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+Chapter 2: The Train
+
+The metallic screech of the departing Amtrak was still ringing in Marcus’s ears when he realized he’d left his mother’s ring on the seat back tray. It was a small, silver-thin mistake that felt like a hole being punched through his chest. He spun around, the heavy canvas of his duffel bag clipping a woman in a beige trench coat, but the silver streak of the train was already blurring against the damp gray of the station platform. It carried with it the only thing he had left that didn't smell like a hospital or a funeral home.
+
+"Watch it, kid," the woman snapped, clutching her purse.
+
+Marcus didn't apologize. He couldn't. His throat had fused shut, a dry, tectonic shift of grief and panic. He watched the tail lights of the train vanish into the mist of the Pacific Northwest, leaving behind a plume of diesel smoke and the realization that he was officially alone. Cypress Bend wasn’t just a destination anymore; it was the cage door clicking shut.
+
+He turned back toward the station, his boots thudding hollowly on the concrete. Every step felt heavier than the last, his body reacting to the five hundred miles of distance he’d just put between himself and the life that had vanished in a single, rain-slicked intersection six months ago. 
+
+The station was a relic of wood and iron, smelling of wet wool and floor wax. Marcus moved through the lobby like a ghost, his tall, lanky frame hunched beneath the weight of his bag. He found a payphone near the lockers—a prehistoric piece of technology that felt appropriate for a town that time seemed to have forgotten. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. *Elias Thorne. 555-0129.*
+
+His grandfather. A man Marcus hadn’t seen since he was six years old, whose only contribution to Marcus’s life had been a series of increasingly detached birthday cards containing crisp twenty-dollar bills and no return address. 
+
+Marcus fed a quarter into the machine. The dial tone was a lonely drone. He punched the numbers with a shaking finger. 
+
+"Yeah," a voice growled on the third ring. It wasn't a greeting; it was a challenge. It sounded like gravel being turned over in a bucket.
+
+"It's Marcus," he said. He hated how small his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm at the station."
+
+There was a long silence. Marcus could hear the heavy, rhythmic rasp of a smoker’s breath on the other end. "I'm ten minutes out. Stay on the curb. Don't go wandering."
+
+The line went dead. No *Glad to have you,* no *Sorry about your mom.* Just the command to stay put. Marcus hung up the receiver and leaned his forehead against the cold metal of the phone box. He stayed there until another traveler cleared their throat impatiently behind him.
+
+The air outside the station was sharp, tasting of salt and rotting cedar. It was a different kind of cold than the dry, biting winters of the city he’d left behind; this was a damp, invasive chill that settled into the bone and stayed there. Marcus sat on his duffel bag at the edge of the curb, staring at the forest that pressed right up against the town’s jagged edges. The trees were massive, suffocatingly green, their branches draped in moss that looked like drowned hair. 
+
+He dug a cigarette out of his pocket—a habit he’d picked up during the weeks of the trial—and fumbled with a cheap plastic lighter. His hands wouldn't stop the micro-tremors. He looked at the scars across his knuckles, white and jagged, the physical remnants of the night the windshield had turned into a thousand diamonds. He could still feel the glass under his skin sometimes, itchy and wrong.
+
+A rusted, forest-green Chevy pickup truck slowed to a crawl in front of him. It rumbled with a deep, unhealthy cough, spitting blue smoke from the tailpipe. The driver’s side window rolled down with a manual crank, revealing a man who looked like a rough-cut sculpture of Marcus’s own father. Elias Thorne had a beard the color of wood ash and eyes like flint. He wore a heavy flannel jacket that had seen better decades.
+
+"Get in," Elias said. 
+
+Marcus grabbed his bag and tossed it into the truck bed, where it landed with a thud against a stack of firewood and a rusted toolbox. He climbed into the passenger seat, the springs of the bench groaning under his weight. The interior smelled of tobacco, chainsaw oil, and old dog.
+
+Elias didn’t look at him. He shifted the truck into gear, the transmission grinding in protest, and pulled away from the curb. They drove through the main drag of Cypress Bend—a collection of salt-pitted buildings, a diner called *The Rusty Anchor*, and a hardware store with a "Back in 15" sign taped to the glass. 
