We passed a few townsfolk on the way—people who could've been from home, looking eager to lend a hand. I pushed straight through them without a second glance. My grandma always said only rude folks ignored good-hearted people, but if she knew her own daughter was dying, she'd be mowing right through them too.
Mom looked… awful. Like she was already halfway gone. Janae led me to this woman's house on the far side of town. The place felt different, darker, but it wasn't like Charles' house—this one was outside the forest borders. There it was: the sign, "Blackwood Forest," and beneath it, in bold, looming letters: "Danger: serious injury and death have occurred here. No public access!" My stomach clenched. Really? Had I just walked through a death-trap forest? The memory of the gory details they'd warned about made my spine crawl. And knowing an old man lived out here somehow made it even worse.
Finally, I saw it—a tiny shack at the edge of the forest, barely more than a heap of rotting wood. It reeked, swarming with flies, like a place people dumped their trash and ran. It looked like our house might have if it'd been left to rot and decay for a century. Who the hell could live like this?
"So, this is it?" I asked, sizing up the sagging porch.
"Ms. Betty, we need your help!" Janae and her dad both called from the doorway, not daring to step inside. They yelled as if that was normal here. Was no one going to knock?
"For real?" I muttered. "You're all useless." I marched up to the door, but the mayor pulled me back.
"What are you doing?" he yelped, eyes wide. "She's… she's a monster."
A monster? I rolled my eyes. "Isn't that why we're here?"
"Well, we were told not to make eye contact with her…" Janae stammered, inching back.
"Are you kidding me right now?" My voice rose. "What are you planning to do? Yell until my mom dies so we can take our time getting to the morgue?"
"Hey, Ms. Betty, we need your help!" I shouted at the door.
It flew open with a bang, and a wild-haired woman stepped out, balancing awkwardly on a wooden leg that she didn't seem too interested in hiding.
"Ms. Betty," Janae started, but her dad pulled her back, signaling me to follow. I didn't.
"Ms. Betty," the mayor began, his voice wheedling, "we need you to come to the hospital with us. The lad here—his poor mother needs treatment. Surely, you wouldn't refuse a young man some help?" He pinched my face like I was five. Ms. Betty's gaze locked on me. Her eyes were a hard, muddy brown, full of something fierce and raw, a look I'd seen in my mom's eyes when she thought no one was watching. This woman wasn't just tough—she was unhinged.
"You know the way or not?" I demanded, arms folded. Mom lay collapsed nearby, her breathing ragged. She didn't have time for all this.
Ms. Betty gave me a curt nod. "You don't look old enough to drive," she remarked.
"Yeah, I'm not," I shot back.
"Well, I'll drive," she said, eyeing me like she'd have sooner cut off her other leg than let me take the wheel again.
"Can you even drive?" I couldn't help glancing at her wooden leg. It might've been rude, but this was no place to trust anyone blindly.
"Looks like you've done a great job so far," she snorted, pointing at my purple fingers, where my grip on the steering wheel had cut into the skin. I hadn't even noticed the sting until she mentioned it.
"Fine," I grumbled. "Let's just get going." But as Ms. Betty made her way to the car, the mayor's expression turned sour, almost hostile, like he'd rather die than sit next to her. What was his deal? Did he have some old grudge against her?
"Wonderful. Now we've got everyone, including the [insulting nickname], behind the wheel," he muttered.
Ms. Betty just laughed, the sound like rocks grinding together. "How's your wife these days, [mayor's name]?"
"None of your damn business," he snapped.
"Some things never change." She looked over at me, smirking. "Good thing we've got some fresh meat in the house."
"Oh, don't be so sure," the mayor retorted. "This boy and his family—strong, decent folks. They can handle anything."
She chuckled, low and menacing, casting a knowing glance my way. "Better learn not to fret, kid. Once you choose certain doors, other people stop mattering. Not like you'll have many left to cry over."
I shot her a look. "What's that supposed to mean?" She just looked away, saying nothing.
The ride was silent, the only sound Mom's labored breathing. Every few minutes, I'd reach over to check her pulse, each time a little slower, a little fainter.
"Once you choose certain doors, other people stop mattering." Her words kept gnawing at me. Was she warning me? Was that some twisted threat? I wanted to ask, but in a town like this, answers were rare, and the few you got were almost never what you wanted to hear.