LMS VII: The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows

A crime scene can be deceptive. Sometimes it is a physical place, and sometimes it is a memory, a sound, another person.

The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows

A sheriff in a fogbound town investigates a missing girl’s disappearance, only to discover the real crime scene may be his own memory. As bodies surface near Pineglass Lake and time begins folding back on itself, he must confront whether he is solving Ashfern’s curse or trapped inside it.

About:
⟡ Psychological horror
⟡ Small-town detective + clueless sidekick
⟡ Weeeeird town with a weird history
⟡ Supernatural business

where we're at

For Wynn, it is always 1991, and he is all too familiar with the fact that the drive to the lake takes eight minutes.

The road winds through a tunnel of trees, branches reaching out like fingers, scratching at the sides of the truck. Cal doesn’t speak, hands white-knuckled on the dash. The truck rumbles along the gravel road, headlights cutting through the gloom beneath the trees. Rain spits lightly on the windshield, not enough to smear, just enough to blur the edges of things.

When they pull up to Cabin Seven, the front door is wide open, swinging on its hinges like it’s been waiting. Cabin Seven sits crooked beneath a slouching pine. A crow hops along the porch railing, then flaps away into the woods. Wynn steps out, and his hair blows accordingly with the wind. His coat flaps against him. The air smells wrong: not just rot, but sweet, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. Rain gathered on his shoulders, sliding cold down the back of his neck. He wanted to feel the warm sun against his face, to sleep in the comfort of his own bed. 

Behind Wynn, the cabin seemed to breathe. The door swayed slightly on its hinges, the air spilling out thick and wrong. Inside, it’s dark, despite the windows. Dust hangs in the air like fog. A moldy blanket slumps over the edge of the couch, blooming along the cushions in gray-green patches. Floorboards groan beneath each step. Something foul stirs beneath the rot, sweet and metallic. He steps carefully, boot crunching on broken glass.

His boot nudges something on the floor: a silver pendant, shaped like a crescent moon. He crouches, lifts it gently. The chain is broken.

Behind him, someone--though, he can't remember the face--whispers: "That was Marnie’s. She wore it all the time."

Wynn remembers Marnie as a little girl on her bike, skinned knees and sunflower barrettes. He doesn't let it show, yet he hesitates to slip the pendant into an evidence bag from his coat pocket. A fox watches the road with glassy eyes. Its coat, streaked with damp, carries a dark stain beneath the jawline. It's slick with dew, or maybe blood.

The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows, Chapter 1.1