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Tom was breathing heavily as he sped down the road. Some of the streets were still flooded from the storm but he tried to avoid the worst as he made his way to town hall. Dr. Morgan was there. He needed to get to Dr. Morgan.
“Come on, Ruth,” he said frantically as he looked to the passenger seat. There Ruth was, slumping against the door as blood trickled down her neck. He shook her and she groaned, her eyes opening without any real focus. “Come on. Stay with me, ok? You’re going to be alright.”
“T-Tom,” she slurred, the drugs and blood lose taking effect. “I-I-I don’t feel – feel sooo good.”
“I know. I know,” he gasped out. His throat felt tight as tears fell down his cheeks. “You just need to stay awake. You can’t fall asleep, alright? You have to just stay awake and keep talking to me.”
Ruth groaned again, her eyelashes fluttering shut. He shook her again and her face pinched in pain and discomfort. “Come on, Ruth. T-tell me another story. One about all those men who made passes at you.” He let out a laugh that sounded almost hysterical. “There has to be more men and women who tried their hand at getting with Miss Widow’s Bay 1959.”
Ruth sighed. “Y-yeah. There were,” she said in a near whisper. Tom looked between the road and Ruth, waiting for more but when Ruth said nothing else it was clear she was fading again.
“Ruth! Dammit! Stay awake!” But nothing. He cursed as he increased his speed.
Looking in his rearview mirror Tom spotted Bechir following close behind. It set Tom on edge. The storm may have mysteriously stopped, but that didn’t mean that Bechir or Wyck or anyone else who may know the truth about the curse wouldn’t try to do something. That they wouldn’t try to hurt Ruth. Wouldn’t try to hurt Evan.
They made it to town hall in record time. They came to a screeching stop, Tom just barely missing a couple of people who came barreling out of town hall like their lives depended on it. Tom frowned as he saw the terrified faces, fleeing from the building. What the hell happened here? Knowing this town, it could be anything.
He didn’t spare it another thought. He rushed from the car, rounded to Ruth’s side, and opened her door just in time to catch her as she tipped forward. After fumbling her free of the seatbelt, he gathered her into his arms. His heart sank at the dead weight of her body.
Bechir stepped toward him as if to help, but Tom shifted Ruth farther out of his reach. “Don’t,” he growled.
For a moment, guilt cut through him at the wounded look on Bechir’s face. Was Tom really any different from him? But he couldn’t afford to think about that now. Ruth needed help.
A couple of people stopped in shock as they saw their mayor carrying the bleeding and unconscious body of his elderly assistant, looking frantic as he rushed inside.
“What happened to Ruth?”
“Is she alright?”
“Oh my God, is that blood?”
“She’s dead!”
He ignored them and shouted, “Where’s Dr. Morgan??” Several people shied away from the frantic shout which only angered Tom further. “Where is he?!”
“He’s still in the shelter,” someone said, who Tom didn’t see but it didn’t matter. He quickly made his way inside, the crowd of residents moving out of his way as if he were Moses at the Red Sea.
He didn’t make it far when he heard Patricia’s loud exclaim. “Tom!”
He paused and saw her in his office with Wyck, both looking at him in shock. Tom immediately felt protective of Ruth when he saw Wyck, his grip on her tightening.
Patricia pushed her way to Tom’s side through the shocked crowd. Her eyes widened when she saw the copious amounts of blood coated to Ruth’s neck and dripping onto the hard floor. The accusation Tom saw in her eyes was warranted but still made Tom flinch and want to hide away.
“Dr. Morgan,” Tom said. “She needs Dr. Morgan.”
Patricia stared at him in shock. “She’s still alive?” she whispered.
Tom swallowed thickly and nodded. “For now. But she needs to see a doctor immediately.”
Patricia’s face hardened with resolve. She nodded once, then took the lead toward the stairs down to the shelter, shoving through anyone who got in their way and barking at people to move. Whatever she thought of Tom—whatever blame or horror she was swallowing down—she set it aside for Ruth’s sake. Tom was grateful for that.
As they descended the stairs, a woman’s scream cut through the shelter. Tom froze and met Patricia’s alarmed eyes. She bolted the rest of the way down, and Tom followed close behind.
He stopped short at the sight inside the small medical room. Dr. Morgan stood over Chelle, who lay on the table screaming in pain, while Bechir clung to her side and tried to pull her to her feet.
Blood spread across the table—at her waist, between her legs, too much of it. The sight jolted Tom back to the day Evan was born.
“We gotta get her out of here!” Bechir shouted, still fighting with Dr. Morgan and his wife, trying to pick her up.
“Stop!” Chelle screamed, trying to shove her husband back.
“We can’t move her!” Dr. Morgan said desperately. “The baby is coming now and I need to work!”
“You can tend to her once we’re on a boat, leaving this island,” Bechir said forcefully. The look he gave Dr. Morgan was like the look he had given Tom not even an hour ago as he pointed his gun right at Tom’s chest.
