Chapter 2: Shadows in the Appalachian Sun

But the truth is, the nightmare started years earlier.

Some memories never really fade, no matter how much you try to box them up. They just wait. Lurking. I’d spent years trying to forget, but every so often, the past would reach up and grab me by the ankle, pulling me back down into the dark.

Back then, I was about three or four years old. My mom often took me to visit relatives, and my favorite place was my great-aunt’s house.

That house was perched on the edge of a sleepy Appalachian town, all peeling white paint and sagging porch swings. I loved it there. My great-aunt smelled like cinnamon and Ivory soap, and she always slipped me a cookie when Mom wasn’t looking. The place felt like a safe little pocket of the world, tucked away from everything bad.

The place looked like something out of a postcard—mountains, wildflowers, the works.

You could see for miles from the back porch—rolling hills, thick with pine and maple, the sky so wide it made you feel small. Even now, I can smell the wildflowers if I close my eyes.

She lived at the base of the hills. Right next to a little general store.

That store was the kind of place that seemed frozen in time—wooden floors, a bell that jingled when you opened the door... It was magic, at least to a kid.

They talked on the porch. I wandered outside, chasing nothing in particular.

I remember the sunlight slanting through the trees, dappling the grass, and the sound of my mom’s laughter drifting through the screen door. I spun in circles until I nearly fell over.

The shopkeeper waved a pinwheel at me—bright red and blue. I couldn’t resist.

…

After that, it gets fuzzy.

Sometimes, I get flashes. Dusty sunlight through netting. The rough feel of bread against my teeth.

I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? The shopkeeper told me we were playing hide-and-seek, and I wasn’t allowed to talk or move. If nobody could find me, I’d win, and he’d reward me with a toy car and a pack of milk candies.

We left. For good.

She packed our bags that afternoon. Not even a slice of pie.