The town of Killington existed in the kind of place maps seemed to forget—a smudge of civilization tucked between mountains that locals swore moved closer each year. Fifty souls called it home, though that number would soon prove tragically optimistic. The town's isolation had always been its peculiarity, but after Jason arrived, that isolation would become its tomb. Jason was a shadow of a man, pale and gaunt, who kept to himself in the decrepit house at the edge of town. His presence made people uneasy in ways they couldn't articulate—something about the way he breathed too quietly, or how his eyes lingered too long. That was until Marybeth crossed his path, and something dormant inside him awakened with terrible hunger. She was everything he wasn't—vivacious, beautiful, alive. Her blonde hair caught sunlight like spun gold, and her blue eyes sparkled with secrets. Jason became obsessed. He brought her gifts with trembling hands—candy that melted in summer heat, flowers that wilted before she could put them in water. Each rejection was a knife he swallowed whole. Marybeth was cruel in the way only the thoughtlessly beautiful can be. She accepted his offerings with practiced smiles, lying through perfect teeth about sick mothers and prior commitments. She was promiscuous and proud of it, collecting hearts like Jason collected her discarded flower petals. She never meant to see him as anything more than a pathetic amusement—a mistake that would cost her everything. After months of torture disguised as courtship, Marybeth finally agreed to the movies. Jason's hands shook so badly that he could barely hold the popcorn. Every attempt at intimacy was deflected with surgical precision. When he reached for her hand, she scratched her arm. When he leaned close, she developed a sudden cough. The rejection festered in him like gangrene. "Maybe another time," she said as they parted, her tone suggesting never.