The Woods

Prologue

The first thing the woods ever took did not make a sound.

No screams or cries for help. Not even the small, startled noise a person makes when something goes wrong faster than the body can understand. It was a man named Ellis Crowe. Nobody remembers that name now.

But once, before Briar Falls had sidewalks and trimmed hedges and arguments carried across neat little streets, Ellis Crowe walked into those trees with a lantern in one hand and a rope over his shoulder, intending to do something simple and stupid. He never came back.

At the time, people explained it the way people always do when the world does something inconvenient. He slipped. He drank. He ran. He left.

Men gathered with rifles and boots that sank into soft earth and told each other stories about direction and common sense. They walked the edge of the woods in widening circles, calling his name until it lost shape in their mouths.

“Ellis!”

Nothing answered. The trees stood as they do. Present. Uninterested. The search lasted three days.

On the fourth, they stopped saying his name.

By the end of the week, they were already adjusting the story.

By the end of the month, they had decided what kind of man he must have been to disappear so completely. That was the easier part. It always is. But something did come back. It began small. The way rot begins.

Unnoticed at first. Then noticed too late to matter.

A boy from the edge of town—Thomas Hale’s grandfather, though he would not carry that name yet—came running out of the trees at dusk one evening, barefoot and bleeding from the knees.

He didn’t remember how he got there. He didn’t remember going in. He only remembered the dark. And something else. Something unseen. Just known.

When they asked him what had happened, he said something that did not fit in the mouths of children.

“It asked me.”

“What asked you?” his father demanded, gripping the boy’s shoulders harder than he meant to.

The boy blinked at him, eyes wide, trying to hold onto something already slipping.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It just… asked.”

“What did it ask?”

The boy hesitated. That hesitation stayed in the family longer than the story itself.

Years later, when he tried to tell it again, he could never quite find the same words.

But that first night, standing in a kitchen that smelled like woodsmoke and fear, he answered clearly.

“It said I didn’t have to stay.”

The room went quiet.

“What do you mean ‘stay’?” his mother asked softly.

The boy swallowed.

“It said I could leave.”

“And?”

The question came too quickly. Too sharp.

The boy’s eyes shifted, not toward the door, not toward the woods, but somewhere inward, like he was checking something he didn’t want to see again.

“And someone else could.”

No one spoke after that. Not for a long time. The boy lived. That was the part everyone agreed on.

The rest—what he meant, what he saw, what he almost said but didn’t—changed depending on who was telling it and how much they needed the world to behave.

But within a year, another man went missing. Then a woman.

Then a pair of brothers who had gone in together and did not come out at all.

And slowly, quietly, the town learned something it would never say out loud.

The woods did not take people at random. It waited. Time did what time always does. It softened the edges.

Turned terror into rumor, rumor into caution, caution into nothing at all. Paths were cut. Fences built.

Parks laid out at the edge like a compromise.

The trees were pushed back just enough to make people feel like they had won something.

Children were told not to wander too far. Teenagers did anyway. Adults forgot. That was the most important part. They forgot. Because forgetting makes a place livable. For a while. The woods never forgot. They did not need to remember names. They did not care about faces.

They did not measure guilt or innocence. They did not weigh fairness. They only asked. And they waited. Patient as soil. Still as roots.

Certain that sooner or later, someone would step wrong, fall through, or wander just far enough to hear the question clearly.

You don’t have to stay.

And when that moment came—when pain, or fear, or the simple animal need to survive pressed hard enough against a person’s ribs—

They always answered. Not always out loud. Not always honestly. But they answered. And the woods listened. Because the woods do not take. They trade. They always have.

And somewhere beneath the quiet streets of Briar Falls, beneath the arguments and routines and carefully maintained lives, that truth sat waiting. Unseen. Unspoken. Unchanged.

Waiting for the next voice to say a name.