+
+"You look like your mother," Elias said after five minutes of silence. It wasn't a compliment. It sounded more like a grievance.
+
+"I have her eyes, apparently," Marcus replied, staring out at the passing storefronts. "That's what everyone at the funeral said."
+
+Elias’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning the color of bone. He didn't ask how the funeral was. He didn't ask how the drive was. He didn't ask anything at all. He just drove, weaving the truck up into the foothills where the road transitioned from asphalt to gravel, and the forest grew so thick the daylight seemed to surrender.
+
+"There's rules in my house," Elias said, his voice cutting through the rattle of the dashboard. "I don't care what you did back in the city. I don't care about the trouble they say you got into. Here, you work. You don't go into the woods after dark. And you stay out of the basement."
+
+"The woods? Why? Bears?" Marcus asked, his tone tilting toward the defensive sarcasm that was his only remaining shield. 
+
+Elias turned his head then, just enough for Marcus to see the deep, jagged scar that ran from the corner of the older man’s eye down into his beard. "Because things go missing in the dark, Marcus. I don't intend for you to be one of them."
+
+Marcus turned his gaze back to the window. The trees were passing by in a blur of dark needles and shadows. He thought about the ring back on the train, moving further and further away, sitting on a plastic tray in an empty car. It was gone. Everything was gone. 
+
+The truck turned onto a long, rutted driveway that led to a house that looked like it was being reclaimed by the earth. It was a two-story structure of dark timber, perched on a rise overlooking a gray, churning stretch of the river. The porch sagged, and the windows looked like cataract-clouded eyes. 
+
+Elias killed the engine. The silence that followed was absolute, terrifyingly deep. No sirens, no tires on wet pavement, no distant hum of the city. Just the wind through the pines and the frantic beating of Marcus's own heart.
+
+"Take your bag up to the room at the end of the hall," Elias said, stepping out of the truck. "Dinner’s at six. If you’re late, you don't eat."
+
+Marcus watched him walk toward a shed behind the house, his gait heavy and stiff. Marcus climbed out, the gravel crunching under his boots like breaking teeth. He walked to the back of the truck and grabbed his bag, the canvas rough against his palm. 
+
+As he turned toward the house, he caught a flicker of movement at the edge of the tree line. 
+
+He froze. It wasn't a bear. It wasn't a deer. For a split second, he saw what looked like a person—pale, impossibly thin—standing just behind a massive cedar. But as soon as Marcus narrowed his eyes to focus, the shape vanished, dissolving into the shifting shadows of the ferns. 
+
+He stood there for a long moment, the cold wind biting at his neck. His mother used to tell him that the mind plays tricks when it's tired, that grief makes you see things that aren't there. But Marcus didn't feel tired. He felt wired, his nerves jumping like live wires in a storm. 
+
+He hiked the bag higher on his shoulder and headed for the front door. The porch wood groaned under his weight, a long, low sound like a dying indrawn breath. He stepped inside, and the darkness of the house swallowed him whole.
+
+The hallway was a tunnel of shadow. Faded wallpaper peeled in long, dead ribbons, and the air held the scent of woodsmoke and something sharper, like copper. Marcus found the stairs and climbed them, the wood shrieking with every step. He found the room at the end of the hall—a small, cramped space with a narrow bed and a window that looked out over the river. 
+
+He dropped his bag on the floor and walked to the window. The water below was black, rushing over jagged rocks with a violence that made his head swim. He pressed his hand against the glass. It was freezing, the cold vibrating through his skin.
+
+He thought about the ring again. He thought about the way his mother’s hand had felt when he’d held it in the ICU—cold, just like this glass. He let out a breath, fogging the pane, and drew a small, jagged circle in the mist with his finger.
+
+A sudden, sharp thud came from the wall behind him. 
+
+Marcus spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs. The wall shared a border with the room next door—a room that Elias had said was off-limits. He waited, held his breath, listening to the house settle. 
