The deputies shifted their weight, boots crunching on the dry leaves. None of them spoke, though every man's hand hovered close to his weapon, as if steel and lead could hold back what lurked beneath.
Robert scanned their faces. Hard men, weathered by the land, but in their eyes he saw something he hadn't seen before—something colder than fear. Resignation.
"Sheriff," Robert said evenly, "when you tried before… what happened?"
The sheriff's jaw worked as though the words had weight. "The ground… swallowed it back. Spades, picks, even a bulldozer. Soil rolled in, smooth as water closing over a stone. By morning, there wasn't a trace."
Tom's breath came sharp and ragged. He dropped to his knees, clutching Ethan's shoe, then clawed at the dirt with his bare hands. The soil clung to his fingers, damp and heavy, almost sticky, as if it wanted him to stay buried in it.
"Tom—" Robert reached for him, but Tom jerked away, frantic.
"I don't care what this place does! My boy is down there!" His voice broke into a hoarse cry that carried through the still forest. The sound echoed strangely, bouncing back as though the trees themselves whispered it in return.
"Tom…" William's voice was low, careful. "You're making it louder."
The sheriff's face blanched. "What does he mean—'louder'?"
Robert grabbed his old friend by the shoulders, yanking him back. "Stop," he said firmly, eyes locked on the ground. "Don't give it reason."
Tom's chest heaved, his eyes burning. "Then what do we do, Robert?" His voice cracked, raw and broken. "If we can't dig… how do we reach them?"
The question hung in the heavy silence. No one spoke. Even the forest seemed to wait.
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Tom's house sat at the edge of the village, its windows dark except for the faint glow of a lamp inside. Robert had walked this path many times before, but tonight every step felt heavier.
When Tom pushed the door open, his wife, Mary, was waiting in the hall. She was pale, her hands twisting the hem of her apron, eyes swollen from crying. Behind her, two young girls—no older than ten and twelve—peeked out from the shadows.
"Tom?" Mary's voice cracked as she searched his face for an answer. When she saw Ethan's empty shoe in his hand, the last trace of color drained from her cheeks.
Tom froze in the doorway. For a moment, the weight of the shoe seemed unbearable, and his arm sagged to his side. Robert stepped in quietly, giving Mary a small nod of respect.
Mary turned to Robert, her lips trembling. "They said… he's gone, isn't he?"
"No," Robert said firmly, before Tom could speak. His tone was steady, the kind of voice that refused despair. "Ethan's not gone. Not yet. And we're not stopping until we find him."
The younger daughter clutched her sister's hand, whispering something Robert couldn't hear. The elder girl lifted her chin, trying to be brave like her brother, though tears welled in her eyes.
Tom finally moved, setting the shoe down on the table as if it were sacred. He drew Mary into his arms, holding her tightly as though to anchor them both.
"We'll get him back," Tom whispered into her hair, but the strain in his voice betrayed the doubt eating at him.
Robert looked around the small, warm room—the family portraits, the toys tucked into corners, the life that Ethan had been a part of. The silence pressed in like a weight, broken only by the sound of Mary's muffled sobs and the girls' restless shifting.
He clenched his jaw. This wasn't just about Ethan anymore. The shadow had taken five children, and if they failed, it would keep taking until no home in the village was safe.
Robert set his hand on the table, close to the shoe but not touching it. "We'll need to be ready. Whatever took Ethan doesn't want to be found. But it's not finished with this town—not by a long shot."
The lamp flickered, and for a heartbeat, the room seemed darker than it should have been.
_____________________________
Mary pulled back from Tom, wiping her eyes with the corner of her sleeve. She tried to steady herself for the girls' sake, but her voice still shook. "You need to eat, Tom. Both of you. You can't fight this on an empty stomach."
Before Tom could answer, the younger daughter, Anna, spoke in a whisper. "Daddy… I hear him at night."
The room froze. Mary turned sharply toward her, alarm flashing across her face. "Anna, don't—"
But the older girl, Clara, stepped forward, her chin lifted despite the tears welling in her eyes. "It's true. We both hear things. Scratches under the floorboards. Whispers. Like someone calling."
William, who had been standing silently near the doorway, looked up at that. His face was pale, but his eyes were wide with something more than fear—recognition.
Robert noticed instantly. "What is it, son?"
William hesitated, glancing at Anna and Clara as if afraid to frighten them more. Finally, he whispered, "They're not lying. I heard it too. Back at the forest… and here. The ground—it doesn't just listen. It speaks."
The girls turned to him, their small hands tightening together. Clara nodded quickly. "Yes! That's what it feels like. Like it wants us to listen back."
Mary pulled her daughters close, shaking her head in disbelief. "Stop it. All of you. Stop filling their heads with this nonsense." But her voice cracked, betraying the tremor of fear she couldn't hide.
Tom put a steadying arm around his wife, but his own face betrayed the same dread Robert saw in William's eyes.
The oil lamp flickered suddenly, shadows stretching long across the walls. For a breathless moment, it seemed as if the entire room leaned inward, listening.
Robert spoke low, his tone firm. "Then we'll listen too. But on our terms—not its."