Gainesboro After Eight

Gainesboro After Eight

When Ian started classes at Tennessee Tech in the fall of 2015, he thought living close to campus was going to be one of the best parts of college.

By October, he would have gladly driven an hour each way just to get some sleep.

His apartment in Cookeville wasn't terrible on paper.

It was small, but that was expected. He had his own bedroom, shared a bathroom with one other person, and could get to campus in only a few minutes. There were restaurants nearby, stores everywhere, and enough students living in the surrounding buildings that finding someone his age was never a problem.

Unfortunately, finding somewhere quiet was nearly impossible.

Ian learned quickly that college apartments had their own ecosystem.

Someone was always awake.

Someone was always playing music.

Someone was always yelling from one balcony to another.

Someone was always having friends over.

And those friends always seemed to bring more friends.

His upstairs neighbors apparently owned bowling balls, although Ian had never actually seen any evidence of a bowling hobby. He could think of no other explanation for the heavy objects that seemed to hit their floor at random intervals throughout the night.

The people across the hall liked parties.

The people downstairs liked arguing.

His roommate wasn't a bad guy, but he seemed incapable of entering the apartment without bringing at least two other people with him.

On a Tuesday night in September, Ian had walked into his own kitchen and discovered six strangers playing cards at the table.

One of them had looked up and asked Ian where the bathroom was.

"It's my apartment," Ian had said.

The stranger pointed down the hallway.

"So bathroom's that way?"

Ian had gone to bed.

Another night, someone pulled the fire alarm shortly after two in the morning.

Ian stood outside with fifty half-awake college students while firefighters checked the building.

There was no fire.

Someone had apparently thought pulling the alarm would be funny.

Ian didn't.

He wasn't antisocial.

He liked people.

He enjoyed hanging out.

He occasionally stayed up too late himself.

But he wanted to decide when he was awake.

He wanted to decide who was in his home.

More than anything, he wanted privacy.

By November, he had started looking at other apartments.

Cookeville had plenty.

Affordable ones were another matter.

Everything close to Tennessee Tech either cost more than Ian wanted to pay or involved another building filled with students.

He toured one place where the leasing agent proudly told him the complex had a "very active social environment."

Ian could hear bass vibrating through the office wall while she said it.

He crossed that one off the list before he reached his car.

One evening, while searching online, Ian widened the distance on the apartment listings.

Cookeville disappeared.

Then Baxter.

Then more of Putnam County.

Eventually, he found something in Gainesboro.

The listing wasn't impressive.

Studio apartment for rent. Private. Utilities negotiable. No pets. Approximately 30 minutes from Tennessee Tech.

There were only four pictures.

One showed a small kitchen.

One showed a bathroom.

The other two showed the outside of a detached garage.

The apartment was above it.

Ian looked at the price.

Then he looked again.

It was considerably cheaper than what he was paying.

He called the number.

Two days later, he drove to Gainesboro for the first time.

The farther he got from Cookeville, the more the landscape changed.

Businesses thinned out.

Traffic eased.

The roads curved through hills and wooded areas.

By the time he reached Gainesboro, Ian felt as though he had driven much farther than thirty minutes.

The apartment was on a farm outside town.

The landlord walked him around the property and apologized twice for how plain the place was.

Ian couldn't understand why.

The apartment wasn't fancy, but it was clean.

One big room made up most of it. There was a small kitchen along one wall, a bathroom that appeared to have been remodeled sometime before Ian was born, and enough space for a bed, couch, television and desk.

The floors creaked.

The windows were old.

The heating system made an odd clicking noise before it started.

Ian loved it.

"What about downstairs?" he asked.

"Garage."

"Anybody working in it at night?"

The landlord shook his head.

"Mostly storage. Tractor sometimes. Mower. Tools."

"And the closest neighbor?"

The landlord pointed across a field.

Ian followed his finger.

There was a house in the distance.

Ian smiled.

That alone almost sold him.

Then he stepped outside.

Doe Creek ran behind the property, close enough that he could hear the water on quiet days. It traveled through the countryside before eventually meeting the Cumberland River.

Ian stood there for a moment.

No car horns.

No shouting.

No music through the walls.

No footsteps above him.

Nothing.

"How late can I play music?"

The landlord laughed.

"As late as you want. Long as I can't hear it from my house, I don't care."

Ian looked toward the distant farmhouse.

"You won't hear it."

He signed the lease.

Ian moved to Gainesboro shortly after Christmas.

