The night Marcus Hale returned to Ashford Creek, the moon was full and hungry.

He drove with the windows down despite the October chill, one arm resting on the door, his jaw tight and his dark eyes fixed on the road ahead. The pine trees on either side of the highway stood like sentinels, their tops swaying in a wind that carried something old and dangerous — something that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise one by one like soldiers answering a call to war.

He had been away for eleven years.

Eleven years of trying to forget what lived in these woods. Eleven years of building a different life in the city, of wearing clean suits and sitting in bright offices, of pretending that the things he had seen as a boy were nothing more than the fevered imagination of a grieving child. Eleven years of therapy, of whiskey, of women who could never quite hold his attention past the first month, and of waking up in cold sweats at three in the morning with the sound of his father's screaming still fresh in his ears.

And now he was back.

The letter had come three weeks ago. Handwritten on cream paper in the careful, slanted cursive of a man who had learned to write before ballpoint pens were common. The return address was the Ashford Creek Sheriff's Department. The sender was Sheriff Dale Pruitt, who had been his father's oldest friend and who had stood at the graveside eleven years ago with his hat pressed against his chest and tears cutting clean lines through the dirt on his weathered face.

Marcus, the letter had read. I know you said never again. I know you mean it every time you say it. But there have been six deaths in the past four months, and they are not like anything I have ever seen, and I have seen plenty in forty years of wearing this badge. They are not like anything a man or an animal should be able to do. I think you know what I mean. I think you are maybe the only person left alive who knows exactly what I mean. I am not asking you to come back. I am asking you to come home. There is a difference. Please, son. These are our people dying.

Marcus had read the letter four times, poured himself two fingers of bourbon, read it a fifth time, and then booked a flight.

He was not a hunter by trade anymore. He had walked away from that life when he walked away from Ashford Creek, and he had told himself it was forever. He had packed his rifle — the one with the silver-alloy barrel his father had commissioned from a gunsmith in Vermont who asked no questions — into a hard case, wrapped it in an old army blanket, and locked it in a storage unit in New Jersey without looking back. He had not touched it since. He had convinced himself he was done with that world, done with the dark knowledge his father had pressed into him like a brand when Marcus was barely old enough to understand what it meant.

There are things in this world that should not exist, Thomas Hale had told him once, sitting across from him at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee going cold between his hands. Marcus had been fourteen. It had been a Tuesday in March, the kind of unremarkable afternoon that you never expect to divide your life into before and after. Things that wear the shape of men and women but are not men or women. Things that answer to something older than God and older than the devil. And our family, son — our family has always been the ones who find them.

Marcus had nodded even though he had not fully understood. He understood now. He understood in the way that a man understands fire after it has burned his house down.

The town of Ashford Creek appeared around a long bend in the highway like something out of a painting that a mildly depressed artist had given up on halfway through. It was not ugly, exactly, but it carried the particular sadness of a place that had once been more than it currently was — a mill town that had outlived its mill, a farming community whose youngest generation had drifted away to cities, a cluster of clapboard houses and brick storefronts sitting in the bowl of a forested valley as though the mountains on either side were slowly pressing in.

The welcome sign had a crack running through the painted deer on its face. Someone had spray-painted something beneath the town population figure and then tried to paint over it, but Marcus could still make out the ghost of the words underneath: LEAVE BEFORE DARK.

He did not slow down to read it more carefully. He had seen warnings like that before and he knew what they meant and he knew they were almost always written too late.

Main Street was quiet. It was a Wednesday, just past nine in the evening, and the few businesses that still operated had their lights off and their doors locked. The diner — Mabel's, which had been there since before Marcus was born — had a handwritten sign in its window that he caught only a glimpse of as he drove past. It said, Closing at Sundown Until Further Notice.

The sheriff's station sat on the corner of Main and Prospect, a low brick building with a light burning in the front window and a cruiser parked crooked in the lot as though pulled in fast. Marcus turned in and sat for a moment with the engine idling, his eyes drifting to the tree line at the edge of town where the forest began in earnest.

Something moved in those trees.

It was probably nothing. Deer were thick in these woods. Raccoons, foxes, any number of creatures that had no interest in him. He knew that. He told himself that with the deliberate calm of a man who has spent years learning to talk himself down from the edge of something irrational.

But the thing in the trees did not move like a deer.

It moved like something that knew it was being watched and did not care. Slow and rolling and confident, there and then not there, a shadow dissolving into shadows. Then the trees were still and the forest was just a forest again and Marcus sat in the parking lot with his heart beating at a frequency he had not felt in eleven years.