Tom needed to get Ruth away from him.
“Dr. Morgan!” Patricia cried, rushing into the room. “Ruth needs your help!”
That drew all eyes towards Tom, making him internally curse. Bechir’s eyes went straight to Ruth and Tom turned, trying to shield her from his gaze.
“Jesus Christ!” Dr. Morgan cried in alarm. “What happened to her?”
Patricia looked to Tom, expectant and almost accusing, waiting for an explanation. Tom swallowed hard before forcing himself to meet Bechir’s eyes.
“S-she was shot,” he croaked. “In the neck.”
Bechir flinched, but he didn’t look away. His stare felt as accusing as Patricia’s, a silent reminder that Tom was not innocent either.
With a heavy heart, Tom added, “And she took some pills. Both of her medications. They made her lethargic.”
Tom glanced at Patricia. Her brows were drawn tight with sorrow, and he tried to show her—silently, helplessly—how sorry he was. Whether she understood or simply chose to spare him, her expression softened.
“My God,” Dr. Morgan said, as he moved towards Tom to look over Ruth.
Chelle screamed again, making everyone jump. Bechir grabbed Dr. Morgan’s arm, preventing him from leaving the room. “You have to help my wife and child!”
Dr. Morgan hesitated, torn between his two patients. Chelle screamed. Ruth groaned. In the end, the louder crisis won: Dr. Morgan turned back to Chelle.
Tom’s heart sank, even though he understood the decision. He couldn’t blame Bechir—not completely. In too many ways, Tom was the same as him. Both of them had put Ruth in danger while trying to protect their families, and Tom knew exactly what it was like to stand where Bechir stood now.
“What about Ruth?” Patricia asked in disbelief. “She needs help too!”
“I can’t help both right now!” Dr. Morgan snapped. “J-just put pressure on her wound. Make sure she doesn’t lose anymore blood until I can get to her.”
Tom’s mouth thinned as he met Bechir’s eyes once more. He saw Bechir’s hand twitch by his waist. His gun was holstered but still accessible.
“Come on,” Patricia said, trying to usher Tom towards a bed for Ruth.
“No,” Tom said. Patricia frowned, suspicion clouding her gaze. Tom quickly added, “Not here. I’ll take her upstairs.”
Patricia stared at him, confused, until she followed Tom’s wary glance toward Bechir. Understanding settled over her face. When Bechir met her eyes, disappointment flickered across her expression, and guilt crossed his before he turned away to tend to his pregnant wife.
Patricia led Tom back upstairs and into the conference room, shooing the curious and still frightened towns’ people away. She closed the door as Tom laid Ruth gently down on the table.
“I’ll go get some towels and a first aid kit,” Patricia said. “Hopefully there’s some bandages in there that can stop the bleeding.”
Tom nodded his understanding as he placed a hand against Ruth’s open wound. She whimpered at the contact, trying to shy away from the pressure but Tom held her still. “Shh, I know, Ruth. I know it hurts.”
Patricia left, leaving Tom alone with Ruth. His secret mother-in-law. How had he never known?
Tom studied Ruth’s face, searching for any trace of Lauren—or Evan—in her features. She was so much older now that the similarities were difficult to find, but his mind drifted back to the summers he had spent visiting his father as a child. He could barely remember what Ruth had looked like then.
The clearest image he had of her younger self was the photograph from 1959 hanging in the town museum—the one he had passed countless times without ever truly looking at it. Now that he knew the truth, he could picture it more clearly. And yes, beneath the years and the blood and the shock of what he had just learned, he could see it: a faint resemblance to Lauren. To Evan.
Tom had always thought Lauren looked nothing like the woman who raised her. Now he understood why. Lauren’s mother may have loved her, cared for her, and shaped her life—but she had not given birth to her.
Lauren had never mentioned being adopted, which meant she likely never knew. Ruth had said she visited Lauren after the stroke and told her the truth—that she was Lauren’s secret mother.
Secret mother. Tom had read those words countless times and dismissed them as the ramblings of a woman lost to madness. Now he knew better. There had been truth buried inside them, just as there had been truth in Lauren’s own words of being dead. Lauren may still have been breathing, but a part of her had died the day Tom took her onto that ferry.
Tom heard the door open, the sounds of the scared town reaching him before being cut off and muffled once more. “That was fast,” Tom said, expecting to find Patricia when he looked up.
He froze when he was met with the sight of Wyck.
Tom took a small step to the side, shielding Ruth’s face slightly from Wyck. Wyck’s brows were drawn together as he stared down at the woman. “She’s still alive,” Wyck said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” Tom croaked.
“You didn’t finish the job.”
“No. And you won’t either,” Tom said forcefully, fully shielding Ruth from Wyck’s view.
Wyck blinked, finally looking at Tom. His face was hard, like it usually was when directed at Tom. But it lacked the normal amount of disapproval. Instead, he just looked confused. “Then why the hell did the storm stop?”