His roommate in Cookeville didn't understand.

"You're moving where?"

"Gainesboro."

"Why?"

"Because I can sleep there."

His roommate laughed.

"Dude, there's nothing there."

Ian carried another box toward the door.

"Exactly."

The first night in the garage apartment was strange.

It was too quiet.

Ian lay in bed and waited for the familiar sounds of Cookeville.

No one screamed in a parking lot.

No doors slammed.

No bass shook the walls.

No mysterious bowling balls crashed against the ceiling.

At one point Ian actually sat up because he thought he heard someone outside.

It was a frog.

Within a week, he couldn't imagine going back.

The drive to Tennessee Tech wasn't ideal, but Ian quickly developed a routine.

Coffee before leaving.

Music or talk radio on the drive.

Classes.

Work.

Then back to Gainesboro.

He got used to tractors.

He learned which curves he needed to slow down for.

He learned that getting stuck behind a farm truck could add ten minutes to his trip.

None of it bothered him.

Ian had grown up around Knoxville, so Tennessee wasn't new to him, but life around Gainesboro felt different.

Cookeville was hardly a giant city, yet Gainesboro made it feel enormous.

People waved.

Cashiers remembered him.

At first, everyone seemed to know he wasn't from there before he even spoke.

Ian suspected outsiders carried some invisible mark.

People would ask where he was from, why he was in Gainesboro, whether he went to Tennessee Tech and how long he planned to stay.

"Couple years," Ian usually said.

That was the plan.

Finish school.

Find work.

Move on.

Then February 29 came.

Ian first noticed something strange late that afternoon.

He stopped at the grocery store after class and loaded his cart with the essentials of college life: frozen pizza, soda, sandwich meat, chips and enough microwaveable food to ensure he wouldn't need to cook anything requiring actual skill.

The cashier was an older woman who had checked him out several times before.

She recognized him.

"College boy."

Ian smiled.

"Still surviving."

"Better get everything you need."

Ian looked into his cart.

"I think I've got enough sodium to survive a nuclear winter."

She laughed.

Then she glanced at the clock.

"Good. Saves you from coming back out tonight."

Ian looked toward the windows.

It wasn't even dark yet.

"You close early?"

"Tonight we do."

"What time?"

"Eight."

Ian shrugged.

"Inventory?"

The woman's smile changed slightly.

"No. February twenty-ninth."

She continued scanning groceries.

Ian waited for more.

None came.

"Okay."

She placed a frozen pizza into a bag.

Ian finally asked, "What happens on February twenty-ninth?"

"Nothing."

The answer came immediately.

Ian smiled.

"That's good."

"That's the idea."

She handed him the receipt.

Ian stood there for another second, trying to decide whether she was joking.

She called to the next customer.

Ian left.

He forgot about the conversation until he drove through town.

A restaurant had a sign announcing it would close at seven.

The hardware store was already shutting down.

A barber shop was dark.

At the gas station, another handwritten sign was taped to the door.

CLOSING AT 8:00 P.M.
SEE YOU TOMORROW.

Ian went inside.

A young guy about his age sat behind the register.

Ian placed a drink on the counter.

"What's going on tonight?"

The clerk glanced up.

"What do you mean?"

"Everything's closing."

"Leap Night."

Ian waited.

The clerk scanned his drink.

Ian said, "You're going to have to give me more than that."

The young man smiled.

"Old tradition."

"What kind?"

"Everybody goes inside by eight and stays there until sunrise."

Ian laughed.

The clerk didn't.

Ian's laugh slowly died.

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

"Like a curfew?"

"Sort of."

"Why?"

The clerk shrugged.

"Depends who you ask. My grandma says it's been that way forever."

"What happens if you're outside?"

"Nothing."

Ian stared at him.

The clerk handed him his change.

Then added, "Probably."

Ian laughed again.

This time the clerk joined him.

"Old people around here," the young man said. "They like traditions. Leap Night is one of them. It's annoying. Every four years everything shuts down."

"So you don't believe it?"

"No."

The clerk glanced toward the clock.

"But I'm still going home at eight."

At 7:45 that evening, Ian sat in his apartment thinking about The Purge.

The comparison was ridiculous, but he couldn't help it.

In the movie, people waited for a certain hour and then society suddenly changed.

Gainesboro appeared to have its own friendlier version.

No sirens.

No violence.

Everybody just went home.

Ian looked out his window.

The road was empty.

