Folks in Ellers Bend knew better than to go near Black River after dark. Especially not near the stretch they called the Hollows.

That’s where they found Jeremiah Coulter.

His body was slumped against the trunk of an old cypress, his mouth stretched wide in a silent scream, his eyes gouged out—not by any blade, but by something with claws. Worst of all, his chest was hollowed out clean, ribs split open like a butchered deer. But there wasn’t a drop of blood on him.

Sheriff Dawson told folks it was wild animals. But old Miss Hattie, who’d lived in Ellers Bend since the Flood, just shook her head and muttered, “Ain’t no animal that leaves a body that clean.”

Still, teenagers being what they are, Davis Mayfield and his girl, Lacey Boone, sneaked out to the Hollows that next Friday. Davis had promised her a midnight picnic by the water—fireflies, a blanket, and a mason jar of sweet tea he’d stolen from his mama’s fridge. Lacey had kissed him right there on the riverbank, her lips warm and tasting faintly of honeysuckle.

That’s when the whispering started.

Not from the trees. Not from the river. But from underneath them.

A wet, slithering sound, like something dragging itself through mud. Then—a voice.

“Hungry…”

Davis’s hand tightened around Lacey’s. The flashlight beam trembled as he swung it toward the water.

Something pale and skeletal crawled from the black river, its skin sagging like wet paper, its mouth a lipless gash.

Lacey screamed.

Davis yanked her back, but the thing moved fast, skittering across the ground like a spider. Its fingers—too long, too many—snatched at Lacey’s ankle.

She stumbled. Davis caught her just before she hit the ground, her body pressed tight against his. He could feel her heart hammering against his chest.

“Run,” he breathed.

They tore through the underbrush, the thing hissing behind them. Davis didn’t let go of Lacey’s hand, not once, not even when the thorns ripped at their clothes or the mud sucked at their boots.

But when they finally reached the truck, gasping and shaking, Lacey’s face went deathly pale.

“Davis,” she whispered.

He followed her gaze. Clutched in his other hand—the one he’d used to pull her to safety—wasn’t Lacey’s fingers at all.

It was a bony, withered thing, its nails blackened and curled.

And it was squeezing back.