Chapter 6: The Moonlight Lady

The roads were busy with folks who looked like they’d lost more than they could carry—faces drawn, eyes hard. We moved along the shoulder of Route 17, boots crunching over broken glass and bottle caps.

The world had emptied out its misfits, its cast-offs, everyone looking for something they’d never find at home. Grandmas with stooped backs, women with haunted eyes, and a pack of old soldiers whose uniforms barely fit anymore.

Silence hung over us, heavy as humidity before a storm. We kept our heads down, shuffling through dust and heat.

We were all running from something, or maybe toward it. Either way, nobody wanted to linger.

Time blurred by—spring into summer, summer into fall. At the edge of the ridge, we saw familiar faces from the journey, all gathered like mourners before a grave.

Most folks lost their nerve, settling in towns nearby—finding work, starting over. Only I pressed forward, heart pounding, past the warning signs and rusted fences.

The place was alive with things I’d only seen in nightmares—shapes with too many teeth, shadows that slithered and moaned. The wind itself seemed to whisper threats.

One look, and I understood why parents told scary stories about the ridge. My heart jackhammered in my chest, but I didn’t turn back.

No sunrise, no sunset—just endless twilight, the air thick with dread. It felt like being trapped between worlds, unable to move forward or back.

It was limbo, plain and simple—a waiting room for lost souls, maybe.

I’d grown up on those tales—kids daring each other to sneak a look, adults crossing themselves when the ridge came up in conversation.

Somehow, being here made everything simple. The noise in my head went quiet, and I moved with purpose I hadn’t felt in months.

I rummaged through broken beams and piles of stone, collecting anything that seemed useful—a silver lighter, a bottle of water, a faded photograph of a smiling couple. I was a scavenger, just like the rest.

Apparently, my boldness turned heads upstairs. They weren’t used to mortals poking around in their business.

She stepped out of the fog, pale as moonlight, her voice sharp as broken glass. She dragged me out by the collar, cursing under her breath.

She gave me a once-over, her lips pressed thin, suspicion written all over her face.

My voice shook, but I said it anyway, every word heavy as stone.

She sniffed the air, narrowed her eyes. "You have her scent on you," she said, as if that proved anything.

It made no sense. I was nothing like the angel—just a kid lost in the dark.

She lectured me like a school principal, talking about sacrifice, about the good of the many outweighing the few. I barely listened.

"Don’t rock the boat," she warned. "You don’t know what’s at stake."

Her voice was soft but stern—she truly believed it, and wanted me to as well. I just stared back, numb.

She told me to let it go, to find forgiveness, but forgiveness felt a million miles away.

She held it out, the wood polished by years of use, a crack running down one side. It felt heavy with memory.

For a moment, the rest of the world faded away—all I could see was the bat, and my father’s hands wrapped around it.

Nothing she said made sense. If doing the right thing meant letting evil go unpunished, what was the point?

The words poured out of me, raw and trembling. I spoke for all the broken hearts, all the lives shattered for someone else’s so-called greater good.

Her eyes flashed, her voice rose. She called me foolish, stubborn, reckless.

She muttered about lost causes, about the folly of youth.

I felt a rush of air, a jolt of fear, and then I was falling, tumbling through space and memory. My head spun, and then—

I lay there for a long time, stunned, the ache settling into my bones. It felt like the world itself had rejected me.