At 7:55, a truck passed.

At 8:03, nothing moved.

He checked his phone.

No emergency alert.

No announcement.

No weather warning.

Nothing.

"Country people," Ian muttered.

He didn't mean it cruelly.

He assumed the explanation involved some old superstition that had survived long after anyone remembered where it came from.

Maybe bad luck.

Maybe a story about spirits.

Maybe some farmer's great-great-grandfather had once been kicked by a mule on February 29 and somehow convinced the entire town to stay indoors every leap year.

Ian locked the door.

Then he realized what he'd done.

"Seriously?"

He unlocked it.

He stood there.

Then he locked it again.

There was no reason not to.

At nine, nothing happened.

At ten, nothing happened.

At eleven, Ian stopped thinking about it.

He watched a horror movie.

Sometime after midnight, he fell asleep on the couch.

A noise woke him.

Ian opened his eyes.

The television had reached the menu screen and was playing the same short piece of music repeatedly.

He muted it.

The apartment became silent.

Then Ian heard it.

Splash.

He sat upright.

A few seconds passed.

Splash.

The sound came from the direction of Doe Creek.

Ian stood and walked toward the window.

He didn't open the curtain.

He listened.

Nothing.

"Deer."

He said it aloud because hearing the word made the explanation feel more convincing.

Probably a deer crossing the water.

Or a raccoon.

Or anything else that lived near a creek.

Ian returned to the couch.

The following morning, Gainesboro was normal.

Businesses reopened.

Cars moved.

People went to work.

Nobody mentioned Leap Night.

A few days later, Ian asked the grocery-store cashier about it.

"So what was supposed to happen?"

She smiled.

"You stayed inside?"

"Yeah."

"Then nothing happened."

"But what could've happened?"

She handed him his bag.

"See you next time, college boy."

That was all he got.

Weeks became months.

Months became years.

Ian finished one semester and started another.

The apartment above the garage became less like temporary housing and more like home.

He bought better furniture.

He replaced the tiny television.

He put shelves on the walls.

Eventually, he stopped thinking of his parents' house near Knoxville as "home" and started thinking of it as "my parents' place."

Gainesboro grew on him.

So did the people.

At first, Ian had found it mildly unsettling that everyone seemed to know everyone else's business.

Then his car broke down.

Before he could figure out how to get it to a mechanic, someone had already called someone else, who knew someone with a trailer.

The car was moved before lunch.

When bad weather knocked out power, his landlord checked on him before Ian could call.

When Ian caught the flu, the grocery-store cashier somehow heard about it and sent soup through somebody who knew his landlord.

Ian never figured out the exact chain of people involved.

That was Gainesboro.

Privacy existed, but help did too.

Ian eventually took a job at a local hardware and lumber store.

The owner, Dave, knew nearly everybody who walked through the door.

Chuck worked there too.

Ian never figured out Chuck's exact job description.

Chuck unloaded lumber, mixed paint, ran the register, repaired things, gave unsolicited advice and disappeared whenever someone mentioned cleaning the bathroom.

He had apparently been there forever.

Working at the store changed things for Ian.

People started knowing him by name.

He learned who owned which farm.

He learned whose son had moved away and whose daughter had just gotten married.

He learned that asking, "How's your mom doing?" could turn a thirty-second transaction into a fifteen-minute conversation.

At some point, people stopped asking Ian when he was leaving.

Eventually, they stopped calling him the college kid.

By 2019, Ian realized something strange.

He no longer planned to move away immediately after graduation.

He liked it there.

He liked being able to walk into the hardware store and know half the people inside.

He liked the river.

He liked Doe Creek behind his apartment.

He liked how quiet the nights were.

February 29, 2016 became an odd little memory.

Then 2020 arrived.

Ian first heard the whispers in January.

Two older men stood near the lumber counter.

Ian was stacking boxes on a shelf when he heard one say, "You got everything put up?"

"Most of it."

"What about the cattle?"

"Moving them closer next week."

"Good."

A pause.

"Think it'll come the same way?"

"No telling."

Ian turned the corner.

Both men immediately stopped talking.

One smiled.

"Ian! Tennessee Tech still taking all your money?"

"Every chance they get."

The men laughed.

They started discussing football.

Ian thought nothing of it.

A week later, something similar happened.

Then again.

People talked quietly until someone unfamiliar entered the store.

Conversations stopped.

Subjects changed.

Weather.

Sports.

Road construction.