​

​

Contents

Copyright 3

Prologue. 4

Contents. 8

The Woods. 10

Chapter 1. 11

Chapter 2. 22

Chapter 3. 33

Chapter 4. 46

Chapter 5. 55

Chapter 6. 62

Chapter 7. 76

Chapter 8. 81

Chapter 9. 87

Chapter 10. 95

Chapter 11. 103

Chapter 12. 109

Chapter 13. 120

Chapter 14. 130

Chapter 15. 138

Chapter 16. 143

Chapter 17. 148

Chapter 18. 158

Chapter 19. 167

Chapter 20. 169

Chapter 21. 178

Chapter 22. 185

Chapter 23. 192

Chapter 24. 199

Chapter 25. 206

Chapter 26. 213

Chapter 27. 226

Chapter 28. 236

Chapter 29. 245

Chapter 30. 253

Epilogue. 260

Author’s Note. 263

About the Author 266

Other Books by R. E. Smith. 267

Historical Fiction & Historical Horror 267

Horror & Supernatural Fiction. 267

Fantasy & Dark Epic Series. 267

Science Fiction. 268

Romance. 268

Nonfiction. 268

​

The Woods

 

 

Chapter 1

Gary Carter’s day started like most of them did: too early, too quiet, and already beneath him.

The house on Brook Street still held the cool from the night. It lingered in the kitchen tile, the countertop, the thin glass over the sink. Gary stood there in a wrinkled T-shirt and gym shorts, one hand on the counter while the coffee maker coughed and hissed its way toward being useful.

“Take your time,” he muttered. “It’s not like I’m getting old.”

Outside, the street was already awake in that Briar Falls way that didn’t need noise. Sprinklers clicked across trimmed lawns. A man two houses down stood in his driveway in loafers and gym clothes like he’d planned to exercise and decided to stand there instead. Somewhere farther off, a garage door grumbled open. Inside, the house stayed still.

No TV. No second cup on the counter. No voice from the bedroom asking about a tie, a charger, or yesterday’s folder.

Gary poured the coffee, took a sip too soon, and winced.

“Excellent,” he said. “Liquid roofing tar.”

He set the mug down and looked toward the back door. The dog still wasn’t there.

Gary narrowed his eyes at the empty room.

“That’s interesting,” he said. “Could’ve sworn you lived here.”

Nothing answered. The dog had a habit of disappearing—patrolling fences, chasing squirrels, inspecting other people’s yards like he paid taxes on them. Gary kept meaning to fix it. Train him. Patch the fence. Use the leash every time instead of when he felt like it.

Meaning to do something and actually doing it were two different lives.

He took another sip of coffee, glanced at the clock, then at the folded note on the counter.

Gone to the club early. Meeting before lunch.
Back later.
–D

Gary snorted.

“Of course you did.”

Daniel moved through the day like it owed him structure. Even his notes looked organized. Gary usually felt like he’d woken up halfway through something already decided.

He finished the coffee in three gulps, grabbed his keys, and took the leash from the hook.

“Let’s go find your freeloading ass,” he muttered.

The morning air hit him warm and damp, already promising heat. Brook Street sat neat and smug in the way only small-town neighborhoods could manage. Matching mailboxes, tidy hedges, flags swapped out by season, people pretending they weren’t watching each other through open blinds.

Gary locked the door and stepped off the porch.

He made it halfway down the walkway before a voice cut across the street.

“Hey. What the fuck is this?”

Gary stopped, closed his eyes for a second, and exhaled. There it is. He turned.

Paul Henderson stood barefoot in his yard, one hand on his hip, the other pointing at the grass like he was presenting evidence.

Gary squinted. “Morning to you too, Paul. Starting strong today?”

“Don’t act stupid,” Paul snapped. “You see this?”

Gary took his time crossing the street. No reason to reward urgency this early. He stopped a few feet away and looked down. A dark mess sat in the grass.

Gary nodded. “Well. I’m no scientist, but I’d call that dog shit.” Paul stared at him. “No kidding.”

“Glad we cleared it up.”

“That your dog?”

Gary shrugged. “Could be.”

“Could be?” Paul repeated. “Unless we’ve got some mystery animal targeting my yard, yeah, it’s your dog.”

“You’d make a hell of a detective,” Gary said. “Real instinct for the obvious.”

