The Thicket

Chapter 1 of my horror novel.

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."
—William Shakespeare
Stadium lights blaze against the cool October night like fallen stars, casting harsh shadows that dance between the grandstands. On the field, the Dodds Ferry High School marching band stumbles through their homecoming rendition of Stevie Wonder's "You Are the Apple of My Eye," their formation wavering like smoke in wind.
In the bleachers, families huddle in letterman jackets and school-colored scarves, their breath visible in the evening chill. Students cluster in groups—some sneaking swigs from hidden flasks, others updating social media feeds with carefully curated photos of their Friday night perfection. At midfield, the homecoming court assembles in a nervous line, their formal wear incongruous against the lush green of the football field. The girls shiver in strapless gowns—emerald silk, midnight blue chiffon, rose gold sequins that catch the harsh stadium lighting like fish scales. Their dates stand beside them in ill-fitting tuxedos rented from the mall, bow ties already slightly askew, corsages wilting on wrists despite the cool air. They shift from foot to foot, trying to look comfortable under the weight of hundreds of watching eyes.
Days later, when the newspapers dissect what happens, they'll chase the usual ghosts—bullying, teenage angst, the crushing weight of small-town expectations. They'll interview guidance counselors who speak of missed warning signs and quote statistics about adolescent depression. They'll build their neat little narratives from the bones of tragedy, missing the marrow entirely.
They always do.
The real story is buried in the spaces between the official accounts, hidden in the testimonies dismissed as hysteria or trauma-induced delusion. The real story lives in the darkness beneath the bleachers, where seventeen-year-old Bethany Woodland crouches like something that has crawled up from the earth's wounded belly.
She has been here for two hours, watching through the gaps in the metal grating, her pale skin pockmarked with acne scars that look like tiny craters in the sickly light. Each scar tells a story of its own—late nights spent picking at her face in the mirror, desperate attempts with drugstore makeup that only made things worse, dermatologist appointments that never happened because her mother counted every dollar twice.
Through the gaps, she watches the festivities across the field—beautiful people doing beautiful things in their beautiful lives, while something ugly stirs in the shadows below. They move with the confidence of those who have never doubted their place in the world, never wondered if they deserve the good things that come to them, never felt the crushing weight of being fundamentally unwanted.
They can see you, the whispers say, their voices like autumn leaves scraping across concrete. They know what you are.
But what is she, exactly? That's the question that haunts her in the small hours of the morning, when sleep won't come and the walls of her bedroom seem to press closer with each passing hour. Seventeen years old, never been kissed, never been asked to a dance, never been invited to a party except once as the butt of some cruel joke. She’s the girl who sits alone at lunch, who gets picked last for every team, whose name is whispered with snickers and laughter in the hallways.
"Ms. Cora Tomilson, escorted by Stan Wolfrom."
The announcer's voice echoes across the stadium, each syllable a reminder of everything Bethany will never be. Hunched like some feral creature in the darkness, the crowd's applause washes over her like a tide of judgment. She presses her face closer to the cold metal, the rust flakes biting into her cheek as she watches Stetson, wearing Stan Wolfrom, all seventeen years of small-town confidence and masculine swagger, guide Cora Tomilson to midfield with the effortless grace of someone who has never doubted their place in the world. Perfect Cora with her perfect smile, the kind that comes from never doubting you deserve good things.
Hungry things, the whispers say, and now there seem to be more of them, a chorus of voices speaking in unison. Waiting things. Patient things.
The ring of footsteps on metal from above makes Bethany look up, and her stomach clenches with sick recognition as Nora Tomilson—Cora's twin in every way but temperament—descends with her usual entourage, their heels clicking against the metal in rhythm like fingernails on coffin wood.
Nora's pale blue eyes find her in the darkness with the unerring accuracy of a predator. "Well, well. Look what we have here, girls. It's our little cave-dwelling friend."
The girl in a sequined red dress—Bethany thinks her name is Madison, or maybe McKenzie, one of those trendy names that all sound the same—speaks first, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "Bad hair day?" The dragon tattoo on her shoulder seems to writher in the light from above. "I'm thinking bad hair life."
Their laughter is sharp enough to cut glass as Bethany runs her fingers through the tangled strands of her mousy brown hair, knots pulling at her scalp. She is darkness incarnate, a shadow person watching the luminous beings dance in their circle of perfection.
But underneath it, Bethany hears something else— screaming.
"Seriously, though," another girl chimes in. "At least when I wear makeup, it doesn't look like a box of crayons puked on me."
The screams grow louder, attacking her from every direction as the girls surround her like a pack of wolves, circling their prey, savoring the moment before the kill. Bethany can smell their perfume—expensive stuff that costs more than her father makes in a week—mixed with something else, something organic and rotting.
"Know what I heard?" Madison-or-McKenzie says, leaning closer so that Bethany can see the way her lipstick has settled into the lines around her mouth. "I heard she still sleeps with a teddy bear."
The lies come fast and cruel, each one designed to draw blood. They speak of her supposed crush on their chemistry teacher, of the time she allegedly wet herself in second grade (which never happened), of the rumor that she cuts herself (which isn't entirely untrue, though she's careful to keep the scars hidden).
But it is Nora who delivers the killing blow, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carries more weight than a shout: "Bet she ain't bled yet, neither."
The words hit Bethany like ice water in her veins. Heat floods her cheeks as the screams in her head suddenly go quiet—not gone but listening.
