CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "This Town Warned us to Never Speak to the River Wives" Creepypasta

Episode Date: June 3, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by goosejpg:   / river-wives-129792402  Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

The Hiltock cottage was somehow even smaller than it looked online, but it made it feel more charming. Sunlight split generously through the mismatched windows, catching on the old brass fixtures and the worn but beautiful woodwork that ran along the door frames. Or the garden was wild and overgrown in the best way, full of wild pollinator flowers for bees and tangled roses, with time creeping into the cracks of the old stone path. It had flaws, but the price had been unbelievably low for what it was, and Mara was over the moon. I love it, she beamed, arm spread like she was already embracing it. And look at that view. It's like a painting. There are so many pretty places to take pictures off from my shop. She was right. Our view was stunning.

Fields folded over each other in soft green swells. a thin river glinting with seams of silver. While the town itself sat low, a smudge of clustered rooftops nestled in the valley, ringed by more of those sleepy trees. I had told Mara it was a romantic reset. I used words like digital detox and back to basics, which she ate up.

But what she didn't know was I was buried in debt so deep I couldn't see daylight. cards, loans, sharks that keep lending, even when I had nothing left to prove I could pay them back. I'd bet our house as a final hope to get it all back, and I'd lost. This cottage was a cheap scapegoat. I just didn't know how long we could keep it up. The general store sat squat and low, as if it had grown there. Inside, it smelled like old wood and something should.

sharp like vinegar or pickled onions. Mara was already halfway down to one of the narrow aisles, asking about local trails and making conversation the way she was always good at doing. The man she was talking to was in his late 50s, maybe older, with a weathered face and hands that looked too big for the delicate register he tapped with one knuckle. When he finally looked up, he did it slowly and grumpily, in that way that I assumed came with age. He looked at Mara, then me, and finally tilted his chin towards our new home. The Riverwives don't like being seen, he said.

His voice was calm, but it felt rehearsed, especially not by young women. Mara paused, halfway through flipping a trail map over. The what? The ones by the river, he responded quickly. You'll know them if you see them. Don't let it get that far. And if you have to walk past the river, wear something that doesn't invite trouble. Cover up.

Before we could ask what he meant, another man, a customer presumably spoke from somewhere in the store. He's right, don't greet him in. Do you best to ignore him? Mara turned, frowning like she was trying to decide if this was a joke or some backwards performance art. I watched as she folded the trail map with careful fingers, her mouth pressed into a polite, unreadable line. She didn't say anything, but the silence felt like it had teeth. She gave the man a short nod and stepped away.

The trail map still clutched in her hand. At the far end of the counter, a woman looked up from a station behind the battered produce scale, late 60s maybe, with a pinched expression that made it high. Hard to tell if she was squinting at something. She looked at Mara. Girls dressed like that in the city, I'm sure, she said, sizing Mara up. But the river's not a place to be soft-hearted.

She dropped a handful of apples into a paper bag and folded the top slowly. Some bits out here take advantage when you go offering bits of yourself without thinking. Mara smiled politely. but I could see the muscle working in a jaw. She wasn't the type to speak to strangers, so she gave her quick, of course, and turned to me. I caught her expression, the kind of look that meant, get me out of here before I say something I'll regret.

Let's go, I said, already moving. Still need to get to the hardware shop before it shuts. Thank you for the advice. We stepped out into the same. sun, and Mara was quiet for exactly three seconds. Bloody hell, she muttered. Cover up, because my arms are out. It's 21 degrees, and I'm wearing a nice sundress.

Sorry for dressing like it's a warm day and not a funeral. She didn't wait for me to respond, just kept walking. I get that it's a small town, she said. But come on, offering bits of yourself, wear something that doesn't invite trouble. She made air quotes without slowing her pace. It's all just polite language and know your place, girl. Did you notice they didn't say a word to you? I did notice, I said, and yeah, it's daft.

I glanced back at the shop, then ahead at the worn cobbles, tufts of grass poking through the gaps and nettles crowding the edge of the road. These people have known each other forever. They've grown up together. and seen each other through weddings, funerals in the lot. They've probably sat in the same pup with the same pint and the same complaints into the 70s. I kicked at a loose stone. We're just new faces to them.