Paul stepped closer. Stained jeans, old plant T-shirt. Briar Falls Packaging. Half the town worked there, a quarter drank about it, the rest talked about leaving.

“I’m serious,” Paul said. “This is every week.”

“It’s not every week.”

“Every other week, then.”

“Oh, well,” Gary said. “Let’s get it into the record.”

Paul let out a short, humorless laugh. “You always got a joke when it’s somebody else’s problem.”

Gary glanced down again. “Paul, it’s shit. It’s outside. I don’t know what kind of ceremony you’re expecting.”

“I want you to keep your dog out of my yard.”

“And I want a lot of things,” Gary said. “Here we are.”

Paul pointed at the leash. “Then use it.”

“I am. You’ll notice I’m holding it.”

“You know what I mean.”

Gary shifted his weight. “You ever think maybe the universe gives you these little problems because it knows you need a hobby?” Paul’s face tightened. A curtain shifted in a nearby house.

Paul lowered his voice. “I pay good money to keep this place decent.”

Gary glanced around. Trimmed hedges. Fresh mulch. Decorative stone border.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s Versailles.”

Paul ignored it. “I’m not paying for lawn treatment so your mutt can kill my grass.” Gary looked at him.

There it was. Not just the mess. Something under it. He shrugged. “Then hose it off.” Paul barked a laugh. “Hose it off.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s your answer?”

“Unless you want me to apologize to the lawn.”

Paul stepped closer. “You lazy bastard.” Gary’s expression shifted slightly. “Careful.”

Paul kept going. “Everybody on this street deals with your dog because you can’t do the simplest thing.” Gary’s mouth twitched. “Everybody?”

“Yeah.”

“Name them.”

Paul frowned. “What?”

“You said everybody. Let’s hear it.”

“You know what, forget it.”

“No, go ahead,” Gary said. “I’m curious.”

Paul’s face reddened. “You think everything’s a joke.”

Gary tilted his head. “No. Just this. And you.”

Paul flared. “You know what your problem is?”

Gary gave a thin smile. “I enjoy hearing people try telling me.”

“You think you’re better than people.”

Gary let out a short laugh. “Because I don’t want a town meeting over dog shit?”

“Because you talk down to people.”

“Paul, if I were talking down to you, you’d know it.”

Paul didn’t stop.

“You walk into the plant like you earned something the rest of us didn’t.”

There it is. Gary should’ve walked away. Let it die. He didn’t.

“I do my job,” he said. “Same as you.”

“Not the same.”

Gary’s eyes narrowed. “No?”

“No. You didn’t get there by working harder.”

Gary went still. Across the street, a sprinkler ticked. A car passed. Paul kept going.

“You’ve got it easy because your husband sits in an office and people want to keep him happy.”

Gary stared at him.

“Keep going,” he said quietly.

Paul shook his head but didn’t stop. “You think people don’t talk?”

Gary smiled without warmth. “People like you always talk.”

“People like me.”

“Yeah. The ones more interested in other people’s lives than their own.”

“I work my ass off.”

“Then maybe put it toward something useful.”

Paul stepped in close.

“At least I know I earned where I am.”

Gary looked him over. Bare feet. Wet grass. Anger rolling off him. He could’ve stopped. He didn’t.

“That supposed to impress me?” Gary said. “You’re pushing forty and still loading drums. Maybe spend less time talking and more time figuring shit out.”

Paul’s expression shifted.

“Fuck you.”

Gary lifted his chin. “There he is.” Paul pointed at him, hand shaking. “You think because Daniel sits in an office that makes you somebody.”

“No,” Gary said. “It makes Daniel somebody. I’m just along for the ride.”

Paul stared at him. Then looked down at the grass again. At the mess. Like that’s where it still was.

He let out a breath. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Gary turned away. “That’s one word for it.”

“Keep your dog out of my yard.”

“Keep your eyes on your own.”

Gary crossed the street. Behind him, Paul stood there a second longer, then muttered something and went inside.

 

***

 

Inside, the Henderson house smelled like onions, toast, and coffee.

