August 1997, a back road outside Salem, Indiana. I was twenty-three and driving home when my headlights caught a girl in a white dress standing at the edge of a concrete-lined creek. She didn't move, didn't blink, didn't seem to breathe. By the time I stopped the car and looked back, she was gone — but the water in the creek was running backward, slow and thick as syrup, carrying something pale and soft downstream against the current. What I found at the culvert that night wasn't a girl at all. It was a thing that had been waiting under the bridge since before the concrete was poured, and it had learned to mimic the shape of what it lost. This is not a ghost story. It's a story about a mouth that opens where a road crosses water, and the hunger that fills the space between the living and the drowned.

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