"Come on, girls," Nora says. Turning to leave, she pauses at the bottom of the bleacher steps and looks back over her shoulder with those pale, predatory eyes. "Maybe we should call animal control, cuz I think something crawled under here to die."
As they leave, their laughter echoing off the metal, Bethany feels something shift inside her chest. Something that has been sleeping, waiting, growing in the dark places of her heart. It unfurls like a black flower blooming in fast-forward, spreading tendrils of shadow through her bloodstream.
Soon, the whispers say, and this time she is certain they aren't coming from inside her head. They are coming from the darkness itself, from the spaces between atoms, from the void that exists in the heart of all things. Soon, little one. Soon.
"Ms. Emily Walcott, escorted by Brandon Camacho." The announcer's voice cuts through the voices like a scalpel.
Bethany's head snaps up so fast her neck pops. This is it. The moment she's been waiting for.
Bethany's breath catches in her throat like a fishhook as Brandon Camacho emerges from the tunnel in his football uniform. The shoulder pads make him look broader than usual, like some warrior god stepping down from Olympus to grace the mortals with his presence. His dark hair perfectly tousled, as if he's just run his fingers through it, and his smile—that devastating, heart-stopping smile that has haunted her dreams for three years. Ever since that first day of high school, when he said "excuse me" after accidentally bumping into her locker. It was nothing, less than nothing, but she has replayed that moment a thousand times in her mind, each repetition wearing it smooth like a worry stone. She has memorized every detail of his face, knows that he has a small scar above his left eyebrow from when he fell off his bike in third grade, knows that he bites his lip when he's concentrating, knows that he smells like soap and Old Spice and something indefinably masculine that makes her stomach flutter.
Brandon steps forward and offers his arm to Emily, who accepts with the grace of someone who has never doubted her place in the world.
Emily Walcott. Perfect Emily with her perfect skin that has never known the humiliation of acne, her perfect hair that falls in perfect waves to her perfect shoulders, her perfect life that unfolds like a fairy tale written by someone who believes in happy endings. She moves like she is dancing, her dress flowing around her like water, like moonlight, like everything beautiful and unattainable in the world. They are the “it” couple of Dodds Ferry High.
As they walk to midfield to join the other members of the homecoming court, in the darkness beneath the bleachers, Bethany’s mind conjures a different scene—a parallel world where it is her arm Brandon holds, her dress catching the light, her face the cameras capture. She can almost feel his hand, warm and firm against hers, can almost smell his cologne, can almost believe that she is worthy of standing beside someone so beautiful, so perfect, so impossibly out of her league.
You could have him, the whispers say. You could have them all. All the beautiful ones, all the cruel ones, all the ones who have made you suffer. The voice is seductive, honey-sweet, and full of promises. Just say yes. Just open your heart to us, and we will give you everything you've ever wanted.
The music stops. The stadium falls hushed except for the sound of Bethany's heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird desperate for freedom.
"And this year's Homecoming Queen is..." The announcer pauses, milking the moment for all its worth. "Ms. Emily Becker."
The crowd erupts in cheers and applause as Emily's hand flies to her mouth in practiced surprise, as if there was ever any doubt about the outcome. A princess tiara catches the light as it is placed on her head, transforming her into something mythical and untouchable, a goddess made flesh and crowned with starlight.
From shadow's embrace, Bethany watches Emily and Brandon climb into the back of a pickup truck wrapped in blue and gold streamers, their chariot for the victory lap around the stadium. Emily waves like a real queen, gracious and glowing; her eyes fill with tears—happy tears, grateful tears, the kind of tears that come from having your dreams fulfilled instead of shattered.
Bethany wonders what that feels like, crying from joy instead of humiliation, to have your name called for something good instead of whispered in mockery, to be celebrated instead of reviled.
As the truck begins its slow circuit around the track, Bethany presses closer to the bleachers, her fingers gripping the cold metal, her eyes tracking Brandon's every movement. She drinks in each detail like a woman dying of thirst, storing up images to sustain her through all the lonely nights ahead. She watches the way the wind ruffles his hair, the way the stadium lights cast shadows across his face, the way he looks at Emily as if she’s the only person in the world who matters.
When they pass her section, something miraculous happens. Brandon's eyes sweep the crowd, and for one impossible, heart-stopping moment, Bethany is sure they find hers. Time stands still; the world narrows to just the two of them, connected by a gaze that spans the distance between the shadows and the light. He raises his hand in a wave, and without thinking, without considering the consequences, she waves back.
He's waving at her. He sees her. He—
But the truck moves on, and reality crashes over her like a slap to the face, like the cruel truth that some dreams are too beautiful to come true. She looks at her hand, still raised in that pathetic gesture, and feels something shatter deep inside her chest. Not crack—break utterly, leaving jagged pieces that will cut from within for years. The tears follow, hot and bitter. Mascara runs in black streaks, creating a mask of failed hopes and broken dreams.
Above her, the crowd continues to cheer, but the sound is different. Mockery, a thousand voices laughing at the girl who dares to dream she could be anything more than what she is. The girl who will always be watching from the shadows, wanting what she can never have, loving someone who will never love her back.
Let us help you, the whispers say, sounding almost gentle, almost kind. Let us give you what you deserve.
In the darkness beneath the bleachers, Bethany Woodland stops crying and starts listening.
Because in Dodds Ferry, some girls are born to be queens.
And some are born to be something else entirely.