Janet stood at the stove, stirring a pan while flipping through a grocery ad. The radio played softly. She didn’t look up when the door shut harder than it needed to.

“If you broke something,” she said, “fix it before dinner.”

Paul kicked the door shut and grabbed a paper towel. “You’re not gonna believe this.” Janet snorted. “That feels literal.”

“It’s Gary again. His dog was in our yard.”

“Mm.”

“That’s all I get?”

She glanced at him. “Unless the dog drove over and hit the mailbox, I think I’ve got the picture.”

“He acted like I was the asshole.”

“Were you yelling?”

“That’s not the point.”

“That’s usually how that sentence ends.”

Paul scowled. “Whose side are you on?”

“The side that likes peace before nine.”

He took a drink. “Guy thinks he’s better than everybody.”

Janet looked at him. “No. Gary thinks he’s funnier than everybody.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really.”

She set a plate down. “You hungry?”

“I’m irritated.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He sat anyway. “He brought Daniel into it.”

“Or you did.”

Paul didn’t answer. Janet sat across from him. “You’ve got to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Turning every argument with Gary into something bigger.”

“I’m mad about the dog.”

“No,” she said. “You’re mad he gets under your skin.”

Paul stabbed at his food. “That guy’s had it easy since he got here.”

“Maybe.”

“He walks around like nothing sticks to him.”

“You only see him out there. That’s not everything.”

Paul shook his head. “People like him always land on their feet.”

Janet took a sip of coffee. “You say ‘people like him’ a lot.” Paul looked at her. “I mean it.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s the problem.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Paul pushed his plate away. “Whatever.” Janet let it go.

“We’re out of coffee filters,” she said. “And bread. And milk, I’ll go after work.”

“Good.”

She glanced at the ad again. “Carla said produce was bad at Briar Falls Market. I might go to Weller’s.” Paul grunted.

“Her kid’s got practice today,” Janet said. “Unless Sharon Pike turns it into a courtroom again.”

Paul snorted. “Those two still at it?”

“As far as I know.”

Paul leaned back. “Sharon could make a saint throw something.”

“True.” Janet rinsed her plate. “Carla’s about out of patience.”

Paul stared into his cup. Across the street, Gary moved around his kitchen, opening cabinets, glancing out. Paul looked away.

Janet dried her hands. “I might stop by Carla’s later.”

“Yeah.”

He went down the hall. Janet stayed at the sink a moment, looking out through the curtain.

Brook Street looked the same as always. Clean. Quiet. Everyone keeping something to themselves.

She turned back, picked up her phone, and typed:

You ready for tonight, or did Sharon finally make the news?

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

Carla Mendoza got Janet Henderson’s text while standing at the kitchen sink, elbow-deep in dishwater and already ten minutes behind.

You ready for tonight, or did Sharon finally make the evening news?

Carla stared at it, then let out a short laugh.

“Not yet.”

She dried one hand and typed back. Give me till tonight.

She set the phone down and went back to the dishes.

The house looked lived in. Not messy, just used. A backpack by the table. Cleats by the door. Mail stacked like a future problem. Laundry folded on the couch because “folded” and “put away” weren’t the same thing.

From the living room, her son called, “Mom, where’s my belt?”

“Where you left it.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“It helps me.”

A second later: “Found it.”

“Shocking.”

She rinsed the last plate and set it in the rack a little harder than necessary. The last practice hadn’t gone well.

It was the same thing it always was. Kids playing baseball under a brutal sky, parents sweating under canopies, everyone pretending they were there for the kids when half of them were there to watch each other.

And Sharon Pike had spent most of the third inning doing what she always did. Carla could still hear her. Some kids just don’t have the focus. Quiet enough to pass. Loud enough to land.

Carla dried her hands and checked the clock.

Still time before practice. Enough to clean up, throw on mascara if she felt like pretending she had the energy, and get Mateo across town without turning it into a fight.

Mateo walked in wearing baseball pants and one sock.

“Have you seen the other one?”

Carla looked at him. “How many feet you planning to use?”

He grinned. Ten years old. All elbows and appetite. “Depends how practice goes.”