Tom opened his mouth to respond but no response was forthcoming. He was saved from having to respond when the door opened again. Patricia strode in, arms full of supplies. She paused when she noticed Wyck. “What are you doing here?” she barked out, clearly concerned for Ruth’s safety as well.
“None of this makes any sense,” Wyck said. “Ruth’s still alive and yet the storm stopped. Why?”
Patricia scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. She shouldered her way past Wyck, moving to start tending to Ruth. “Does it matter right now? Ruth’s dying and she needs our help.”
“Maybe that’s it,” Wyck said. “The curse could feel her dying and so it petered out.” He shrugged, like even he didn’t believe that.
“I’d think the storm would get worse if anything,” Patricia muttered as she gently pushed Tom’s hand out of the way so she could replace it with copious amounts of gauze to staunch the bleeding.
“Like a wounded animal, lashing out,” Wyck said, nodding in agreement. “Yeah. That’s what I’d think too. So why did it stop?”
“Wyck, now’s not really the time,” Tom snapped, feeling anxious now that he didn’t have his hands occupied. Holding Ruth or keeping a hand over her wound made him feel like he was helping. Like he was actually doing something to right his wrongs.
“I think now’s exactly the time,” Wyck said snidely. “The storm of the century rolled in, ready to wreak havoc on this town, and then disappeared suddenly without explanation. We don’t know why and if we don’t know why, we don’t know when it might come back. For all we know, this is just the calm before the true storm that is about to hit this island. People could still be in danger, and you refuse to fix it,” Wyck said accusingly, pointing at Tom.
“I am not going to kill her!” Tom growled, refusing to be cowed.
“Looks like you already tried to!” Wyck shouted. Tom winced at his volume, worried about the people on the other side of the door. “She’s bleeding and on deaths door! All you have to do is let her bleed out and the problem will be fixed!”
“Shhhh!” Patricia looked wildly at the door, her thoughts aligning with Tom’s.
“I didn’t fucking shoot her,” Tom hissed defensively. “Bechir did.”
Wyck blinked in surprise, looking to Patricia. She paused but then nodded her head in confirmation. “I told him about Tom and where he was and why. I-I didn’t think he’d…” She trailed off, guilt overtaking her.
“It’s not your fault,” Tom said, hoping to sooth some of her guilt. Patricia looked up, her face hard, but listening. “You couldn’t have known that he’d go there to try and kill Ruth instead of to try and stop me.”
“I knew he was desperate though,” Patricia said. “He was worried about Chelle and their baby and them being stuck here during the storm. I should have realized he’d do anything to protect his family.”
Just like Tom.
He swallowed thickly. “It’s not your fault,” Tom whispered. Patricia’s shoulders drooped – clearly not agreeing with Tom – but she still nodded her appreciation.
“Whoever’s fault aside, we still have the issue of the curse on our hands,” Wyck said. “As long as a descendant of Richard Warren lives, this curse still stands. Any moment now, the storm could come back. All those people we just let leave the shelter are in danger. And there’s no chance we’ll be able to get them back down there with how things went.”
Tom frowned, looking between Patricia and Wyck questioningly. “W-what happened in the shelter?”
“They panicked, is what happened,” Wyck said. “Like a pack of trapped wild animals, snapping and turning on each other at the first sign of trouble.”
“Turn-turning on each other? They weren’t down there for more than a couple hours. Half a day, tops!” Tom looked at them incredulously. “Why would everyone turn on each other so quick?”
Patricia sighed, as she began wrapping bandages around the gauze to keep it in place. “Dale,” she said annoyed. “Everyone was already on edge because most of the rations we had were moldy. And then Dale comes out and declares that we’re in a death trap after some creepy message went out over the speakers down there.”
Tom grimaced. “What sort of creepy message?”
Wyck ominously said, “Some man saying ‘It’s time’ over and over. And something about a facilitator and ‘not to beg’.”
“Beg?” Tom asked, horrified. “What the hell?”
Patricia shook her head, exasperated. “I-I don’t know.”
The sound of Tom’s name being called came from the other side of the door. It was Dale, his voice getting closer and closer before the doors burst open once more.
The hallway was significantly cleared out from what it had been before, but a handful of people still lingered, milling about in confusion and fear. Dale came rushing into the conference room, his expression wild and afraid, stopping in his tracks as soon as he spotted Ruth.
“Oh my God! What happened to Ruth??”
“She got hurt,” Patricia said, saving Tom from having to think of how to explain the state she was in.
“Oh God. Oh God!” Dale cried, his distress rapidly increasing.
Wyck quickly closed the doors to keep Dale from starting another panic as Tom tried to calm Dale down. The sight of Tom’s hands being drenched in blood only freaked out Dale further.
