Chapter Five

Part Two

Eliza typically began her workday by checking emails.

She sat in the newly furnished studio, at her newly assembled desk, staring out over her newly adopted view of still, sun-dappled water. Everything around her sparkled with the bright, hollow cheer of a fresh start. Only the laptop broke the illusion. A battle-scarred Dell, nearing its tenth birthday and held together by stubborn willpower and coffee stains, whirred to life with a tinny chime.

“You’ve got a few good years left, don’tcha, girl?” Eliza murmured, stroking the edge of the screen like the muzzle of an aging dog. It had better. After the move, neither she nor Mason could afford to replace any big-ticket items.

Her website loaded slowly, the familiar homepage flickering to life. Eliza: Clairvoyant and Empath. Her professional photo took up half the screen—Eliza in a charcoal pantsuit, hair drawn into a no-nonsense bun, makeup just heavy enough to add a few years of credibility.

Her services listed: Readings and consultations. No tarot cards, séances, palmistry, tea leaves, or crystal balls.

Eliza had quickly learned the value of distance from the clichés of her trade. No black lace, cheap trinkets, or mystical tchotchkes cluttering the shelves. There wasn’t a crystal or dreamcatcher in sight, and incense made her sneeze.

The only time she ever burned sage was in butter sauce for pasta night.

To her, being a sensitive—someone attuned to the frequencies of the wider universe–meant serious business, not spouting mambo jumbo while rubbing circles on her temples.

Clicking on the inbox, she discovered ninety-three awaiting messages.

Most were spam. Three were propositions of an intimate nature—two men, one woman—and one was a sermon-length denunciation from someone who clearly believed she’d be first against the wall come Judgment Day.

Delete, delete, delete.

She flagged emails from her regulars to answer later, then began sorting through the rest for genuine prospects. Her psychology degree had taught her how to listen; her so-called “gift” helped her hear what wasn’t said. Many clients came looking for meaning, and she respected that noble pursuit. Others came broken—mourning, angry, afraid—and she did her best to keep them safe from the vultures who would sell them hollow hope for cash.

Outside, the lake rippled faintly in the corner of her vision.

For a moment, she thought she saw something slip beneath the surface. But when she blinked, the disturbance resolved into a cormorant diving after a fish.

The bird’s black feathers shone like oil in the sunlight as it surfaced, gulping down its catch.

Eliza frowned, took a slow, practiced breath, and turned back to her work.

The inbox refreshed with its usual scatter of subject lines—requests for readings, junk mail, and ghost hunter podcasts looking for guest interviews.

Then one message caught her eye.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Is this really you?

Eliza hesitated before clicking. The address was random nonsense, and there was no preview text. Spam filters hadn’t flagged it, but something about the phrasing felt personal.

The email opened into a short block of text, written without a greeting or signature.

You don’t know me, and I can’t tell you who I am. Please understand that it’s safer this way—for both of us.

I saw your website and the photo. You really moved here, didn’t you? To Moorfield.

Be careful, Eliza. Trust no one. The people here are not what they seem. I don’t mean that in the way you might think.

There’s something under all the small town charm. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The stillness. The way they watch us.

You should read about the old Franciscan Mission, before it was lost. Some of the townsfolk still keep the stories, though most pretend to forget.

I wish I could say more. But I can’t be sure they aren’t monitoring my communications.

The message ended abruptly—no farewell, no timestamp beyond the automatic one from her server. 8:42 a.m.

Eliza stared at the words, reading them twice, then a third time.

Rechecking the sender’s address, she copied and pasted it into a search bar. Nothing. No records, no links, no trace.

Outside, the cormorant had vanished. The lake lay completely still, a mirror catching the pale blue sky.

Eliza sat back in her chair, listening to the hum of the old laptop. Her first thought was that someone local was playing a prank. Her second was that it didn’t feel like one.

Opening a new browser window, she decided to do some digging.

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Mason had taken the week off from work to get settled, but restlessness was already creeping in. After two days of unpacking, fixing, and hauling boxes, he’d volunteered to make a grocery run—partly out of practicality, mostly to get out of the house.

The local supermarket sat at the edge of town, fronted by manicured hedges and a sign in jaunty, cursive lettering proclaiming: SunnyMart. The name didn’t ring any bells—not a franchise or chain store—but the moment he stepped inside, an air of cultivated tranquility washed over him.

Everything sparkled.

The tiled floors were spotless, shining like glass. The produce section looked almost surreal in its perfection: apples with not a single bruise, tomatoes ripe and glistening, oranges glowing like golden orbs under the bright fluorescents. Mason picked one up—it was warm and fragrant, as though plucked mere seconds ago.