She shook her head and pointed to the laundry basket. “Check there.”

He dug through it and pulled out the sock like he’d found something valuable.

“Got it.”

“Miracles.”

He pulled it on, then looked at her. “You mad?” Carla frowned. “Why?”

“You clean loud when you’re mad.”

She stared at him, then laughed. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

He shrugged. “You still mad at that lady from practice?”

Carla grabbed her keys. “Eat something before we go.”

“That means yes.”

“It means eat something.”

He went to the pantry. She watched him, the way he moved through the kitchen like everything could be fixed with food and enough time. She almost got irritated by it. Not at him. Just at how easy it still was for him.

That afternoon, by the time they got to the rec field, the parking lot was already filling up. Open trunks, folding chairs, parents hauling coolers like they were setting up for war instead of watching kids play ball.

Carla parked under the last patch of shade and killed the engine.

Mateo was halfway out before the car stopped moving.

“Helmet!” she called.

He popped back in, grabbed it, and slammed the door again.

“Love you!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

She watched him run off. The field stretched out in the heat—red dirt, clipped grass, chain-link fences already hot to the touch. Kids gathered near the dugout. Coaches in caps. Parents setting up in the same loose pattern they always did.

Carla grabbed her chair and scanned the sidelines.

Denise Roland with her oversized cup and permanent exhaustion. Mark Ferris pretending he understood the game. Old Mr. Keene sitting two fields over like this was the only thing keeping him alive. And Sharon Pike. Of course.

Sharon sat under a navy canopy in a white sleeveless top that cost too much for this setting. Legs crossed. Sunglasses on. Hair set like she didn’t sweat.

She held a bottle of water like it belonged in an ad. Carla almost laughed.

Some people were just exactly what they looked like. Sharon glanced over and smiled. Not friendly. Not hostile. Just enough.

Carla set her chair down a few families away and focused on adjusting the cup holder. Denise leaned over. “You good?”

Carla kept her eyes on the field. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you look like you’re about to key somebody’s car.”

“That would be childish.”

Denise nodded. “So you’ve narrowed the suspects.” Carla smirked. “Shut up.” The boys started warmups.

For a while, it helped. Bats, voices, the usual rhythm. Then Mateo missed a catch.

Nothing big. The ball skipped off his glove and rolled.

Coach Tanner clapped. “Shake it off. Reset.” Mateo nodded and ran after it.

And Sharon, from under her canopy, said, “Some kids just don’t have the focus for infield.” Carla heard it. So did Denise.

So did a few others who suddenly found something else to look at. Carla stayed still. Denise muttered, “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re about to.”

Carla stood anyway. Slow enough that people noticed.

She walked over and stopped at the edge of Sharon’s shade.

“Did you say something?”

Sharon lowered her sunglasses. “About what?” Carla smiled, tight. “You’ve got a lot to say about other people’s kids.”

“I was speaking generally.”

“Right.”

Sharon pushed the sunglasses back up. “If the shoe fits, maybe don’t get mad at me for noticing.” There it was. Clean. Polite. Sharp.

Carla folded her arms. “You ever get tired?”

“Of what?”

“Being like this.”

People were listening now. Sharon took a sip of water. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do.”

“I think kids improve when adults are honest.”

Carla let out a short laugh. “Honest.”

“Yes.”

“That what you call it?”

“Would you rather I pretend every kid’s perfect?”

“I’d rather you worry about your own.”

“I do.”

“Then stop managing everyone else’s.”

A coach yelled from the field. Heads turned, then turned back.

Sharon stayed calm. “You take things personally.”

“That’s because you mean them personally.”

A small pause. Sharon smiled slightly. “Not always.” That one landed. Carla felt the heat rise in her face.

“Say it straight.”

“I usually do.”

“No. You hide it so you can pretend you didn’t mean anything when someone calls you on it.”

A couple of people definitely heard that.

Sharon set her bottle down. “You seem tense.”

Carla laughed, sharp. “For someone who lives out here, you’d think your kid could hit inside pitches.” That changed something. Not much. Enough.