“Dale! Dale! You need to calm down! Ruth is going to be ok,” Tom said, hoping he wasn’t lying through his teeth. “Dr. Morgan is going to take care of her.”
“Then why isn’t he here?!” Dale cried.
Tom tried to be gentle as he said, “He’s taking care of Chelle right now and when he’s done, he’ll help Ruth. Ok?” He nodded, hoping Dale would nod along with him.
“Chelle? Where is she?” Dale said, not following Tom’s lead at all. “Is she still down there? Still in the shelter??”
“Yes, she is,” Tom said. “They can’t move her right now. She’s going into labor.”
“Oh God! We have to get her out. We have to get all of them out!” Dale said frantically. “Nobody can be down there, Tom! That shelter is a death trap!”
Tom could practically hear Patricia roll her eyes. “W-why is it a death trap?” Tom asked, trying to get Dale to focus and not just spiral out of control.
“The videos,” Dale said, eye’s wide with fear. “The videos, Tom. You need to see them. You need to-” Then Dale abruptly cut himself off, his eyes widening even more as a thought dawned on him. “Oh my God. Oh my God. You know, don’t you? You’re the mayor so you have to know!”
Tom’s brows twitched as he looked questioningly between Patricia and Wyck. Both of them looked equally confused. “Know what?” Tom asked slowly.
“About what that shelter is really used for!” Dale cried.
Tom shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do! You do know!” Dale shouted. He looked desperately at Patricia and Wyck. “And you two know too, don’t you? You three are always-always colluding now. In on some sort of secret! This is it, isn’t it? You’re all part of some sort of cult!”
Tom blinked. “Whoa! Cult?” He gaped at Dale, then looked at Patrica and Wyck, silently asking for help.
Wyck thankfully stepped forward and raised his hands placatingly. The absence of any blood helped the gesture where Tom could not. “Alright, just calm down. Calm down! There’s a lot that’s been going on and everyone’s on edge. But panicking isn’t going to help anything.” Wyck looked pointedly at Dale who blessedly did not start yelling again. “Just, start from the beginning. What videos are you talking about?”
Dale took a deep breath. “The one’s in the shelter,” Dale said. “In the tiny room attached to it. I-I went in there looking for more rations and blankets, but I found the videos instead.”
“Alright,” Wyck said calmly. “What videos?”
Dale frowned. He looked from Wyck’s deliberately calm face to Tom’s confused one to Patricia’s softly scowling one. “You don’t know? You really don’t know about the videos?”
Tom bit back a sigh. “No, Dale. We do not,” he said exasperatedly.
Dale looked equal parts relieved and even more distressed. “Well you seriously need to see these videos then because there is some seriously disturbing and crazy shit on there.”
Tom really did sigh then. “Ok. Fine. Show us where the videos are.” He moved to rub tiredly at his face but paused when he saw the blood still on his hands.
“I’m not going down there,” Dale said, panicked.
“Dale, you just said I need to see them,” Tom said.
“Yeah, but I’m not going back down there. Ever,” Dale said forcefully.
Tom felt like he was a second away from blowing up on Dale. Thankfully Patricia could see this and said, “Alright. That’s fine. You don’t have to go down there. Right, Tom?” Tom forced himself not to roll his eyes as he nodded unenthusiastically along with Patricia. “See? It’s all good. You just have to tell us where we can find the videos ourselves.”
“It’s like I said,” Dale began. “It’s in one of the tiny rooms attached to the shelter. It’s dark. The lights don’t work. But there’s this old movie projector in the middle of the room. Watch the videos titled ‘For Them’ and ‘For You’ and you’ll see.”
Tom didn’t know why Dale couldn’t just tell him what was on the video, but he supposed with how freaked out Dale was he wasn’t likely to get through telling them much without not making any sense. Tom looked towards Patricia and Ruth, feeling torn between going in search of the videos and staying with Ruth. He didn’t want to leave her, especially not anywhere near Wyck or Bechir. At least Bechir was likely preoccupied with Chelle right now but Wyck…?
Patricia gave Tom an understanding look. “I’ll stay with her. Make sure she’s alright. You and Wyck go find the videos and see what you find.”
Tom’s lips gave the barest twitch upwards into a smile, grateful for her ability to read his mind. If he trusted Ruth in anyone’s hands, it was Patricia’s.
Wyck looked reluctant, clearly understanding what Patricia and Tom were doing. They wanted him away from Ruth, preoccupied. But Wyck’s curiosity about the videos must have won out because he nodded towards Tom. “Well? What are we waiting for?”
Tom and Wyck made their way back down the stairs toward the shelter. Chelle’s screams grew louder with every step, echoing up from below.
At the bottom, they stopped long enough to see into the medical room. Chelle lay there with her legs spread, more blood pooling beneath her than before. Some of it had begun to trickle over the edge of the table and fall to the floor.