+
+*Thump.*
+
+It wasn't the house settling. It was a deliberate strike against the wood. Marcus stepped toward the wall, his boots silent on the threadbare rug. He placed his ear against the cold plaster. 
+
+On the other side, he heard a sound that made the hair on his arms stand up. It was a low, rhythmic scratching, like nails dragging across floorboards. And then, a whisper. It was too muffled to make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable. It was a plea.
+
+Marcus reached for the doorknob of his own room, intending to go out and check the hallway, but the door wouldn't budge. He twisted the handle, putting his weight into it, his knuckles turning white. 
+
+The door was locked from the outside. 
+
+He wasn't a guest. He wasn't even a grandson. As the realization settled in, the scratching on the other side of the wall grew louder, more frantic, and Marcus realized with a jolt of pure, icy terror that the person in the next room wasn't trying to get out—they were trying to warn him. 
+
+He backed away from the door, his heel catching on his bag. He hit the floor hard, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp. From the hallway, he heard the heavy, slow thud of Elias’s boots on the stairs. *Thud. Thud. Thud.* 
+
+Marcus scrambled to his feet, eyes darting around the small room for a weapon, a way out, anything. The window was too high, the drop into the river below a certain death. The footsteps stopped right outside his door. 
+
+The key turned in the lock with a heavy, metallic click that sounded like a bone snapping. The door swung open, and Elias stood there in the shadows, his face unreadable. He held a tray with a bowl of gray stew and a single slice of bread. 
+
+"I told you," Elias said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Dinner is at six. You should have been downstairs."
+
+"The door was locked," Marcus said, his voice shaking. "Why was the door locked?"
+
+Elias stepped into the room, his presence filling the small space until Marcus felt like he was being crushed. He set the tray down on the small wooden desk. He didn't answer the question. Instead, he looked at the wall where the scratching had been. 
+
+"The house is old, Marcus. It makes noises. You’d do well to ignore them."
+
+"That wasn't the house," Marcus countered, his anger finally overriding his fear. "There’s someone in that room."
+
+Elias’s hand moved faster than Marcus could track. He grabbed Marcus by the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric and lifting him almost off his feet. The smell of tobacco and sweat was overwhelming. 
+
+"You listen to me," Elias hissed, his eyes burning like cold coals. "You are here because nobody else would take you. You are here because you have nowhere else to go. You will eat your dinner, you will stay in this room, and you will not speak of what you think you hear. Do you understand?"
+
+Marcus stared into his grandfather’s eyes and saw something there that wasn't just anger. It was a frantic, desperate kind of vigilance. Elias wasn't just a jailer; he was a sentry.
+
+"I understand," Marcus whispered.
+
+Elias let go, shoving him back toward the bed. He turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him. The key turned in the lock again. 
+
+Marcus sat on the edge of the bed, the silence of the room heavier than it had been before. He looked at the bowl of stew, the steam rising in thin, mocking curls. He thought of the ring on the train, the silver band carrying his mother’s name. He was hundreds of miles from anything he knew, locked in a room in a house that breathed, with a man who looked at him like he was a ghost. 
+
+He walked back to the wall and pressed his hand against it. The scratching had stopped. The house was silent again.
+
+But as he leaned his head against the plaster, a single word drifted through the wood, as clear as if it had been spoken right into his ear.
+
+*"Run."*
+
+Marcus pulled his hand away as if the wall had turned into red-hot iron. He backed toward the window, looking out at the dark, roiling river and the endless, black wall of the forest. The trees seemed closer than they had been an hour ago, their branches reaching out toward the house like skeletal fingers.
+
+He wasn't going to wait for dinner tomorrow. He wasn't going to wait for the rules to change. He looked at his bag, then at the locked door, then back at the window. 
+
+The river was a long way down, but the house was already starting to feel like a tomb. Marcus grabbed his duffel and began to tie the strap to the bedpost, his fingers moving with a frantic, desperate precision. He didn't know where he was going, and he didn't know what was in the woods, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty.
+
+If he stayed in this room, he wouldn't be the next person scratching at the walls; he’d be the reason the next person was.
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