Anything normal.

Ian became curious.

He started listening more closely.

One afternoon, he heard two farmers talking.

"...tore through that fence like it wasn't there."

"That was four years ago?"

"Eight."

"Thought it was four."

"No. Four years ago it stayed closer to the water."

Ian walked past them carrying a box.

Neither man stopped talking.

That caught his attention.

Four years earlier, they probably would have.

Ian had been in Gainesboro long enough now that people occasionally forgot he hadn't always been there.

Then he heard someone say it.

"Twenty-ninth."

Ian nearly dropped the box.

Leap Night.

The memory rushed back.

The grocery store.

The empty roads.

The strange splash near Doe Creek.

Ian smiled at first.

He had nearly forgotten the whole thing.

Then another man said, "I'm keeping the dogs inside this time."

Ian's smile disappeared.

Over the next few weeks, Ian paid attention.

Batteries sold faster than usual.

People bought work lights.

Generators were checked.

Farmers purchased chains, rope and extra fencing supplies.

One man bought several heavy locks.

People were preparing for something.

Not frantically.

That was what bothered Ian.

Nobody acted afraid.

They acted experienced.

The way people prepared for a storm they'd seen before.

Ian started asking questions.

He usually received a laugh.

"Old tradition."

"Nothing to worry about."

"Just Gainesboro being Gainesboro."

Younger people were more willing to complain.

"It's stupid."

"My parents still make everybody stay over."

"Can't even drive to Cookeville."

"Every four years we pretend some creek monster is coming."

Ian latched onto that last one.

"Creek monster?"

The girl who said it rolled her eyes.

"You know. Old people stories."

"What stories?"

She shrugged.

"I don't know. Something comes out of the river. Eats cows. Steals babies. Probably breathes fire too."

"Seriously?"

"No."

She laughed.

"My grandparents won't talk about it. They just say stay inside."

Ian laughed with her.

But he kept listening.

Soon he heard the same two words repeated again and again.

Sometimes people said him.

Sometimes they said it.

Nobody used a name.

About a week before February 29, the bell above the hardware-store door jingled.

Ian looked up.

An older Native American man walked inside.

Ian had seen him around town before.

Never for long.

The man appeared to be somewhere in his sixties, perhaps older. His hair was gray and cut short. His face was deeply weathered.

There was nothing outwardly threatening about him.

Still, Ian immediately got the sense that this was someone you did not want to test.

Not because the man acted tough.

He didn't.

He didn't need to.

He stood quietly near the counter.

Chuck spotted him.

The usual joking expression disappeared from Chuck's face.

He called toward the office.

"Dave! You got company."

Dave came out.

The two men shook hands.

No introductions.

No casual conversation.

The stranger placed an old canvas sack on the counter.

It reminded Ian of the money bags bank robbers carried in cartoons, only without the giant dollar sign.

Something inside made a heavy metallic clunk.

Dave opened the bag.

He looked inside.

His expression tightened slightly.

Then he closed it.

"Same amount?" Dave asked.

The stranger nodded.

Dave nodded back.

"All right."

That was the entire conversation.

Dave pointed toward the back.

"Chuck. Ian. Load those pallets onto his truck."

Three pallets sat beneath the covered loading area.

Ian had noticed them being prepared over the previous two days.

He hadn't known who they were for.

The supplies were strange.

Heavy rope.

Chains.

Tarps.

Batteries.

Work lights.

Fuel cans.

First-aid kits.

Several large containers of water.

Gloves.

Tools.

And three wooden crates Ian had been specifically told not to open.

The stranger backed an old pickup toward the loading area.

He helped secure everything without saying a word.

Ian glanced at Chuck.

"What's all this for?"

Chuck tightened a strap.

"Work."

"What kind?"

"The kind that needs rope."

Ian stared at him.

"Very informative."

"Thank you."

Ian lowered his voice.

"This for Leap Night?"

Chuck's hands stopped.

Only for a moment.

Then he pulled the strap tight.

"Load the truck."

That was the first time Ian realized nobody was going to tell him anything.

The stranger looked toward him.

Their eyes met.

There was no anger in the man's expression.

If anything, he seemed curious.

As though he were studying Ian.

Deciding something.

Then he climbed into his truck and drove away.

Ian watched until the taillights disappeared.

"Who was that?"

Chuck picked up an empty pallet.

"Customer."

"What's his name?"

Chuck smiled.

"If he wanted you to know, he'd tell you."

