Chapter 4: Red Valley Shadows

Brian’s narration (1):

Just outside is Red Valley’s execution grounds. I know this place—my family lived nearby when I was a kid. Coming back now feels like coming home to die.

Red Valley’s infamous. Locals whisper, but nobody drives out there after dark. The wind cuts sharper, like it’s carrying old ghosts.

It was 1995. I was fifteen, in eighth grade. My mom moved us into the employee apartments at Red Valley Machine Works. The place is abandoned now.

Our building was the last row, right up against the execution grounds—just a chain-link fence and a row of pines between us.

From our window, I could see the grounds through the trees.

Every morning at six, I’d grab the binoculars and watch the firing squad. Like clockwork. My mom always left the window just cracked enough.

Early morning, the hills hid the sun and the grounds glowed blue. The condemned would shuffle out. As soon as they hit that dirt, their shoulders dropped, faces turning to stone—like their souls were gone already.

I remember them—just shadows under the pines, guards’ breath misting in the air. The whole place held its breath.

When the guns were loaded, they’d snap awake—some begged, some wept, some tried to bolt, some just lost it. In the end, all of them were brought down.

They’d kneel, open their mouths for the verdict. When the shot came, even the birds barely flinched. Silence always rushed in after.

The echo would bounce off the machine shop’s metal siding. I’d jump, even though I knew it was coming.

Waiting for execution was torture, but when it happened, it was over in a blink.

Dead was dead—motionless on the ground. Didn’t matter if they cried or laughed or ran. They all ended up the same.

Their faces looked peaceful. Mouths wide, bullet through the head—face wasn’t mangled, easier for the cleanup crew.

That year, every morning, I watched. Scared and drawn in. Afterward, I’d shake all over, goosebumps, my brain buzzing like I’d been shot myself.

I’d stumble to the kitchen for water, hands shaking, metallic taste in my mouth. My mom would be there, sipping burnt coffee, eyes glued to her crossword, never asking what I’d seen.

Every day, I took that shot, then went to school.

Dr. Carter, isn’t that a one-of-a-kind experience?

His eyes lock on mine, unblinking, waiting for my reaction.