Tom swallowed hard. He didn’t know if Chelle would survive this. Bechir had shot Ruth and aimed a gun at Tom, but in that moment, Tom felt only sympathy for him. Chelle was likely in labor because of the curse—and because of Tom.
“Come on,” Wyck said gently.
Tom tore his gaze away from Chelle and found Wyck watching him with unexpected softness. He didn’t know what to do with that—sympathy from Wyck, of all people, directed at him.
Wyck nodded toward the hallway. “Let’s find these videos.”
The room with the projector was easy enough to find. Getting the projector to work was another matter. Tom fumbled with the machine, trying to rewind the tape and figure out how to play it, until Wyck grunted in annoyance and shoved him aside to take over.
While Wyck worked, Tom noticed two film tins on the same table. One was empty and labeled For You, which he assumed was already loaded into the projector. The other was labeled For Them.
The projector flickered to life, revealing what appeared to be the shelter. A man that looked like he stepped straight out of the seventies or eighties stepped into frame and smiled pleasantly at the camera, but the longer Tom looked at him, the less pleasant that smile seemed. Tom’s unease hardened into horror as the man began speaking, his tone calm and almost cheerful as he described the pact.
“Be strong. Honor the pact. And remember, their sacrifice is our survival,” the man said. “The bad times will not end until the covenant is honored and honored fully.”
The film cut to images of men and women stripped to their underwear, bags pulled over their heads. Chains bound them in place, leaving them helpless as men like the speaker herded them forward like cattle.
“Life for life. The island will make its needs known. One soul for each bell toll. You will be tempted to comfort them. Do not. Their fear is necessary. They say It likes the taste.” The man smirked. Tom covered his mouth as he felt bile crawl it’s way up his throat. “Now, let’s pray for a long and peaceful slumber.” The man smiled once more, making Tom’s skin crawl before the film ended.
Tom and Wyck stood there in silence for several seconds, staring at the blank screen as the projector continued to roll even without any film left. The sounds of Chelle’s distant screams felt even eerier in the wake of the film.
“How many times did the church bells toll?” Wyck eventually said, his voice rough.
Tom had to swallow several times to keep himself from throwing up. “N-nine,” he croaked.
“Nine,” Wyck echoed in a whisper. He looked at Tom. “Have nine people died since you heard the bells?”
Tom gaped, trying to think back to how many deaths there have been recently. “I-I-I don’t know. Bryce killed himself. And I saw the shaman get sucked up into a tornado during the storm. Then there’s Shep-”
Wyck shook his head. “Shep died before the bell tolls. He wouldn’t count.”
“I don’t know!” Tom snapped. “Who knows who else could have died during the storm!”
“This is why the storm stopped,” Wyck said contemplatively. “Maybe the pact has been fulfilled. Nine souls for nine tolls.”
“So, i-it’s over?” Tom asked. “No more curse?”
Wyck scoffed, glaring at Tom. “It’s just asleep. The curse is still in tact because of you.”
“But it’s asleep,” Tom said forcefully. “Which means the towns safe.”
Wyck laughed bitterly. “Safe.” He sneered. “No one on this island is ever safe. Even if whatever the hell It is, is asleep. And it’ll wake up again. You best be sure of that! It won’t rest for good until the rest of Richard Warren’s blood is gone.”
Evan.
Tom’s hands shook as he pulled the film from the projector. The next reel—For Them—had to offer something useful. Some explanation. Some loophole. Some way to end the curse without sacrificing Evan or Ruth.
The first words out of the lips of the same man from the last video did not give Tom much hope.
“So, you’re an offering.”
Oh dear God.
“You’ve been carefully selected by a committee of your peers in a very fair, very rigorous selection process.”
Wyck scoffed.
“Maybe you’ve committed a crime. Or owe a debt to society. Or have been found wanting in some way. Although you’ll never know, take comfort in the fact that there is an absolutely unassailable reason you’re here. Accept your fate and take pride. Your sacrifice will save countless members of our community from needless suffering. Thank you again for your sacrifice. Widow’s Bay thanks you.”
The video was almost more disturbing than the last. A film made for the unwilling sacrifices in an effort to…to what? Calm them? Give them pride as the man said in what was being done to them? In their murder.
What truly turned Tom’s stomach was how closely the man’s words echoed his own thoughts from only hours earlier. He had nearly justified Ruth’s death the same way: your sacrifice will save countless members of our community. And maybe, on some terrible level, he still believed it—no longer in relation to Ruth, but about the rest of the town.
Nine. Had nine people really died? Had Tom allowed those nine souls to die in order to protect Evan and Ruth? They weren’t even an entire community of people and yet Tom had made the decision to allow the curse to remain in order to save his son.
“And here is Richard Warren’s unholy covenant,” Wyck said snidely. “Sacrificing countless souls to feed whatever beast haunts this island. That’s what you’re protecting by protecting Ruth.” By protecting Evan. “Is that really what you want? Do you really want to be the next Richard Warren?”