February 29, 2020 arrived on a Saturday.

The difference from 2016 was obvious.

Ian knew people now.

He could feel the town changing as the day went on.

Nobody panicked.

Nobody announced anything.

But everyone was watching the clock.

Families came into the store early.

People bought last-minute supplies.

One older woman reminded Dave that he needed to leave by seven.

Dave promised he would.

At five-thirty, Dave locked the lumber yard.

At six, he flipped the sign on the front door.

CLOSED.

Ian looked at him.

"We usually stay open later."

"Not tonight."

Ian leaned against the counter.

"So nobody's going to tell me what's going on?"

Dave counted the register.

"Nothing's going on."

"Everybody keeps saying that."

"Maybe everybody's right."

"You're closing early."

"We close early Christmas Eve too."

"Christmas Eve doesn't come every four years."

Dave looked up.

For half a second, Ian thought he might finally say something.

Instead Dave smiled.

"Go home, Ian."

Chuck had already left.

Ian grabbed his jacket.

Outside, the streets were beginning to empty.

A Gainesboro police cruiser slowly moved through town.

The officer wasn't pulling anyone over.

He wasn't using lights or sirens.

He simply drove.

People saw him.

People knew.

Ian stopped at the grocery store.

The same cashier from 2016 was working.

She looked older.

So did Ian.

She smiled when she saw him.

"College boy."

Ian laughed.

"You know I've lived here four years now."

"You'll always be college boy to me."

She scanned his groceries.

Then she looked at him.

"You're going home?"

"That's what everybody keeps telling me."

"Good."

Ian hesitated.

"What happens if I don't?"

Her hands stopped moving.

The smile remained, but her eyes changed.

"Ian."

It was the first time she'd used his name.

"Go home."

Ian didn't joke.

"Okay."

She smiled again.

"Good."

At eight o'clock, Gainesboro shut itself away.

Ian sat in his apartment.

He tried watching television.

He couldn't concentrate.

He played a game for twenty minutes.

He shut it off.

He looked toward the window.

Nothing.

The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous everything seemed.

He was an adult.

It was 2020.

There was no law preventing him from going outside.

No emergency.

No dangerous weather.

Just an old custom nobody would explain.

At 10:30, Ian put on his boots.

At 10:45, he found his flashlight.

At 10:50, he stood at the door.

"This is stupid."

He wasn't sure whether he meant going outside or staying inside.

At 11:00, Ian left.

Ian assumed midnight would be the important time.

That was how these things worked.

Midnight was when ghosts appeared.

Midnight was when curses activated.

Midnight was when every horror movie Ian had ever watched told him something terrible was going to happen.

He drove partway toward the river, parked, and continued on foot.

He kept his flashlight off.

The moon provided enough light to see.

The countryside felt wrong.

Not because it was noisy.

Because it wasn't.

Ian had lived beside Doe Creek long enough to recognize its nighttime sounds.

Frogs.

Insects.

Birds.

Small animals moving through leaves.

Tonight there was almost nothing.

11:30 passed.

Then midnight.

Ian waited.

Nothing happened.

12:30.

Nothing.

By one, he was cold.

By two, he was annoyed.

He couldn't believe he'd allowed himself to get worked up over an old superstition.

At 2:30, he nearly left.

Then he decided he'd already wasted most of the night.

He might as well stay until three.

Ian leaned against a tree.

His eyes grew heavy.

Then he heard it.

Sloooosh.

Ian opened his eyes.

He didn't move.

For several seconds, there was silence.

Then—

Sloooosh.

Something moved through the water.

Slowly.

He knew that sound.

It took him several seconds to place it.

Then he remembered the laundromat he had used when his washing machine stopped working.

The enormous commercial machines.

Wet clothes tumbling slowly inside.

Sloooosh.

Except this sounded bigger.

Much bigger.

Ian stood.

His hand found the flashlight.

He didn't turn it on.

Then the smell arrived.

Ian gagged.

His eyes watered.

It smelled like low tide mixed with roadkill that had been lying on blacktop during the hottest week of summer.

He covered his nose.

"Oh, God."

Something splashed.

Closer.

Ian raised the flashlight.

Before he could switch it on, someone grabbed him from behind.

A hand covered his mouth.

Ian kicked backward.

The person pulled him close.

"You're not supposed to be here."

The voice was low.

Controlled.

Ian stopped struggling.

The hand slowly moved away.

Ian turned.