Quiet music drifted from hidden speakers, an old doo-wop ditty he couldn’t quite place. It reminded him of waiting rooms and elevators, except here it carried a strange comfort, a slight pressure behind the ears.

“This isn’t half bad,” he murmured.

Mason wasn’t alone, but he might as well have been.

Every other shopper in the store was a woman—more housewives, by the look of them—stunning southern belles gliding gracefully among the aisles in bosom-hugging sweaters, bow blouses, and floral skirts that whispered against their stockinged gams. They carried themselves with a kind of serene precision, every gesture neat and composed, balanced atop tall pumps.

Mason tried not to stare, though it was difficult not to admire the scene. They were attractive in a wholesome, old-fashioned way—jovial, polished, every glossy hair curled or ironed into place. Not one could be called anything less than beautiful; many achieved the rarified heights of gorgeous or even exquisite.

They ran the gamut from ballerina-thin to burlesque-dancer buxom. Pert little tooshies to plump peaches. Perky handfuls to bouncy bra-busters. All of them captivating, sauntering straight-backed with chins and chests out-thrust, exhibiting finishing school postures as they paraded behind their shopping carts.

Most offered polite smiles as they passed; one even waggled her gloved fingers at him in a coquettish wave.

He felt a small, foolish thrill.

After all, back in the city, strangers rarely smiled. Here, people seemed… kind. Warm. Attentive.

A burly manager in a crisp button-up pulled taut over his broad shoulders and bulging biceps monitored the floor from behind the service counter. The man didn’t speak. He didn’t blink much either. His features were motionless, dull eyes tracking every cart, every motion, every lovely lady. Mason caught his gaze and bobbed his head in greeting; the manager returned it with a courteous nod of his own. Professional. Manly. Totally normal.

He pushed his cart onward, half-humming along with the catchy tune, feeling oddly content.

As he moved down the next aisle, a pair of near-identical housewives sashayed by in polka-dot Audrey dresses, their hourglass waists cinched tight, their perfume sweet and heady—gardenia, maybe. One of them winked at him, then the other. Their matching smiles widened, ruby lips parting to reveal pristine pearly whites.

“Morning,” Mason offered.

They tittered shyly, strangely synchronized.

He **** a grin and moved on, the back of his neck prickling.

The scene triggered an unwelcome memory: the shimmer of lakewater through the trees, feminine forms frolicking together, Eliza’s hot breath against his neck. Guilt surged—hot, unshakable.

He focused on his shopping list. Bread. Milk. Eggs. Coffee.

He passed a young cashier who could have passed for a pageant queen in a sleeveless candy-stripe dress with flaring skirts under a white store apron, bent at the waist over a stack of cereal boxes. She pivoted as he went by, giving him a valley view down the uniform’s swooping neckline, flashing a coy expression that lit up her pretty face.

“Can I help you with something, mister? Anything at all?” She asked in a sweet southern drawl, nibbling her bottom lip.

Mason waved her away, chuckling to himself. “Friendly town.”

He was comparing two brands of strawberry jelly when he heard a high, lilting voice behind him.

“Mason? Mason from next door, isn’t it?”

Three absolute knockouts stood by the endcap display, their shopping carts aligned in a little procession.

He recognized the blonde first—Marcy, she of the delicious peach cobbler and the figure so voluptuous it could stop air traffic. Beside her stood the petite brunette, Lana, all gym-toned lines and wide hazel eyes that gleamed with affable curiosity. The third woman was instantly familiar too: a radiant redhead whose name hovered just out of reach. However, Mason vividly recalled the softness of her full breasts pressed against his skull and her unexpectedly deft hands during that memorable shoulder massage.

They were dressed like a coordinated vision of spring itself, each in a pastel dress that fluttered as they moved. Short puffed sleeves bared slender arms; square decolletages emphasized elegant collarbones and the swell of their chests, long skirts swished around shapely calves.

Together, they looked like they had stepped out of an old action film—three Bond girls from the Connery era, charming, poised, and impossibly alluring.

“That’s me.” Mason rubbed his neck self-consciously under the trio’s intense scrutiny. “How are you, ladies?”

“Fine as frog's hair, thanks for asking!” Marcy exclaimed, beaming and licking her chops. “We were just talking about you.”

“She means gushing over you, handsome.” Lana giggled, tossing her chestnut curls. “And here you are, shopping for groceries all by yourself?”

“Guilty as charged, I guess.” Mason chuckled. “Figured I’d give Eliza a break today.”