Tom turned to glare at Wyck. “I am not Richard Warren.”
“Really? You sure about that?” Wyck gave him a cruel smile. “Because from where I stand you look pretty similar.” Tom looked away. Wyck sighed, some of the fight leaving him. “Look, Tom. I know you’re not a bad man.” Tom laughed humorlessly. “You’re not. I know I give you a hard time, and maybe you are a bit of a coward. And struggle to face the truth.” God, that’s the second time he’s heard that sentiment today. “But you are a good man. And I know it must have been a struggle to even think about killing Ruth. But you have to think about what’s best for everybody. Think about what’s best for Evan.”
Fuck. “I am,” Tom’s voice wavered.
“Are you? Because forcing your son to live the rest of his life on this island isn’t what’s best for him. It’s not what’s best for anyone!”
Tom knew that. He knew what a terrible place this was. But Evan was one of the few people who under no circumstance could ever leave. He was tied more tightly to this island than anyone. The only way out for him was death.
“D-dad?”
Tom’s head whipped towards the door to find Evan standing there. He was staring wide-eyed at Tom; true terror wrought across his face. Oh God, how long had he been standing there? What had he heard?
“Evan,” Tom gasped. “I-I can explain. Whatever you heard-”
“I’m sorry,” Evan whimpered. Tears began to stream down his cheeks as his face twisted up and he descended into sobs. “I-I’m so sorry.”
Tom rushed to Evan and gathered him up in his arms, confused by Evan’s words. “Hey, hey. It’s alright. What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Tom asked, looking Evan over to see if he could find any obvious signs of injury.
Evan was shaking his head. “I-it’s Kenny. I didn’t listen to you and wandered off with PJ. He found this tunnel and we went through it a-and we found this room. With a chair. And this other door! Only it was more like a door to some cellar o-or something. I don’t even know! But it’s open now. And there was something in it. I-I don’t know what, but it killed Kenny and dragged him away back into the cellar and-”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tom interjected, looking wildly down at Evan. “Kenny? He’s dead?”
More tears fell down Evan’s face as he nodded. He began crying again and buried his face into Tom’s chest. Tom held tightly to Evan, looking worriedly at Wyck.
Wyck stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Evan. Evan where is this tunnel?”
Evan lifted his head, sniffled and wiped at his face. “I can show you.”
The tunnel in question was behind an air vent that could easily be pulled back like a door. A ladder led down, lights could just barely be seen illuminating the bottom. “It’s down there. To the right,” Evan said.
Tom grimaced. Like hell did he want to go down there. But if Kenny was down there, injured, someone had to go down and check. Wyck gave Tom a pointed look, practically daring him to refuse to go down there.
Tom sighed. “If we’re going down there, we can’t go without weapons.” Wyck reached behind his back, towards his waistline and pulled out a revolver. “Jesus Christ! Have you had that this whole time?”
“Of course.”
Tom felt infinitely worse knowing that Wyck had been standing mere feet from Ruth only minutes ago while armed. He supposed he should be grateful that Wyck didn’t immediately pull out his gun and shoot her on sight like Bechir had.
“No, no wait,” Evan said. “You’re not going down there, are you? Dad? Please don’t go down there. Please.”
“It’s going to be alright,” Tom said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’ll be alright. Wyck will be with me. It’ll be ok.”
“I’ll protect your dad, kid,” Wyck said. “I promise.”
Tom didn’t know if he felt reassured by that, but Evan clearly did for he nodded. He then looked back at Tom, his face unbelievably worried. “Come back safe,” he said.
Tom wasn’t sure if he should be warmed by the concern or worried about the fear. Just what exactly was down in that tunnel?
The climb down wasn’t hard but with each stepped down Tom felt like he was getting closer and closer to a lion’s den. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest as sweat beaded at his temple. Their fear is necessary. They say It likes the taste. God, were they walking right towards whatever the fuck It was? Willingly?
Wyck pulled out his revolver once they touched the bottom. While the sight of it made him nervous, he found comfort in it too. Wyck looked at him and said, “This way,” and took the lead which Tom was grateful for.
It didn’t take them long to find the room. The one with the chair Evan spoke of. The door was closed but opened up without any issue. Inside all they found besides the chair was an illuminated flashlight, laying in the dirt next to a pair of cellar doors that were ajar.
There wasn’t any blood. There wasn’t any Kenny. Just that ominous looking chair and cellar doors.
Wyck stepped into the room, then froze as a distant growl echoed from behind the cellar doors. The hair on the back of Tom’s neck rose. He knew that sound. He had heard it once before—while he was on the shrooms.
Then came another growl. And another. Each one sounded closer than the last.
Wyck stumbled backward. Tom caught him by the arm and hauled him out of the room, and together they slammed the door shut between themselves and whatever was coming. “RUN!” Wyck shouted.
And so they did.