The older man from the hardware store stared at him.

"You."

The man said nothing.

"I'm Ian. I work at Dave's store. You came in last week."

A pause.

Then the stranger nodded.

"Walter."

Ian stared.

"That's your name?"

Walter nodded.

"Good to finally know it."

Walter's expression suggested this wasn't the time for jokes.

Ian noticed what he was wearing.

Camouflage covered Walter from head to toe.

Not an old hunting jacket.

Modern camouflage designed to break up the outline of his entire body.

Ian whispered, "Is that some kind of Native American hunting outfit?"

Walter slowly turned his head.

The look on his face made Ian instantly regret the question.

Ian raised his hands.

"Sorry. That sounded better in my head."

"Marines."

Ian blinked.

"Oh."

Walter said nothing else.

Ian got the feeling that was all the explanation he was going to get.

Then he noticed the rifle.

Walter held a modern AR-style rifle fitted with a suppressor.

A large weapon light was mounted near the front.

Ian had seen bright flashlights before.

This one looked capable of throwing the sun into someone's face.

Ian's humor disappeared.

"What are you hunting?"

Walter looked toward the creek.

"I'm not."

The sloshing stopped.

Ian listened.

Nothing.

Somehow the silence was worse.

"What is it?"

Walter didn't answer.

A wet gurgling noise came from the darkness.

Ian's stomach tightened.

It sounded like someone attempting to growl while drowning.

Walter immediately grabbed Ian's shoulder.

"Go home."

Ian stared toward the water.

Something moved between the trees.

Ian couldn't understand the shape.

For one second it seemed tall.

The next it appeared to crawl.

Then it seemed as though part of it was still beneath the water.

Ian's eyes couldn't settle on it.

"What is that?"

Walter whispered, "We don't know."

The smell grew stronger.

Ian gagged again.

Something scraped against rock.

Walter raised the rifle.

Ian stared at it.

"Will that kill it?"

Walter didn't look away from the creek.

"No."

Ian swallowed.

"Then why do you have it?"

"Slows it down."

A sound erupted from the darkness.

Part roar.

Part choking cough.

Part scream.

Ian stumbled backward.

Walter shouted.

"RUN!"

Something crashed through the water.

Walter fired.

The suppressed rifle made several sharp muffled cracks.

Ian saw movement.

A flash of pale flesh.

Water spraying.

Something far larger than he had expected.

Then Walter fired again.

"RUN, IAN!"

Ian ran.

Ian had never considered himself athletic.

Apparently terror was an excellent personal trainer.

He ran faster than he knew he could.

Branches struck his arms and face.

His lungs burned.

His legs begged him to stop.

Behind him came several muffled shots.

Then the roar.

Closer than Ian wanted it to be.

He didn't look back.

Walter had specifically told him not to.

Ian decided that might be the most intelligent advice anyone had ever given him.

He kept moving.

One advantage of living in a small town was that distances weren't what they seemed.

His apartment wasn't far.

At a full sprint, he could reach the farm in minutes.

Those minutes felt like hours.

Ian reached the yard.

He nearly fell crossing it.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, fumbled with his keys and dropped them.

"No. No. No."

He grabbed them from the porch.

Behind him, somewhere far away, another muffled shot echoed.

Ian unlocked the door.

He went inside.

Locked it.

Then locked it again, even though that accomplished absolutely nothing.

Ian shut the curtains.

He stood in the middle of the apartment trying to breathe.

His hands shook.

He listened.

Nothing came up the stairs.

Nothing scratched at the door.

Nothing moved outside.

Several minutes passed.

Then another distant shot.

After that, silence.

Ian remained awake until sunrise.

When the first sunlight appeared around the curtains, every bit of adrenaline seemed to leave his body at once.

He collapsed onto the couch.

Ian woke after noon.

For a few wonderful seconds, he thought he'd dreamed everything.

Then he saw the mud on his boots.

His clothes were filthy.

A scratch ran across one arm.

He drove into town.

Gainesboro looked completely normal.

Cars moved through the streets.

People ate lunch.

The grocery store was open.

At the hardware store, Chuck was stacking boxes.

Ian walked inside.

"Where's Dave?"

Chuck pointed toward the office.

Ian went straight in.

Dave sat behind his desk.

"Walter."

Dave looked up.

"What?"

"Walter. Is he okay?"

Dave's face showed nothing.

"I don't know anybody named Walter."

Ian stared at him.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"I was there."

