Hunter Wilde

Willow Bridge, Arkansas, 1970. Population: 1,000 souls, plus about 250 cows. Sarah loved it here—the white-steepled church, the school with its peeling paint and wide playground, the way neighbors always seemed to know when someone was in trouble and came running with casseroles, tools, or just a listening ear. Most days, Willow Bridge felt like a place where nothing bad could ever happen. After all, what evil could live in such a beautiful, loving little town? But as the days crept toward Halloween, Sarah began to notice the changes. Small things at first, but sharp as splinters. Old Mr. and Mrs. Murphy shouting at each other on the church steps. Mr. Wilson, the deacon, slipping out of the Denver house in the blue-gray hours of the morning while Mr. Denver was away. Children fighting in the school parking lot, fists clenched tight, anger spilling out of them as if some shadow had slipped into their hearts—contagious, spreading. The town wasn’t just restless. It was unraveling. And the air itself felt different—charged, unsettled. Dogs barked at nothing. Horses refused their stalls. At night Sarah locked herself inside her small house, afraid of the hoofbeats that carried through the dusk, far-off but steady, unwavering in their pursuit. She told herself it was only the wind. Only her imagination. But deep down, Sarah knew better. She had heard those hooves before, in the life she had fled. She had thought she’d out-run the devil.