They took off down the tunnel as fast as they could and back up the ladder. Wyck shouted at Tom to climb faster, who nearly slipped in his mad dash up. Evan’s wide eyes came into view as they climbed quickly up. He grabbed Tom’s hand, helping him up and then Wyck in turn.
“Come on! Out!” Tom shouted, shoving his son out of the room. Wyck was close behind them and slammed that door shut too, locking it. He began trying to shove one of the beds in front of the door and Tom was quick to help him.
They were panting by the time they were done. They locked eyes as they heard Chelle’s screams fill the shelter. In unison they ran to where they knew Chelle to be, Tom dragging Evan behind him. “Go!” He shouted, shoving Evan towards the stairs. “Get upstairs!”
“But what about you?” Evan cried.
“I’ll be up in a minute,” Tom said. When Evan still hesitated, he shouted, “Evan! Go!” He shot up the stairs not a moment later.
Wyck was already inside the room with Chelle, Bechir, and Dr. Morgan. The two other men were shouting at Wyck who was trying to get Chelle up. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing??” Bechir yelled.
“We gotta get her out of here!” Wyck said. “There’s something down here that wants to eat all of us!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Bechir cried.
“Let go of my patient!” Dr. Morgan said, trying to bat at Wyck who batted back.
Chelle screamed louder in pain as she was jostled, trying to cling to her husband.
“Bechir, listen to me,” Tom said. Bechir turned to glare at Tom, pulling his wife closer to him. “I-I know with everything that’s happened today you and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms, but you have to listen to us. Wyck’s telling the truth.” Bechir frowned. “Th-there is something down here, in some tunnel. It’s already killed Kenny.”
Bechir looked at him in horror. “What?”
“And it’ll kill us too if given the opportunity,” Tom said. “Which is why we have to move Chelle. Get her upstairs and seal the shelter back up so whatever It is can’t get out.”
“It?” Bechir asked. He looked between Tom and Wyck, giving them a worried look. “Is It whatever the fuck makes this island…cursed?”
“What?” Chelle asked breathlessly, looking at her husband like he was mad. “Baby, what are you talking about?”
“I don’t know,” Tom said. “Maybe. Maybe not. I just know we need to get the fuck out of here right now.”
Bechir stared at Tom for several long seconds before giving a single, reluctant nod. Relief loosened Tom’s shoulders.
Then Bechir turned to Chelle and cupped her face, rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles. “Baby, I know you’re in a lot of pain, and I know moving is the last thing you want. But we have to go.”
“What? No, no, baby, I can’t,” Chelle said, shaking her head as she tried to push her husband away.
“I know, baby, I know. But you gotta trust me,” Bechir said.
“Trust you? Or trust them?” Chelle said, shooting a look at Tom and Wyck. “They’re talking nonsense. Curse? What are you-”
“Listen to me, baby. Please,” Bechir begged. “If you ever are going to trust me on something, trust me now.”
Chelle and Bechir stared at each other for several tense seconds, Bechir trying to convince her without saying another word.
Wyck’s patience snapped. “We don’t have time for this. Come on—grab her other side!” He ducked beneath Chelle’s arm, braced it across his shoulders, then wrapped one arm around her back and the other beneath her leg.
Chelle yelped and swatted weakly at him, too drained for the blows to land with any force. She cursed Wyck and demanded he let her go, but her anger shifted to Bechir the moment he took her other side without question. Dr. Morgan’s protests rose with hers as Tom forced the older man out of the room and toward the stairs.
“Move!” Tom yelled. Dr. Morgan shot him an offended look, but he started up the stairs the moment Wyck and Bechir appeared around the corner with Chelle between them. She cried out as they carried her, each jolt sending fresh pain through her body and leaving a trail of blood behind them.
Tom waved them past, waiting until Wyck and Bechir had carried Chelle up the stairs before reaching for the shelter door. His hand closed around the handle—but he stopped.
He looked back toward the barricaded door and strained to hear beyond it, listening for that eerie growl. But over Chelle’s screams and the frantic pounding of his own heart, there was nothing.
He slammed the door behind him and made sure to secure the lock. Only once three locked doors were between himself and whatever It was did Tom let himself breathe.
Tom forced himself up the stairs and followed the sound of Chelle’s screams. Bechir and Wyck had carried her into his office, sweeping everything from his desk to make room for her. It was far from ideal, but it was the only surface large enough besides the conference table, where Ruth still lay bleeding.
Dr. Morgan took control at once, barking orders at Dale and Rosemary for towels and clean water. Then he shoved Wyck out of the office, clearly finished with both his interference and his presence. Wyck obediently left the office, making a beeline for Tom.
“Is the shelter secured?” He demanded.
Tom nodded. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?” Wyck asked. “That thing could get out and if It does-”
“I know!” Tom snapped. “I locked the door.”
“That doesn’t mean it can’t get out!”
“What would you have me do? Seal it up with concrete?” Tom asked.
“To start,” Wyck sneered. He looked towards the conference room. “Among other things.”
