The mud on your boots is black and deep. It clings. You scrape it at the door, but it returns. The air in the hall smells of wet wool and old dust. You are leaving. You have packed your bag. It is light. Too light.

Thomas stands by the window. He does not turn around. He watches the street. The street is empty. A dog barks once, far away.

"You go now," he says. His voice is flat.

"Yes."

You do not look at him. You look at the floor. The floorboards are warped. You remember laying them down. Your hands bleed. You remember the cold.

Thomas turns. His face is pale. His eyes are dark. He holds out a hand. You take it. His grip is weak. He lets go.

"Be careful," he says.

"You too."

You step out. The door slams behind you. The sound is loud. It echoes in the alley. You walk fast. Your heart beats in your throat. You are afraid. Not of the dark. Not of the cold. You are afraid of the thing in the house.

The town of Oakhaven is small. It sits in a valley. The hills are high. The sky is low. It is evening. The light is grey. It has been grey for three days. The rain has stopped, but the air is heavy. It presses against your skin.

You walk to the square. The market is closed. The stalls are covered. Tarpaulins flap in the wind. You see a figure sitting on a bench. It is old Margaret. She is watching you. She does not wave. She nods.

You sit next to her. She smells of rosemary. She has a basket of herbs. They are dry. They crumble when you touch them.

"Where is Thomas?" she asks.

"At home."

"He is not at home."

You look at her. Her eyes are sharp. They cut through the fog.

"Where is he?"

She points to the church. The church is on the hill. The stone is white. It glows in the dim light.

"He went to the church," she says. "He is not coming back."

You stand up. Your knees shake. You run. You run up the hill. The path is steep. Your lungs burn. The air is thin. You slip on a root. You fall. Your knee hits the stone. It hurts. You do not stop. You keep running.

The church door is open. It is dark inside. You step in. The smell is strong. Incense. Wax. Rot.

You see Thomas. He is kneeling before the altar. His back is to you. He is wearing a white shirt. It is stained. Red stains. He is holding a knife. The blade is long. It is silver. It reflects the candlelight.

"Thomas," you say.

He does not move.

"Thomas!"

He stands up. He turns. His face is calm. His eyes are empty. He looks at you. He does not see you. He looks through you.

He raises the knife.

You scream. You lunge forward. You grab his wrist. The knife slips. It falls to the floor. It makes a sharp ring. The sound is like a bell.

Thomas drops to his knees. He is crying. His tears fall on the stone.

"I could not stop it," he whispers. "It was in my blood. It was always there."

You hold him. You hold him tight. He is cold. His skin is ice. You feel his heart beat under your hand. It is slow. It is weak.

"Who is it?" you ask.

He does not answer. He looks at the altar. On the altar, there is a book. It is old. The cover is leather. It is cracked. There is a symbol on it. A circle. A line through the center.

You know the symbol. You have seen it in your dreams. For years, you have seen it. You did not tell Thomas. You were afraid. You thought it was only a dream.

You open the book. The pages are thin. The text is in Latin. You do not read it well. But you see a picture. It is a hand. A human hand. But the fingers are too long. The nails are black.

You look at your own hand. You look at Thomas’s hand. You look at the knife.

The knife is still on the floor. It is glowing. A faint red light.

Thomas reaches for it.

"No," you say.

You kick the knife away. It slides across the stone. It hits the wall. It does not break. It bounces back. It lands near your foot.

You stare at it. You feel a pull. It is strong. It is in your bones. It is in your blood. You understand now. It is not Thomas. It is you.

You remember the mud. The black mud. It was not just mud. It was blood. You remember the night you buried the body. You do not know whose body it was. You do not remember the face. You only remember the hands. The long fingers. The black nails.

You look at Thomas. He is watching you. His eyes are full of fear. He knows. He has always known. He tried to stop you. He tried to save you.

"I am sorry," you say.

You do not know why you say it. You are not sorry. You are angry. You are full of power. The red light from the knife is growing. It is bright. It is hot.

Thomas stands up. He backs away. He trips. He falls. He does not get up.

You walk toward the knife. Your legs move on their own. Your hands reach out. The light is blinding. You cannot see Thomas. You cannot see the book. You cannot see the door. You only see the light.

You pick up the knife. It is warm. It fits in your hand. It feels like part of you.

You look at Thomas. He is on the floor. He is looking at you. He is smiling. It is a sad smile.

"Let it go," he says.

The voice is weak. It is like a whisper.

You want to let it go. You want to drop the knife. You want to run. You want to be free. But the pull is stronger. It is a chain. It is a brand. It is your identity.

You think of the town. The small houses. The quiet streets. The people who know you. They think you are kind. They think you are gentle. They are wrong.

You think of Margaret. She knew. She always knew. She watched you. She waited for this moment.

You think of the mud. The black mud. It is in your soul.

You raise the knife.

Thomas closes his eyes.

You do not strike him.

You strike the book.

The blade cuts through the leather. It cuts through the pages. The red light dies. The room goes dark. The silence is total.

You drop the knife. It clatters on the stone. You fall to your knees. You are shaking. You are hollow.

Thomas is still on the floor. He is alive. He is breathing. He opens his eyes. He looks at you. He looks at the book.

"It is done," he says.

You nod. You cannot speak. Your voice is gone.

He helps you up. His hands are steady. He leads you out of the church. The night is cold. The air is clean. The stars are out. They are bright. They are white.

You walk down the hill. You walk slowly. Your legs are heavy. Your heart is light.

Thomas walks beside you. He does not speak. He does not look at you. He just walks.

You reach the square. The market is still closed. The tarpaulins are still flapping. Margaret is still on the bench. She is sleeping. Her face is peaceful.

You stop. You look at Thomas.

"Stay here," you say.

He looks at you. His eyes are tired.

"I will stay," he says.

You turn away. You walk to the edge of the square. You look at the hills. The dark shapes of the trees. The mist in the valley.

You feel a pain. It is in your chest. It is sharp. It is like a knife. But it is not a knife. It is a memory. It is the weight of the years. It is the weight of the secrets.

You close your eyes. You let the pain come. You do not fight it. You do not push it away. You let it wash over you. You let it take you.

You feel Thomas behind you. He is close. You can smell his soap. You can hear his breath.

You open your eyes. You look at him.

"Thank you," you say.

He nods. He takes your hand. He holds it.

You do not go home. You do not go back to the house. You do not go back to the mud.

You stand in the square. You stand in the dark. You stand in the cold.

You are alone.

But you are not empty.

You are free.

The night is long. The stars are watching. The town is sleeping.

You breathe in. You breathe out.

The air is sweet.

You wait for the dawn.