It doesn't matter what we say or how reasonable we know we sound. It's just us stepping into their town. That doesn't make what they said right. Just means it's not about us. I gave her a nudge with my elbow. You know, you could always... always bring a few soaps around to the shop. You give them something nice.

They might start being nice back. That got the corner of her mouth to twitch. Just enough to call it a win. A few days in, I was still finding my rhythm. But Mara took to the countryside as if she'd always belonged in it. She was already in boots, basket looped over her arm, picking wild things from the hedgerow, as she knew them by name. She dried bundles of herbs untwine, stretched across the kitchen window,

Yarrow, mugwort, lavender, horsetail, always something gently fragrant tucked beneath her ear. She sang when she worked, little hums and wordless melodies that carried through the house like incense and cheered me up as I worked remotely. Sometimes I'd find love notes folded and slipped under my coffee mug, tiny sketches of flowers or hearts, which felt great, until I remembered the real reason we were here. I started going for early runs. Most mornings I was out the door before Mara was up,

lacing my shoes under the doorstep while the sky was still waking. It gave me space to think properly. But no matter how far I went, I always ended up circling back to the same thought. I needed to tell her And the longer I left it The worse it would be I'd lost her old life to a stupid

Selfish mistake I hadn't just messed up I'd properly wrecked things This cottage This so-called fresh start Was damage control And yet She liked it here

She was happy And part of me kept one If I told her now, would she be furious enough to leave? Or would she stay because, despite everything, something good had come out of the mess? I didn't know. I just knew I couldn't keep dodging it forever. One of the first few mornings, I decided to try a different path. I was still working out which ones were worth the mud

and which ones didn't leave you stuck two fields from where you meant to be. This one dipped through a patch of larch and followed the river for a bit. I hadn't been that way before. It was colder down there, damp hung heavy in the air and caught in your throat, and in the mornings there was a fog that thickened the closer you got to the river's path. I spotted some figures in the fog. There were women standing knee-deep in the river, backs turned, half lost between the trees, in the fog. They seemed to be barefoot. The dresses hung soaked and heavy, clinging to their

legs, headscarves knotted tight, not a strand of hair showing. They moved in silence, slowly and steadily scrubbing stained fabric against old wooden washboards. One of them lifted a strip of cloth, wet and heavy. She twisted it with both hands, and red water trickled out. Then, my foot went out from under me. I went down hard, knee first onto the path. Pain shot at my legs sharp enough to make me swear out loud. My palms followed, scraping against the grit and shaving away my skin. I stayed down for a second, catching my breath.

When I looked, blood was already starting to soak through the fabric of my joggers. When I limped back into the kitchen, Mara was already at the counter, hanging another row of drying bundles in the window while she made breakfast. She turned, took one look at my leg, then my top, and frowned. What the hell happened to you? Riverpath, I said, slipped. She eyed the bloody streaks down my trousers, the stubborn stains spreading beneath the fawned. fabric. She touched the hem gently, then looked at me for a moment. Lucky you, she said. I made a new bar yesterday. It's good for blood. Could pull that out nicely.

She moved to the shelf and peeled back the linen from the stack of pale grey soap bars, all the same size and shape, more than she usually made in one go. I frowned. You planning a bulk sale I didn't know about? She didn't answer, too preoccupied with ensuring her food didn't burn. She passed it to me like she hadn't heard the question. Use cold water first, she said. Always cold, heat sets it in, then scrub it out with this, work it into it, let it sit a bit. She didn't offer to do it for me, which was strange for her.

Was it the path by the bend? She asked, almost offhandedly, with a fog roll. in. I nodded. She didn't look up. That's where the best wild yarrow grows. Loads of it just before the river curves back inland. Some of it's already gone to seed, but I've still been able to find the good stuff.