Tom took a step closer and hissed in Wyck’s face. “We are not killing her.”
“We have to,” Wyck insisted. “Otherwise, the curse continues.”
“The storm ended,” Tom said. “It’s asleep. The island is safe.” The lie felt bitter on his tongue.
Wyck scoffed, looking at Tom disapprovingly. “It isn’t asleep.”
Tom’s brows twitched. “What are you talking about? The storm stopped. It ended. There must have been nine deaths that we just aren’t yet aware of since the bells.”
Wyck shook his head. “That’s what we thought at first. Then Evan showed up. He said Kenny died. That he was taken by that thing. That’s what triggered the storm to stop. Because It got fed.”
“We don’t know that,” Tom whispered, looking over his shoulders to make sure no one was listening. “We don’t know what made the storm stop for sure. It very well could be that the nine deaths already occurred.”
Wyck gave him a disbelieving look. “You don’t seriously think that, do you? Look at where we just were. We were in a goddamn slaughterhouse chute! With orientation videos for the cattle and farmers alike! Why would that be there? Why take people down there unless if the deaths have to specifically happen there?” Wyck shook his head. “No. The deaths that happen up here? They don’t matter to It. Because It can’t feed on them. Bryce. Shep. The shaman. Everyone else. Their deaths are senseless and meaningless. The souls for the tolls? That only works if they are taken to that room with the chair.”
Tom started to drag a hand down his face, then stopped. Ruth’s blood still coated his skin, dried and cracking across his fingers. “We don’t know that,” he whispered. “The storm stopped. It could be asleep again.”
Wyck clicked his tongue, his disappointment cutting deeper than his anger. “There he is,” he said. “The same coward mayor I always knew you were. You know the truth. You know what’s coming. And still, you refuse to do anything to stop it.” He stepped closer, voice low and edged with contempt. “Worse than that, you keep intentionally putting this town in harm’s way. Why?”
Tom had no answer. Wyck’s jaw tightened. “Why?”
The answer was simple: Evan. Everything Tom had done had been for him. He had brought tourists to the island to make life easier for his son, to make this prison feel less like a prison and more like a place worth staying. And now he had to keep Ruth alive, because protecting Ruth meant protecting Evan.
But that’s not all he’ll have to do though, will he?
The bad times will not end until the covenant is honored and honored fully.
Nine bell tolls. Nine souls. Had the storm stopped only because the first sacrifice had been made? If the deaths above ground did not count, then what had they been? Accidents? Collateral damage? Senseless losses that meant nothing to the thing beneath the island?
“I will not become like them,” Tom said lowly, glaring at Wyck. “I will not start sacrificing the people of this town. Not Ruth. Not you. Not anybody.” Not Evan. “Do I make myself clear?”
Wyck was shaking his head in resignation. “Then you’ve doomed us all.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Wyck said. “But I hope I’m not. I hope you’re right and that whatever It is, is asleep. And that It’ll stay asleep for a very long time. Long enough for Ruth to die of old age, happy and peaceful like so few on this island get. Then we’ll finally be free.” Wyck turned to walk away but not before throwing one last barb Tom’s way. “I just wonder how many will die before that happens.”
How many more indeed? Tom knew Ruth wsn’t the last. Even if It slept until she died—peacefully, he hoped, of old age rather than because of what Bechir and Tom had done to her—the curse would not end with her. Evan was the last descendant. And if Tom had any say in it, his son would live a long, happy life.
But if he does, how many more people will die? How many times will It awake? How many souls will be demanded each time? And do the souls have to deliberately be sacrificed? Do they only count if they are taken down there?
Tom got his answer soon enough.
The next day, Tom stood on the shoreline with the brooch in his hand—the one piece of evidence tying Ruth Livingston to Richard Warren. He told himself this would be enough. If he buried the truth deep enough, no one would ever find it. No one would ever know.
He threw the brooch into the ocean and watched it vanish beneath the water, hoping it would stay there forever. He felt lighter. There had been no signs of the storm returning over the past day. It truly did seem as if It was slumbering.
And then he heard the bells.
Dong.
Dong.
Dong.
Dong.
Dong.
Dong.
Dong.
Dong.
Eight tolls.
Eight more lives.
Kenny really had only been the first sacrifice.
It wasn’t asleep.
Tom looked toward Evan, who sat in the car staring back at him. He had heard the bells too. Tom could see it in his face.
When Tom had first framed Ruth’s death as a trolley problem, it had seemed simple: one life weighed against thousands. But like every trolley problem, the simplicity fell apart the moment he looked closer.
What if it was not one person, but two? What if they were not strangers, but people he knew—people he loved? Would he still pull the lever then? And what if the trolley was not already racing toward them? What if saving those two lives meant choosing, deliberately, to send it toward everyone else? What if protecting them required him to take an active role in condemning the town?
For Tom, the answer was simple.