DAY 1 — 08:12 a.m. — County Line

The highway straightens into a pale, cracked ribbon. The “Welcome to Fogg” sign leans, paint peeling, bullet hole through the second g. As my tires cross the county line, the air shifts — metallic, sharp, like lightning residue. The steering wheel hums with a low vibration, then falls silent, as if I’ve passed through a membrane.

Fields lie still, windless. Grass shivers without cause. Blackbirds perch on the wires, evenly spaced, eyes tracking me in unison. None move. I roll down the window: the smell intensifies, damp stone beneath the metallic tang. A memory surfaces — bare feet in creek mud, storm sky overhead — then fades.

On the seat beside me, the letter waits. My childhood home, boarded windows, the words: “You left something behind.” No signature. No explanation.

Ahead, rooftops scatter, the water tower’s faded star, silos leaning like old men. Smaller than I remember, heavier somehow. My phone drops to “No Service.” I pull onto gravel; the crunch echoes too loud. Stepping out, the air presses wrong against my lungs. The birds ripple as one, turning toward town.

Toward Fogg.

I breathe deep, switch on the recorder, mark the beginning of a case I don’t yet understand. Then I drive forward, the metallic taste clinging to my tongue.

DAY 1 — 11:47 a.m. — Sheriff’s Office

The sheriff’s office squats behind the courthouse, brick faded to the color of old rust, blinds yellowed and warped, flag barely stirring in the still air. The cruiser out front bears a dent shaped like a hoof, the kind you don’t forget once you’ve seen it. I sit in the heat a moment longer, metallic tang still clinging to my tongue, before stepping inside.

The air conditioner rattles like loose teeth, ceiling fan clicking in uneven rhythm. The smell is a blend of old coffee, antiseptic, and something faintly sour — mildew, maybe, or sweat soaked into the walls. Sheriff Leland Briggs emerges before I can announce myself. Broad shoulders, gray beard, eyes dulled but not soft. His handshake is firm, but there’s no warmth in it.

“Rourke,” he says. Not a question.

We sit across from each other. The blinds cast stripes across his face, cutting him into fragments. Behind him, a corkboard hangs heavy with notices: wanted posters curling at the edges, a flyer for a missing dog, and a county map dotted with red pins. Most of them cluster around Dry Creek Bridge.

I ask about the lights. Briggs exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. “Kids with drones. Swamp gas. Reflections. Take your pick.” His tone is flat, rehearsed, but his fingers betray him — tapping a rhythm on the desk: four taps, pause, two taps. The same cadence I felt in the steering wheel when I crossed the county line.

I press harder. He leans back, chair creaking like old bones. “Dry Creek’s always had stories. Best thing you can do is ignore it.” His jaw tightens when I mention the hum. His eyes flick, involuntary, toward the pins on the map. The tapping continues, steady, almost unconscious.

Before I leave, his voice drops, stripped of authority. “Stay away from the bridge after dark.” Not a warning. A plea.

Outside, the sun feels harsher, the air heavier, as though the office expelled me into something thicker than daylight. The metallic taste sharpens, coating the back of my throat. I jot this down in the car, engine idling, blinds twitching behind me as if someone — or something — still watches.

DAY 1 — 03:05 p.m. — Dry Creek Bridge (Initial Survey)

The road to Dry Creek Bridge narrows into a single lane, asphalt patched so many times it looks like a quilt of mismatched grays. The closer I get, the quieter everything becomes. No wind. No insects. Even the engine noise feels muffled, as if the air itself is absorbing sound.

I park fifty yards out. Gravel crunches under my boots, the sound swallowed almost instantly. The bridge rises ahead — steel trusses rusted to a deep, bruised orange, wooden planks warped and sun-bleached. A faded sign warns: WEIGHT LIMIT 3 TONS, though the bolts holding it up look like they’d give out under a stiff breeze.

As I step onto the bridge, the temperature drops. Not dramatically — just enough to raise goosebumps along my arms. The boards creak under my weight, each groan echoing down into the creekbed below. Dry Creek isn’t dry today; a thin ribbon of water snakes through the rocks, sluggish and opaque, the color of tarnished silver.

Halfway across, I see them: scorch marks.

Perfect circles, each about the size of a dinner plate, spaced evenly along the guardrail. The metal beneath them is warped, bowed outward as if something pressed against it from the inside. I run my fingers over one — the surface is warm. Not sun-warm. Engine-warm. Pulse-warm. The kind of warmth that suggests recent activity.

I crouch, recorder in hand.

“03:17 p.m.,” I say quietly. “Scorch marks present. Patterned. Consistent spacing. Heat retention abnormal.”

A faint vibration hums through the planks beneath me. I freeze. It’s subtle — like the tremor of a distant generator — but steady. I press my palm flat to the wood. The vibration pulses in a slow rhythm, almost like breathing.

A truck approaches in the distance, engine rumbling. The vibration stops instantly, as if the bridge is holding its breath. The truck passes without slowing, driver staring straight ahead, knuckles white on the wheel.

When the sound fades, the vibration returns.

I lean over the guardrail to inspect the creekbed. Something glints between the rocks — a shard of metal, half-buried. I climb down the embankment, boots sliding on loose gravel. Up close, the shard looks like part of a drone casing, but the edges are melted smooth, as if exposed to extreme heat. Too much heat for a hobbyist drone. Too much heat for anything that should be near this bridge.

As I pocket the fragment, a sudden pressure builds behind my eyes — a dull, insistent throb. The metallic taste from this morning floods back, stronger now, coating my tongue. I steady myself against the rocks until the sensation passes.

When I climb back onto the bridge, the scorch marks seem darker than before. Or maybe the light shifted. Hard to tell.