She stirred the part on the stove, her wrist moving slowly and steadily. It's quiet out there, she said. I know what you're going to say. Yes. I saw the river wives as they call them. Don't worry, she scoffed. I didn't bother them. But I still think it's mad that a town like this,

their oldest women stand out in the cold doing laundry like it's 1820. Bloody backwards, if you ask me. Those long pause, as I record my encounter this morning. Yeah, you're right, I said. But it's not our place. Do you really need to go all the way out there for Yarrow? I can pick it up. for you on my runs if you want.

She turned slowly. I like it here, she said. I love it actually, but I'm not stupid. You've seen how they talk to me, like I'm a child or a house cat. She set the spoon down a bit harder than she probably meant to. I won't play small just because it makes this place more comfortable. I like my walks. I like finding things with my own two hands.

I don't need someone fit. searching Yara for me, like I'm some little wifie who save us staying inside. All right, all right, I said gently. I get it. I'm sorry. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Sorry, that wasn't aimed at you. Just all of it.

This place is so beautiful until people start speaking that way. I stepped forward and rested a hand lightly on her back. she didn't pull away. You're right, I said quietly. You shouldn't have to shrink, not for anyone. She looked at me, and something softened behind her eyes. Her shoulders dropped a little. We moved here to grow, and instead I'm supposed to fold up smaller.

You won't, I said, not with me, not ever. She leaned into my chest. with a soft, exhausted sigh, and I wrapped my arms around her, careful of the herbs still tired at her hip. I like that you worry, she murmured. Just don't make it delicate. I'm not. I know, I said, you're a bloody force. That got a quiet laugh.

She pressed the forehead into my shoulder and let it sit there for a few seconds longer. Then she pulled away and gave my leg a glance. You'd better get scrubbing, by the way. If you let that set, I'm not making a second batch. Noted, I said. Cold water, firm scrubbing, let it sit. Got it. She gave me a mock stern nod and went back to her pot.

I waited a few days before running again. My knee still twinge when I bent it too far. but I told myself the ache was good. It meant I was healing. It was early again, and the fog thickened as I got closer, just like last time. This time, however, I was determined to see what was past the river. And, as I'd expected, they were there again. The same women in soaked dresses, dragging the soaking clothes against the washboard.

but this time one of them turned slightly like she'd heard me coming. Her face stayed hidden, just enough that the scarf blocked everything but the curve of a jaw. Would you be kind, she spoke, and give this one a twist. These old hands aren't what they used to be. She held up a sodden sheet. It was dark and dripping. She turned it slightly in her hands. It hung limp and lifeless, the water sliding off in long, reluctant ropes.

There was something in the way she asked, though I couldn't put my finger on it. So I stopped. The fog pressed against my back. The only sound was the slow drag of fabric and the slap of water on stone. The birdsong had long disappeared. My fingers twitched like they might move on their own, and I shuffles. foot my feet forward, but then I noticed her arms. They were pale and bloated, way past the usual prune from water.

Then I noticed the folds of the dress near her wrists were torn in places, like the fabric had been picked at, and the sheet. It wasn't clean. The water sliding off it was thick and red, too heavy-looking to just be mud. Come on, love, she said again. voice softer this time. You've got young arms. I've had awful joint pain lately

and a terrible bit of rheumatism in the elbows. It just needs a twist. She gave the sheet a small, hopeful jiggle like that would draw me closer. She still didn't look at me, which bothered me more than I wanted to admit. I don't know why, but it made my skin crawl.

There was something unnatural about someone asking, asking you for help without ever meeting your eyes. My wrists have been locking up something terrible, she added, as if it hurt just to say. All this damp in the air, worse than it used to be. You'd be doing me a kindness. The other women didn't react. They continued dragging their fabrics against the washboard, like I wasn't even there.

The words from the general store came crawling back. Eyes low, don't greet them, don't offer anything. I thought it was cruel the first time, rude for the sake of it. But at that moment, it felt like advice was passed on with caution. Still, I hesitated, because what if she really was just some old woman in the cold water, soaked to the skin, wrists giving out from years of doing this exact motion. What if I was being the bad guy here, watching a struggle and walking away like it could cost me something?