Dave looked back at his paperwork.

"Where?"

"At the river."

Dave stopped writing.

Ian lowered his voice.

"I saw it."

The room became very quiet.

Dave slowly put down his pen.

Then he leaned back.

"You were told to stay home."

"Nobody told me why."

"We shouldn't have to."

"That's not an explanation."

Dave sighed.

"Is he okay?"

Several seconds passed.

Finally, Dave nodded.

"He's fine."

Ian let out a breath.

That tiny answer felt enormous.

"So it was real."

Dave picked up his pen.

"I didn't say that."

"You just told me Walter's fine."

"I know a lot of Walters."

Ian stared at him.

Dave almost smiled.

"Go help Chuck."

Chuck was even less useful.

"What happened last night?" Ian asked.

"Slept like a baby."

"I heard gunshots."

"Lots of hunters around here."

"At three in the morning?"

Chuck shrugged.

"Dedicated hunters."

Ian walked away before he said something impolite.

The grocery-store cashier wouldn't discuss it.

Neither would the young man from the gas station, who still worked there occasionally.

When Ian pressed him, the young man finally said, "You went outside?"

Ian nodded.

The clerk's expression changed.

"Don't do that again."

"Why?"

"Because you're supposed to stay inside."

"That's circular logic."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means you're telling me to stay inside because I'm supposed to stay inside."

"Good."

He disappeared into the back room.

Over the next several days, Ian learned pieces.

Never the entire story.

A farmer lost livestock.

Several animals were found dead along a rough trail leading away from the water.

A section of fence was destroyed.

Someone claimed a bear had done it.

Nobody Ian knew believed that.

Ian started researching.

Old newspapers.

Library archives.

Anything he could find online.

Patterns emerged.

Leap years.

Reports of strange animal deaths.

Missing dogs.

Damaged fences.

Unexplained noises around the Cumberland and Doe Creek.

Stories going back decades.

Maybe longer.

Most had reasonable explanations attached.

Coyotes.

Bears.

Flood damage.

Vandals.

Wild dogs.

Then Ian found an article from the late 1970s.

A man had been found dead near the river.

The official explanation involved an intoxicated individual encountering a bear.

Ian read the article several times.

One detail bothered him.

No bear tracks were found.

Another article mentioned strange damage to nearby trees.

Then nothing.

The story disappeared.

Ian returned to the hardware store one evening after closing.

Dave was locking the front door.

Ian approached him.

"I know you don't want to talk about this."

"Then we're off to a good start."

"What is it?"

Dave sighed.

"Ian."

"I saw it."

"You saw something."

"Walter shot it."

Dave glanced toward him.

That confirmed more than words could have.

Ian continued.

"How long has this been happening?"

"We don't know."

"Why February twenty-ninth?"

Dave laughed quietly.

"That's the question."

"So it really only happens every leap year?"

"As far as anyone knows."

"Why?"

"No idea."

Ian looked toward the river in the distance.

"Something that old wouldn't know what a leap year is."

Dave stared at him.

"That's exactly what bothers me."

Ian felt a chill.

Dave continued.

"People like rules. Rules make scary things easier. February twenty-ninth. Eight at night until sunrise. Stay indoors. Keep animals close. Don't go near the water."

"Does locking your door stop it?"

"No idea."

"Does staying inside?"

"Seems to."

"Seems to?"

Dave shrugged.

"Nobody's been killed since the seventies."

Ian thought about the article.

"The bear attack."

Dave looked at him.

"You've been reading."

"Wasn't a bear."

Dave didn't answer.

"Why keep it secret?"

"We don't."

Ian laughed.

"Everybody lies when I ask."

"That's different."

"How?"

Dave leaned against his truck.

"Imagine we announce that every four years some unknown thing comes out near the river."

Ian waited.

"First thing that happens," Dave continued, "people laugh. Then reporters show up. Then paranormal people. Then kids start daring each other to go looking for it."

Ian immediately thought about himself.

Dave noticed.

"Exactly."

Ian folded his arms.

"So the whole town just pretends nothing happens."

"We remind people to stay home."

"What about visitors?"

"Tell them whatever works."

"What do you tell them?"

Dave smiled.

"Road work."

Ian laughed despite himself.

Then he became serious.

"The supplies I loaded."

Dave didn't answer.

"They were for Walter."

Still nothing.

Ian continued.

"Rope. Chains. Lights."

"I never said who they were for."

"I met him."

