Chapter 1: Whispers in Maple Heights

Maple Heights is the kind of city where there isn't a single McDonald's in sight.

It’s the sort of thing locals bring up with a wry smile, like it’s their own offbeat badge of honor. Folks might joke about it at the Fourth of July parade—can you believe it?—or grumble when the nearest Big Mac means a fifteen-minute drive down the highway. But mostly, it’s just one of those oddball facts that make Maple Heights, well, Maple Heights.

There are KFCs and Chick-fil-A lining Main Street, but not a single golden arch in sight.

You’ll spot the Colonel’s grinning mug and the Chick-fil-A cow urging everyone to “Eat Mor Chikin,” but those iconic golden arches? Nowhere to be found. It’s almost like McDonald’s was wiped from the city’s DNA. In its place: the sizzle of fried chicken, the smell of waffle fries drifting onto Main.

That’s because, one night in 2014, a McDonald’s in Maple Heights became the backdrop for something horrifying—a place folks still whisper about, where, folks say, evil walked right in.

Even years later, if you ask around at the barbershop or the corner diner, you’ll hear the story told in hushed tones, with a shake of the head and a muttered, “Some things just ain’t right.” People still cross themselves or knock on wood when the subject comes up. Parents warn their kids not to linger around empty fast food restaurants after dark.

On the evening of May 28th, Mariah Dalton, exhausted, finally finished her shift and collapsed into a cushy chair at McDonald's.

She let out a heavy sigh—the kind that comes from standing on your feet for eight hours straight. Her shoulders drooped as she sank into the seat. The chair’s plastic creaked under her, and for a second, she just closed her eyes and tried to breathe out the day’s stress.

She worked as a sales clerk at Jenson's Department Store, and this McDonald's was right on the first floor—a spot she knew by heart. She’d been here more times than she could count.

The smell of fries and fryer oil was almost comforting by now, the kind of smell that sticks to your hair and coat, even after you’ve left. She could probably walk here blindfolded, weaving through racks of summer dresses and displays of beach towels, all the way to her favorite corner booth by the window.

But honestly, she hardly ever ate there. Funny, really.

It was more of a place to catch her breath, maybe sip a Sprite and scroll through her phone before heading home. She always figured she’d save room for something better, like her mom’s peach cobbler or the cinnamon rolls at the bakery down the street.

After a while, hunger hit her hard. She felt lightheaded. She got up and ordered a $4.99 four-piece meal deal.

Her stomach growled so loud she was sure the cashier heard it. She fished a crumpled five out of her purse and slid it across the counter, flashing a tired smile. The cashier—some high school kid she’d seen around—grinned back. Handed her a tray with the nuggets, fries, and a small Coke.

It was a good bargain. Filling, too. And she could save any leftover chicken nuggets for her son.

She always thought ahead like that. Ever since becoming a mom, every meal was a little math equation: What could she stretch? What could be packed up for later? What would make her boy smile when he found a surprise snack waiting for him after school?

Right then, her little boy was upstairs with his dad, playing in the arcade on the sixth floor of Jenson’s.

The arcade was a noisy, neon-lit haven filled with the beeps and whirs of old-school pinball and the clang of prize machines. Mariah could almost hear her son’s laughter echoing down the escalator, mingling with the tinny soundtrack of Mario Kart. She could almost hear him now.

They’d agreed on burgers for dinner, but her son got hooked on the new racing game and didn’t want to leave.

She could picture him, eyes wide, tongue poking out in concentration as he tried to beat his dad’s high score. Burgers could wait—but hey, video game glory came first.

So Mariah said, “How about I go grab a table first, and you two come down later? Don’t go too wild, okay?”

She ruffled her son’s hair and gave her husband a look—You’re in charge now. It was their usual routine—she’d stake out a booth, and he’d wrangle the kiddo until he was ready for dinner.

Of course, her son was all for it, nodding eagerly.

He barely glanced up from the steering wheel. Just gave her a quick thumbs-up and a grin, already plotting his next lap. Her husband mouthed, “Ten more minutes,” and Mariah just rolled her eyes. But she was smiling.

Before leaving, she reminded her husband, “It’s almost Memorial Day—pick out a toy for him, but don’t go overboard, alright?” Memorial Day was coming up—sales, family cookouts, and her son begging for a new toy.

She knew how easy it was to get carried away in the arcade, with all those blinking lights. And cheap plastic prizes. She just hoped her husband would show a little restraint.

She never could have imagined she’d never spend Memorial Day with her son again.

That thought, heavy and unspoken, would haunt her forever. If only she’d insisted they eat together, if only she’d waited a few more minutes upstairs. But hindsight’s a cruel companion, always whispering what-ifs when it’s far too late.

Not long after she sat down in McDonald’s, a group of people pushed through the door, muttering weird things under their breath.

The automatic doors swooshed open, letting in a gust of warm air and the faint smell of rain on asphalt. The group shuffled in, heads down. Their voices were just a notch above a whisper—strange, urgent, almost chanting.

A middle-aged woman, about forty, was mumbling, “Break the promise, and the Lord’s punishment comes down right now! Everybody remember!”

She had a wild look in her eyes, hair pulled back so tight, her forehead practically shone. Her voice was sharp, slicing through the chatter of the restaurant like a knife. People glanced up from their meals, eyebrows raised, but quickly looked away—nobody wanted to get involved.

Next to her, a teenage boy whose voice was still high-pitched said excitedly, “Remember! We’re gonna find all the chosen ones!”

He bounced on his heels. Eyes darting around the room like he was searching for treasure. His enthusiasm was unsettling, the kind you see in someone who’s just a little too eager about something nobody else understands.

There were six of them, and they sat not far from Mariah, so she heard every word.

They took over a booth by the window, scraping chairs across the floor. Their conversation was a constant, buzzing hum. Mariah tried to focus on her food, but their voices kept pulling her attention back, each word stranger than the last.