It happened in Ashbrook - Chapter Six: The Resistance

By October, Ashbrook was a ghost town in everything but name. Storefronts were boarded, church bells no longer rang, and the streets were patrolled only by silence. Parents who once shouted across fences now avoided each other’s eyes, afraid to admit what they all knew: their children were no longer theirs.

But fear has a way of curdling into defiance.

It was the sheriff, his mangled hand still wrapped in bandages, who first gathered the survivors. He called a meeting in the basement of St. Augustine’s church, a place the children had stopped entering for reasons no one dared question. Nearly thirty adults showed up, huddled together in the flickering glow of candles.

“They’re not children anymore,” the sheriff rasped, his voice raw from pain. “They’re vessels. Puppets. Experiments. Whatever he is, whatever he wants, we can’t sit by and let him finish.”

Some nodded. Others wept. A few shook their heads, whispering that it was blasphemy to speak of their sons and daughters that way.

Then Mrs. Hale, Timothy’s mother, spoke up. Her eyes were hollow, her face drawn, but her voice was steady. “My boy looks at me and doesn’t see me anymore. He talks in words I don’t understand. He’s not my Timothy. Not anymore. If we don’t fight, we’ll all become like them.”

That was enough.

The sheriff laid out their plan. They would destroy the water tower—the place where the lights had first converged, the place every child seemed drawn to. If the Tall One was using it as some kind of beacon or anchor, severing it might disrupt his hold. Explosives were scarce, but the old mine outside town still stored dynamite.

The group agreed, though reluctantly. None wanted to face what their children had become. None wanted to imagine the Tall One watching through their eyes.

The following night, they set out.

The mine was dark and damp, tunnels echoing with the drip of unseen water. The sheriff led the way, lantern in his good hand, revolver strapped awkwardly to his ruined one. The dynamite was there, just as he promised, stacked in rotting crates. They carried what they could, hearts pounding, every creak of wood sounding like a footstep behind them.

But when they emerged, the children were waiting.

Dozens of them lined the ridge above the mine, their silver eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. Not one spoke. Not one moved. They simply watched as the adults stumbled into the open.

Then Timothy stepped forward.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, his voice layered again, too deep for his small frame. “He knows now.”

The sheriff raised his revolver, hands trembling. “Stay back, boy,” he warned, though the words sounded hollow.

Timothy smiled. “We’re not yours to command anymore.”

And then the hum began.

The dynamite in the crates shook violently, resonating with the unseen vibration. The adults scrambled, clutching their ears, teeth rattling in their jaws. The sheriff fired, the gunshot lost in the suffocating drone. The bullet passed through Timothy’s chest—and yet no blood spilled. Instead, the wound sealed itself instantly, leaving behind only a faint circle-shaped scar.

Panic erupted. The adults scattered, dragging what dynamite they could toward the trucks, abandoning the rest. A few never made it—frozen in place, eyes rolling back, collapsing lifeless to the ground.

The survivors fled into the night, dynamite clutched tightly, hearts broken at the sight of their children staring after them without a trace of recognition.

Back at the church, the doctor examined the bodies of those who had fallen. There were no signs of trauma, no wounds, no heart failure. Their brains, however, had liquefied inside their skulls, dripping black fluid from their ears.

The sheriff stood over the corpses, jaw clenched. “Tomorrow night,” he said. “We end this.”

But in the shadows of the church, unseen by the weary adults, a small hand pressed against the stained-glass window from outside. Silver eyes peered in.

And a whisper slithered into every survivor’s mind at once:

“There is no end. Only the Harvest.”

Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model