THE NACOGDOCHES SAGA

~RYLEE~

2021

Nacogdoches Memorial Hospital

Nacogdoches, Texas

“Don’t leave, Marshall Cody,” the voice warned. “Stay, or those you love will die too.”

The words didn’t echo through the room, they slid quietly through my head instead, smooth as oil and twice as suffocating.

The darkness surrounding me remained thick and absolute while the steady beep of the heart monitor stretched into one long, shrill tone.

Somewhere far away, people shouted, feet pounded, and metal clattered. But all of it sounded distant beneath the calm swallowing me whole.

It should have scared the hell out of me. But, instead, it felt peaceful and weightless, like floating beneath dark water after fighting too long to stay above it. Then something grabbed me.

It wasn't hands, and it wasn't doctors…it was something deeper, something violent. The sensation tore through me without warning, sinking invisible claws into whatever remained of me before dragging hard.

The peace shattered instantly as air slammed into my lungs in a brutal, ragged burst; pain followed.

The monitor came back to life as voices exploded around me. My body convulsed beneath the hospital sheets while chaos ripped through the room.

“She’s back!” someone yelled, lunging across the bedside.

“Get respiratory in here!” someone else called out, hitting the emergency wall button.

Another voice barked close to my ear. “Rylee, can you hear me?”

~ Three Years Later ~

The Piney Woods carried a different kind of silence than the rest of Texas, it was denser, older. The towering pines surrounding the abandoned house swayed softly beneath the October wind, their branches creaking high overhead while dead needles crunched beneath my boots.

Somewhere deeper in the trees, a crow called out before the sound disappeared into the woods.

The house itself sat crooked beneath the overgrowth just outside Nacogdoches city limits, tucked down an old county road locals barely used anymore unless they were hunting, fishing, or stupid enough to go looking for trouble.

Judging by the yellow crime scene tape fluttering from the mailbox post, somebody had found trouble anyway.

I stepped out of the Texas Ranger SUV and stared at the property. Ten years ago, this place had belonged to the Whitakers. I remembered their daughter selling blueberry jam at the Texas Blueberry Festival downtown every summer while her daddy worked cattle auctions outside town.

Now their old ranch house looked half-devoured by time. The wraparound porch sagged beneath rot and neglect. Dead rosebushes climbed the railings in thorny tangles. Shattered windows stared hollowly through the trees.

The entire property felt wrong. It didn't feel abandoned; it felt occupied causing a tiny knot to form in my stomach.

Beside me, Brice Rowland slammed the driver’s door shut before adjusting the cuffs of his dark Ranger jacket. At six-three, broad-shouldered and built like he’d been carved straight out of East Texas soil, Brice looked exactly like what most people imagined when they heard the words Texas Ranger. He was dangerous, controlled, and impossible to ignore.

Several deputies standing near the patrol units straightened slightly when he approached. That happened everywhere we went. Folks around Nacogdoches respected Brice. Hell, half the county had watched him grow up.

“Scene’s secure?” Brice asked calmly, stopping near the front tire.

Deputy Aaron Pike nodded quickly, clutching a clipboard to his chest. “Yes, sir. Sheriff’s department cleared the perimeter about twenty minutes ago.”

Brice glanced toward the house. “Body count?”

“Two so far,” Pike answered, his voice dropping an octave as he checked his notes.

At his words, a chill slid down my spine.

Brice’s jaw tightened slightly before he motioned for me to follow him up the cracked walkway.

As we stepped up onto the steps of the porch, the old wood groaned beneath his boots.

“Watch your footing,” he muttered without looking back, extending an arm to brace on the arm railing. “This place is about one hard sneeze away from collapsing.”

“Comforting,” I replied dryly, stepping carefully onto the porch.

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly. That tiny almost-smile did something inside me that had no business being there under the circumstances.

The front door hung partially open, and the smell reached us immediately, carrying decay, mildew, and something metallic beneath it all. My pulse kicked unevenly against my throat.

The second I crossed the threshold, the world tilted violently sideways and I stopped dead. White letters stretched across the far wall in thick, uneven strokes.

I BROUGHT YOU BACK FROM DEATH, RYLEE. NOW YOU OWE ME.

Every ounce of blood drained from my face. No. No, no, no.

The room suddenly felt too small and too hot. The edges of my vision darkened as icy pressure curled around the back of my neck. He’d been here. That familiar invasive awareness pressed against my thoughts like fingers probing old wounds. After nine years, I knew the feeling instantly.

My stomach rolled hard and I turned, stumbling back onto the porch before dropping to my knees in the dead grass beside the steps. Nausea ripped through me.

Behind me, boots pounded across the porch floorboards, before a warm hand settled firmly against the back of my neck.

“Rylee,” Brice called out, his tone carrying concern.

The deep rasp of his voice grounded me better than the cold October air ever could. I braced one hand against the dirt while trying to steady my breathing.

My entire body shook beneath the weight of the phantom pressure still lingering inside my skull.

Brice crouched beside me without hesitation. “What happened?” he asked quietly, his eyes scanning my face.

I couldn’t answer because the horrifying truth sat lodged halfway up my throat. The thing inside that house knew my name.

It didn't write Marshall Cody or Miss Cody. It had written Rylee, for all the world as if it knew me personally.

Brice’s thumb pressed slowly against the base of my neck, right where the freezing, invisible grip still seemed to linger beneath my skin. “Talk to me,” he murmured, his face coming down inches from mine.

I looked up at him finally. God help me, the fear that crossed his face nearly broke me. It wasn't fear for himself; it was fear for me. Suddenly, the warning from three years ago echoed loudly through my mind all over again. Stay, or those you love will die too.

The killer wasn’t escalating anymore. He was circling closer, and deep down in places I didn’t want to examine too carefully, I already knew this wasn’t just another murder scene.