The Hunger Remains

The summer of 1990 had bled into autumn, the vibrant greens of June surrendering to the muted golds and russets of October. The peculiar events of that summer had long since receded from the forefront of town gossip, becoming the stuff of hushed stories told around campfires, embellished with each retelling. Alex, now a freshman in high school, found himself increasingly distant from the lingering unease, the memory of Copycat a scar that had begun to fade, a nightmare from which he had, thankfully, awoken. Benji, ever the worrier, still flinched at sudden noises, his gaze often darting to empty doorways, but even he seemed to be settling back into the predictable rhythm of Willow Creek.

Life, it seemed, had resumed its quiet, unassuming pace. Sarah Carter, Alex’s mother, had thrown herself back into her gardening, her hands finding solace in the soil, coaxing life from the earth as if to counteract the death that had briefly stalked their town. Sheriff Brody, his jaded eyes now carrying a weight of something more than just the usual small-town ennui, had returned to his routine of traffic stops and petty disputes, the extraordinary having been relegated to the realm of the impossible once more. The town, like a patient recovering from a grave illness, was slowly, tentatively, daring to believe it was healed.

But some wounds never truly close. Some hungers are never truly sated.