And Carla knew immediately she should’ve stopped. Sharon stood.

“Careful,” she said.

“Or what?”

Sharon glanced toward the field, then back. “Or you embarrass yourself. Again.” That hit. Because it was just true enough.

Carla felt the eyes around them, the quiet, the attention people pretended not to give. Her face burned. She stepped back first.

“Unbelievable.”

Sharon sat again. “You say that like it’s new.” Carla turned and walked away.

By the time she sat down, Denise was watching her like something unstable.

“You good?”

“No.”

“Want the honest answer or the nice one?”

Carla stared at the field. “If it sounds like Sharon, keep it.” Denise snorted. “Fair.”

For the rest of practice, Carla barely watched.

She clapped when others did. Said “good job” at the right times. Sat in the heat replaying every word until each one felt worse. That was the part that stuck. Not what Sharon said. How little it took.

Mateo jogged over, flushed and dusty. “Did you see that throw from second?”

“I saw it.”

“Pretty good, right?”

“The best throw in organized sports.”

He grinned. “Coach said I might start Saturday.”

“That’s great.”

He looked at her. “You still mad?”

“I’m fine.”

“You do that thing with your mouth when you’re not.”

“What thing?”

He showed her. She almost laughed.

“Seatbelt.”

She didn’t go straight home. Took the long way through town, windows cracked.

Briar Falls looked like it always did this time of day. Brick storefronts, hand-painted signs, people pretending everything worked.

She slowed at a light, glanced toward the bar—

—and saw Tommy Hale carrying a case of beer by the side door.

She pulled in before she thought about it.

“Sit tight,” she told Mateo.

“Where are you going?”

“Minute.”

She crossed the lot. Tommy set the case down and wiped his hands. “You look like you had a day.”

“Long one.”

He nodded toward the car. “That your backup?”

“My son.”

“Smart-looking kid.”

“He is when he wants money.”

Tommy smiled. “What’s up?” Carla folded her arms. “You ever have someone say something small that sticks all day?”

“All the time.”

“Sharon Pike.”

Tommy let out a low whistle. “Say no more.”

“No, I’m saying more,” Carla said. “Because if I don’t, I’ll sit at home replaying it until I start breaking things.”

“That bad?”

“She didn’t even do anything big. That’s what gets me. It’s always small. And if you react, you look crazy.”

Tommy nodded. “Sounds right.”

“I stood there and gave her exactly what she wanted.”

“Probably.”

Carla shot him a look.

“You want sympathy or honesty?” he said.

“Both.”

He thought about it. “She got to you. But she does that on purpose. So maybe don’t beat yourself up for losing to a professional.” Carla laughed. “That’s fair.” Tommy smiled. “There it is.”

She rubbed her forehead. “One day I’m just gonna get in the car and not come back.”

“You’d miss it.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“You would,” he said. “You’d be somewhere else complaining people don’t even know how to hate each other properly.”

She shook her head. “You’re annoying.”

“I bartend.”

She glanced at the bar. “You working tonight?”

“Always.”

“Lucky you.”

He hooked a thumb at the door. “If you need somewhere to complain, this place exists.”

“That’s generous.”

“It’s business.”

She smiled. Mateo honked the horn. Carla closed her eyes. “Right on time.” Tommy glanced over. “Kid’s got timing.”

“He gets it from his father.”

Tommy gave a small salute. “Go be responsible.” She turned to go, then stopped.

“Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

She thought about it. Then shook her head. “Nothing.”

He studied her for a second, then nodded. “See you.”

Back in the car, Mateo crumpled his wrapper. “That guy from the bar?”

“Yep.”

“Why were you talking to him?”

“Because grown-ups need recess too.”

Mateo accepted that. Carla pulled back onto the road.

The sun had dropped lower, laying gold across everything. The town looked softer than it deserved. It didn’t help. Sharon’s voice was still there. Sharp. Quiet. Stuck.

At the next light, Carla stared past town toward the trees.

“Mom?”

She blinked. “What?”

“The light.”

It was green. She hit the gas.

“Right,” she said, and drove on.