Dave's face changed slightly.

Ian realized something.

Walter had given him his name.

That apparently mattered.

"Why him?"

Dave looked toward the road.

"Because every town has people who step forward when something needs doing."

"Police?"

"Some."

"Fire department?"

"Sometimes."

"Hunters?"

"Sometimes."

"And Walter?"

Dave opened his truck door.

"Walter's Walter."

Ian nodded.

"What was in the canvas bag?"

Dave got inside.

"Good night, Ian."

Spring arrived.

Then summer.

The world moved on.

Ian didn't.

He kept thinking about that night.

About the smell.

The sloshing.

The shape his eyes couldn't understand.

And Walter standing between it and town with a rifle he knew couldn't kill it.

That part bothered Ian most.

Walter hadn't expected to win.

He had only expected to slow it down.

Long enough for morning.

Long enough for whatever happened at sunrise to make the thing disappear again.

Ian slowly understood the truth about Leap Night.

The town wasn't hiding.

It was holding its breath.

For one night every four years, Gainesboro closed its doors and trusted a handful of people to keep whatever came out of the water from reaching anyone else.

Ian had spent years thinking small towns were peaceful because nothing happened.

Maybe he had been wrong.

Maybe some places were peaceful because people quietly made sure they stayed that way.

One afternoon, several months later, the hardware-store bell jingled.

Walter walked in.

He nodded at Dave.

Then Chuck.

Then Ian.

Ian nodded back.

Neither spoke.

Walter purchased lumber, rope and several boxes of screws.

Ian helped him load everything.

When they finished, Walter closed the tailgate.

Ian stood beside the truck.

"2024."

Walter looked at him.

"The next leap year."

Walter nodded.

Ian took a breath.

"I want to help."

"No."

The answer came so quickly Ian almost laughed.

"I've got four years."

"No."

"You didn't even think about it."

"Didn't need to."

Ian folded his arms.

"You can't stop me."

Walter stared at him.

Ian reconsidered the wisdom of saying that.

Walter looked Ian up and down.

"Last time you ran like an asthmatic lawn mower."

Ian frowned.

"I made it home."

"Barely."

"You saw me?"

"Made sure you got there."

Ian hadn't known that.

Walter had stayed close enough to protect him.

Even while fighting that thing.

Ian looked away.

"Thank you."

Walter nodded.

Ian looked back at him.

"Train me."

"No."

"I mean it."

"So do I."

"I live here."

Walter didn't answer.

Ian continued.

"I know I wasn't born here. I know everybody still remembers when I showed up. But this is my home now."

Walter studied him.

For once, Ian didn't look away.

"I don't want to spend the next four years pretending I didn't see anything. And when 2024 gets here, I don't want to sit upstairs hoping somebody else takes care of it."

Walter remained silent.

Ian wondered if he'd gone too far.

Then Walter reached through the open window of his truck.

He pulled out a folded piece of paper.

He handed it to Ian.

Ian opened it.

There was an address.

Above it was a time.

5:00 A.M.

Ian stared.

"Five?"

Walter opened the driver's door.

"In the morning?"

Walter climbed inside.

Ian walked toward the window.

"What's at this address?"

"Me."

"What are we doing?"

Walter started the engine.

Ian waited.

Walter's mouth moved into the smallest smile Ian had ever seen.

"Running."

Ian groaned.

"Can't evil train at eight?"

Walter drove away.

Ian stood in the parking lot holding the paper.

Behind the store, late-afternoon sunlight reflected through the trees.

Somewhere beyond them, Doe Creek continued toward the Cumberland just as it had long before Gainesboro had a name.

Long before Tennessee Tech.

Long before anyone had decided a calendar needed an extra day every four years.

Ian looked toward the water.

February 29, 2024.

Less than four years away.

He still didn't know what lived in the creek.

He didn't know where it came from.

He didn't know why it returned.

Maybe nobody did.

But for the first time, Ian understood something the people of Gainesboro had known for generations.

You didn't always need to understand a thing to know it was real.

And you didn't always have to defeat something to protect people from it.

Sometimes you only had to hold it back until sunrise.

Ian folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

Next Leap Night, he wouldn't be watching from the apartment above the garage.

He wouldn't be sneaking through the woods with a flashlight.

He wouldn't be running home while someone else stood behind him.

Next time, Ian would know the town's secrets.

Next time, he would be ready.

And somewhere beneath the quiet water, something would be waiting too.