Marcy’s smile faltered for a heartbeat, the expression maternal in its concern. “But she makes you do this on your lonesome? Goodness. You mustn’t tire yourself out with errands, sugar. Keeping house is a wife’s domain, surely.”

The redhead tilted her head, tone light, if mildly judgemental. “Perhaps she doesn’t realize how things are done around here yet.”

Their laughter was gentle, well-bred, but there was weight behind it.

“Oh, we’re both still finding our feet,” Mason explained. “She’s been up to her ears in unpacking.”

Marcy swayed closer, voice lowering conspiratorially. “You know, if she ever needs a spot of guidance, we’d be delighted to help her… settle in. It’s so important to sync up with the neighborhood rhythms.”

Lana nodded earnestly. “We could have Eliza over. Show her the ropes. Recipes, routines, little tricks. In these parts, the wives usually tend the home. Keeps everything running smoothly.”

They circled him like a school of colorful fish, their shopping momentarily abandoned. Mason took a step back, almost bumping a rack of tinned soup.

“Hey… um, it’s okay for the guy to help out too, you know.” He said, defensively. “It’s not fair to make the woman do all the housework. That’s not her job–”

“How wonderfully modern! And you’re correct, naturally.” Little Lana appeared at Mason’s shoulder, her floral perfume assaulting his nostrils as she invaded his personal bubble. “But taking care of loved ones, supporting them, showing them appreciation is much more than a nine-to-five job. You wouldn’t disparage the efforts of those ladies who choose to make a home that their families can be proud of and happy to return to, would you?”

“I would never.” He objected, backpedaling furiously.

“Of course not,” Marcy agreed, sidling in to fold dainty hands over Mason’s cart handle. Suddenly, they were standing hip to hip with her generous melons grazing his arm. “Now, we’ve noticed Eliza hasn’t been to any of the socials yet. Not that we blame her—y’all only arrived the other day—but a Moorfield wife usually makes an effort to, well… show she’s part of the community.”

“She seems rather independent, doesn’t she?” The sultry redhead spun and bent low to fetch something from the bottom shelf. “It’s admirable, I suppose, though not always… conducive to harmony.”

“I-I, ah… um…” Mason stammered, throat dry.

Words failed him as the abrupt movement sent her skirts flying, riding high over her plush posterior to reveal a lacy white garter belting her creamy thigh.

Marcy made a sympathetic noise. “Don’t worry, sugar. She’ll learn. Some newcomers simply need a bit of direction. We’d be happy to help out. You deserve to be looked after properly.”

“Looked after properly.” Lana echoed, selecting a cucumber for inspection, her lips pursed thoughtfully.

Marcy leaned in, near enough to kiss, her expression kind but unyielding.

“Every husband needs a peaceful home, a warm meal, and a wife who knows how to make him feel like a king. It’s what makes Moorfield special. We’ll see that she understands.”

Mason’s ears burned, unsure whether to protest or express gratitude. Their concern sounded so genuine, their manners so flawless, that arguing would have seemed rude.

“In the meantime, you should try this.” The curvaceous redhead straightened, holding a large glass bottle over the impressive shelf of her cleavage. It shimmered beneath the store’s fluorescent lights, the liquid inside so clear it might have been air.

“What is it?” Mason asked.

“Springwater. Sourced locally—bottled right here in Moorfield.” Marcy said, taking it from her, slipping the glass vessel into his cart with an affectionate pat to his chest. “Gets awfully hot this time of year. Important to keep hydrated. Give it a taste, sugar. We promise you won’t regret it.”

He managed a polite cough. Awkwardly aware of their perfumed proximity to the stiffening lump in his jeans. Unsure how to react as they cooed and crawled over him.

“Byyyyeee~, sugar! Don’t be a stranger.”

Then they were strutting away, lush hips swaying in hypnotic unison, their schoolgirl giggles tinkling like wind chimes as they drifted down the aisle.

Mason watched them go, feeling guilty but also reassured. It was… nice, the way people cared here. Back in San Diego, no one even looked you in the eye, let alone fussed over you.

Still, as he perused the shelves, Marcy’s words replayed in his mind. Looked after properly. He couldn’t decide whether they’d been comforting or portentious.

At the checkout, still mulling it over, he fished the glass bottle from his cart. The cashier—a cute Latina girl who blushed most fetchingly while asking about his day in a small, timid voice–scanned his groceries. Mason took a sip.

The water was crisp and neutral, though a faintly earthy undertone lay beneath its purity. Whatever it was, it felt clean, invigorating. He drained the bottle before she finished bagging his items.

Conveniently, a refrigerated cabinet opposite the register was stocked with more of the same bottles. Still feeling a tad parched, Mason added a dozen to his haul.

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