. Women like Aubrey were just dreams for them—gone by morning.

Who could blame them? They were just his lackeys. In Derek’s world, being close meant taking whatever scraps he tossed your way—hopes, whiskey, and whatever else he didn’t need.

After several rounds of drinks, Derek’s words started to slur. He smirked as he reached for another pour, the stove crackling, bottle nearly empty, the air in the room growing tight.

"Guys, to be honest, business is tough these days. Money’s hard to come by."

Derek leaned in, voice dropping, bitterness slipping through the swagger. Even he couldn’t deny things weren’t going right—everybody felt the squeeze up north when jobs dried up and the cops circled closer.

"Ain’t that the truth? We risk our necks for a few bucks. What we do is a job with our heads on the chopping block... hic," Marcus mumbled, looking miserable.

Marcus’s words landed heavy, his face flushed and worried. He stared into his glass as if looking for answers.

"Lately, there’s a saying going around: ‘If you want to die, come to Maple Heights.’ Outsiders are too scared to come now."

Big Lee snorted, shifting uneasily. The only noise was the pop and hiss of wet wood in the stove. They all knew the rumors, and why no one wanted to set foot near Derek’s place.

They hadn’t made a dime in ages. Every job dried up—too many close calls, too many bodies in the cellar. Even Derek’s nerves were fraying.

Derek’s face hardened. The playful host vanished, replaced by a cold-blooded predator. The room went silent. Marcus’s knuckles whitened around his fork. Even Big Lee’s laugh died in his throat.

"Work hard for me. Do well, and there’s whiskey and steak. Slack off, and you’ll end up like the corpses in the cellar."

The words landed like a hammer. Nobody doubted he meant it. The wind howled through the farmhouse walls, and suddenly, the stove’s warmth wasn’t enough.

Derek slammed the butcher knife into the table, the blade quivering like a warning bell. The handle rattled, the echo of metal on wood sending shivers down everyone’s spine. The threat was clear.

Neither man dared to move. They glanced at the bones on the cutting board, a chill running down their spines.

Derek was ruthless—a man who meant what he said. If he lost his temper, he could really chop them up. Marcus fiddled with his napkin, Big Lee stared at the stove, both men sobered by the threat. The old farmhouse seemed to shrink, every creak amplified by fear.

Suddenly, a rapid knock shook the door. A jolt of panic shot through the kitchen—everyone froze, forks halfway to their mouths.

"Damn!" Derek’s heart skipped, hair standing on end. He pushed back from the table, every nerve on alert. "Shit, I haven’t even cleaned up what I just chopped."

He waved at Marcus to cover the exposed bones with plastic. Marcus scrambled, tossing a stained tarp over the remains as Derek wiped his hands on his jeans. Big Lee reached for bleach. The tension was thick enough to choke on.

Whatever came, they’d handle it. No matter who it was.

The door creaked open—it was the landlady. Everyone exhaled as Mrs. Grant’s sharp silhouette filled the doorway. She stood there in her quilted robe and snow boots, hair in curlers, scowl deepening.

She pinched her nose, barking, "What the hell are you boys burning in there? Smells like you’re cooking roadkill."

Derek leaned in the doorframe, picking his teeth with a toothpick. "Just steak, Mrs. Grant. You want a bite, or you just here to complain?"

She rolled her eyes, waving a gloved hand in front of her nose. "You kids and your nonsense," she muttered, shuffling away down the snowy path.

Derek’s charm never fooled her, but even so, folks in town always felt uneasy around him. In a place where everyone knew everyone, his good looks didn’t stop people from locking their doors a little tighter.

Inside, everyone breathed a sigh of relief—the crisis had passed. Outside, the wind rattled the loose windowpane, but inside, everyone just listened to the sound of their own breathing.

"Looks like we can’t stay in this dump. When spring comes and it warms up, those dozens of corpses with their ‘patina’ will stink to high heaven. The cops will show up for sure."

Derek mapped out a new plan—he’d take Aubrey and Marcus south for a big score, then come back to move everyone somewhere new. He tapped a greasy finger along the route, eyes darting to the distant red-and-blue lights down the road.

Big Lee and Lillian would guard the house, watching the farm like nervous sentries.

Before leaving, Derek pressed a burner phone into Lillian’s hand, squeezing her fingers. "I’ll contact you every two weeks. If you don’t hear from me, something happened."

He never guessed those words would become a prophecy. Fate, it seemed, had plans he couldn’t charm his way out of.