Um, I began. Oh, sotted then. She snapped at my voice, suit yourself. The shift in the tone shocked me. It wasn't the sort of hurt you'd expect from being turned down. It was snappy and impatient, like she dropped something and blamed me for not catching it.

Not even a moment for a moment for a moment. an old woman with bad arms, she hissed, more to the river than me. What a thing, to watch someone's struggle and turn your back on them. Must be nice, being young and quick. Men are so bloody selfish. I clenched my jaw, heat flared across my face from embarrassment. A few days ago, Mara had practically bitten my head off for offering to help. Now, some old hag in a river made me feel like the villain for not pitching in. I didn't know what the hell women wanted anymore. I decided to stay silent and let the fog have the last word.

I turned back to the path and let my feet do what they came here to do. Move. My breathing evened out as I picked up my speed. The rest of the trail cut through thickets and a small patch of pine. The cold stuck to my skin. and the sound of the river grew faint behind me. And I let it fade. By the time I got home, the sun had risen properly.

The mist was already pulling back like it hadn't touched anything. But something had. I felt off like the run had taken something out of me. My legs ached, my fingers felt stiff, and there was a throb in the back of my head that hadn't been there when I left. I skipped breakfast, took a shower so hot it should have scolded. Still, it barely did anything.

By late afternoon, I was curled up on the sofa under a blanket, useless. Mara came in from the garden with dirt on her knees and a fresh bundle of herbs in one hand. That's me sorted for a few months. She was slightly wet from getting caught in sudden rain. She glanced at me, taking in my pale face, then back at the kettle near the fire. You're not running tomorrow. I wasn't planning to, I said. My voice came out hoarse like I'd been shouting when I hadn't said much of anything.

You look like a washed out sock, she said, crouching to soak the fire back to life. Bit a man flew. Something like that. She didn't press and said, the kettle above the fire more carefully than usual and sat beside me, still smelling like rosemary and wet grass. Maybe your body's trying to tell you something, she said quietly. They keep pushing into places that you don't want to.

I didn't answer. I didn't know how to really. She didn't know it, but she was spot on. She passed me a cup of tea she hadn't asked if I wanted. strong, slightly bitter, the kind she made when I was sick. You resting tomorrow? She asked again, gently this time. Yeah, I said, I'm staying in.

We can have a lion together. She smiled, but kept a distance. Absolutely not, she said. I make soaps, not cures. The last thing I need is catching whatever this is and sneezing over. my stock. I gave a weak laugh, half into the tea. Wow, no bedside manner. She grinned, not in the job description. You want sympathy, you'll have to bribe me with biscuits. Then you'll get some tea and toast in bed, if you're lucky. The next morning, the sun woke me up before

I was ready. It poured through the thin curtains and strips, warm across my face. Nice actually. One of those rare moments where the light feels soft instead of sharp. I still felt awful and it became clear that I sweated through the night, despite the fact that the sun's warmth and quiet made me feel like I could have maybe stayed like that for a while. I reached over, expecting to feel the softness of Mara's skin. But the bed was empty. The covers on Mara's side were flat and cold. I blinked up at the ceiling, confused for a second.

I'd been looking forward to tea and toast in bed, like she usually did when I had the man flew. I listened for her. The house had thin walls. You could hear everything in it. But there was nothing. Just quiet. I sat up, slowly.

My head swam with that awful cotton wall in your skull kind of dizzy. everything felt a bit too bright, a bit too sharp. My legs were heavy with fatigue, but I swung out of bed anyway, feet hitting the cold tile on the floor. I made my way around the house, noticing nothing unusual, until I saw that her boots were missing.

She wouldn't have gone far, or at least, that's what I told myself at first, but something didn't sit right. Mara had already gathered all the herbs she needed. She'd said so. Everything was drying nicely on the twine above the sink, and the rest of her supplies were tucked away in their usual spots. I looked up at the shelf where she kept her finished soaps.

The top row was still lined with the usuals, lavender, oat, rosemary. But the pale grey bar she had me used the other day, We're gone. I moved closer, squinting. Maybe they'd me move to the market box. My brain felt fogged over, like thinking through cling film. I touched the shelf ready to steady myself. Nothing.