I take one last sweep of the area, noting the silence, the warmth, the rhythmic vibration. Then I head back to the car, the bridge creaking behind me like it’s relieved to see me go.

DAY 1 — 07:22 p.m. — Lone Spur Motel

The Lone Spur Motel sits at the edge of town like a leftover thought — a long, low strip of sun-faded doors, each painted a different shade of beige as if the owner couldn’t remember which color he started with. The neon sign buzzes weakly, the O flickering in and out so that it reads L NE SPUR M TEL, which feels about right.

The parking lot is mostly empty. A single pickup with a cracked windshield. A sedan with mismatched tires. My car looks out of place, too clean, too new, like it hasn’t earned the dust yet.

Inside, the lobby smells of lemon cleaner and old carpet. A TV bolted to the wall plays a muted weather report — the meteorologist smiling too brightly as a map of East Texas glows red with heat advisories. The air conditioner rattles in the corner, blowing air that’s cold but somehow stale, like it’s been recycled too many times.

The clerk looks up as I approach. Mid‑60s, wiry, with a face that seems carved from sunburn and cigarette smoke. His name tag reads “Harlan.” He studies me for a long moment before speaking.

“You’re Caleb Rourke.”

Not a question.

I nod. “Just passing through.”

He snorts softly. “Nobody just passes through Fogg.”

He hands me a key — an actual metal key, not a card — attached to a plastic fob with the number 12 stamped into it. The edges are worn smooth from decades of hands. As I turn to leave, he clears his throat.

“You’re here about the bridge.”

Again, not a question.

I pause. “I’m looking into a few things.”

Harlan leans forward, elbows on the counter, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “Then hear me on this. Don’t go near Dry Creek after dark. Folks think the lights are pretty. They’re not. They’re hungry.”

The word hangs in the air, heavy and deliberate.

Before I can respond, the lobby lights flicker — once, twice — and the TV cuts to static for a heartbeat before returning to the weather report. Harlan doesn’t look at the screen. He watches me instead, eyes sharp, waiting to see if I flinch.

I don’t. But my pulse ticks faster.

Outside, the sun has dipped low, staining the sky a bruised purple. Crickets chirp in uneven bursts, like they’re trying to sync to a rhythm they can’t quite catch. I unlock Room 12. The door sticks before giving way with a sigh, as though the room resents being disturbed.

Inside: a single bed with a floral bedspread, a lamp with a crooked shade, a desk scarred with cigarette burns. The air smells faintly of dust and something sweet — lavender, maybe, or the ghost of it.

I set my bag down and sit on the edge of the bed. The springs groan. Through the thin walls, I hear the hum of the neon sign outside, rising and falling like distant breathing.

I jot down Harlan’s warning, underline it twice.

Hungry.

The word doesn’t leave my mind for the rest of the evening.

DAY 1 — 11:58 p.m. — Dry Creek Bridge (First Night Watch)

The night air is thick enough to taste — warm, stagnant, carrying the faint smell of wet stone even though the sky hasn’t seen rain in weeks. I park farther back this time, kill the headlights, and walk the last stretch on foot. Gravel shifts under my boots, each crunch swallowed by the dark like sound doesn’t travel properly out here.

The bridge looms ahead, a silhouette of rusted steel ribs against a moonless sky. No wind. No insects. The kind of silence that feels intentional.

I step onto the planks. They creak softly, as if recognizing me from earlier. The temperature drops again — sharper this time, a sudden bite that raises the hair on my arms. I pull out my recorder.

“11:58 p.m.,” I whisper. “Dry Creek Bridge. Night observation.”

The hum starts before I reach the midpoint.

Not loud. Not even clearly audible. More like a pressure — a vibration threading through the boards, up through my boots, settling behind my eyes. A slow, steady pulse. Four beats. Pause. Two beats. The same rhythm Briggs tapped on his desk.

I grip the guardrail. The metal is warm.

Then the lights appear.

At first, they’re just faint glimmers rising from the creekbed — pale blue, like reflections of distant headlights. But there are no cars. No roads nearby. The lights drift upward in slow, deliberate spirals, brightening as they rise. Not beams. Not orbs. More like lanterns made of mist, each one pulsing in time with the hum.

I hold my breath.

The lights hover at eye level, maybe twenty feet out from the bridge. They sway gently, as if stirred by a breeze I can’t feel. The hum deepens, vibrating through my ribs. My vision blurs at the edges, a pressure building behind my temples.

One of the lights drifts closer.

Not fast — just a slow, curious glide, like it’s studying me. The air around it shimmers, bending slightly, as though heat radiates from something that shouldn’t have heat at all. My throat tightens. The metallic taste floods my mouth, stronger than before, sharp enough to make me swallow hard.

I take a step back.

The light pauses midair, as if reacting.

Then — a sound. Not the hum. Something layered beneath it. A whisper? A breath? A faint, almost human exhale carried on no wind.

My recorder crackles in my hand.

The lights brighten suddenly, flaring white-blue, and the hum spikes into a sharp, piercing tone that drives straight through my skull. I stagger, gripping the rail to stay upright. The lights recoil, collapsing inward like startled birds, then shoot upward in a column of pale fire before vanishing into the dark.

Silence slams back into place.

The pressure behind my eyes fades. The metallic taste lingers.

I stand alone on the bridge, breathing hard, the boards beneath me still trembling with the echo of whatever just happened. The creek below is dark again. Still. Ordinary.

But the scorch marks on the rail feel warmer than before.

I turn back toward the car, the night pressing close around me, and write one final note before leaving:

“The lights reacted to me.”

Continued in Day 2