Not a single bar left. I opened the bin on instinct. Half buried under yesterday's peelings was the linen wrap she used for packaging. the same dotted one she'd used when she first showed me the batch she had folded once, then crumpled, like someone had changed their mind at the last second. I knew where she'd gone,

even before I admitted it. I knew. I turned and grabbed the nearest pair of shoes, my head spinning as I bent down, but I shoved them on anyway. The air outside was sharp but warm from the rising sun, That same low mist was back again, thicker near the fields, sticking to my throat with every breath. My legs protested the second I pushed into a run.

Cold muscles, left over fever. I felt wrong, but still I ran. The trail was soft from last night's rain. I kept slipping, catch myself just before I went fully down. My breathing turned quick and ragged too soon. soon. I followed the curve on the path, past the hedgerow, past the spot I fell before. And then I saw a boot prints in the mud, leading down to the water's edge. I picked up speed. And there she was. Mara stood at the bank, boots muddy, sleeves pushed up. She had both

hands out in front of her, offering the soap to the river wives. The woman closest to her, lifted her head. And I saw her. Her face was puffed out in places and sunken in others, like it had been soaking too long in the wrong kind of water. Her bloated corpse came to mind. Her skin had that grey, puffy look, like you'd seen pictures you wish you hadn't clicked on. Her lips were pulled thin, but puffed at the edges, like they were losing their shape. I opened my mouth to call out, but instead my stomach turned. The run, the fever, and the sight of the woman all hit me at once. The taste of last night's food climbed back up my throat, and I barely had time to lurched to the side before it came up.

I doubled over, retching hard, hands braced to my knees. Bitter, half-digested vomit hit the mud with a wet slap. My eyes watered. The noise, the stench, and the sting in my nose all grounded me and made it worse. I wiped my mouth through the back of my dressing gown sleeve, heart still hammering, chest heaving. And Mara had turned towards me with a concerned look on her face. She didn't have time to say anything. The river wives moved faster than they had any right to.

One of them surged from the water in a wet heave, cloths slapping against stone. Mara turned too late. Her hands fumbled, soap slipping from her palms and hitting the rocks. Another one rose behind her, then another and another. They surrounded her, water-logged limbs coiling around her legs, waist and arms. One pressed the palm flat against her chest. Her boots lost grip and her knees gave. They began to drag their washboards across her back, over her arms, over a scalp, like they were trying to strip her clean.

They worked fast. Her clothes came apart at the seams, threads poured like worms from the stitching. Her skin went with it, peeled back in patches, red blooming, and then vanishing under the froth. One of them worked at her wrist until the joint gave a little pop, then twisted. Another opened their mouth wide and bit down on Mara's shoulder like it was bread. The flesh gave. Mara's mouth opened, but no sound came. I forced myself upright.

Stumbling forward, my legs didn't want to cooperate. Mara reached out in a last, weak attempt to push away, to reach for me. But then a head went under. Her hair was the last thing I saw of her fanned out on the surface like ink in water. I finally made myself step forward and one foot sank into the bank. But I didn't go any further.

I couldn't. I was outnumbered. There were too many of them and whenever they were they weren't just old bats with bad joints. I threw up again, barely staying upright, still shaking. I could taste it all in my mouth and the feel of last night's sweat still clinging to my neck. One of them turned slightly in my direction, just enough to let me know she'd clocked me,

and I stumbled back weakly, shoes skidding in the mud. My heel caught a root and I went down hard, hands scraping against the cold, muddied stone as I scurried back of my feet, losing a shoe to the river. And I ran faster than I'd ever run before. I didn't stop until I hit the edge of the village. My lungs were burning. My chest felt too small. One foot was raw.

My socks soaked through and mud clinging to the back of my legs like tar. I stumbled into the centre, wheezing, hunched, eyes scanning for anyone. The first person I saw was the woman from the shop. She didn't flinch. You're a state, she said instead, eyes flicking to my missing shoe, then the blood and the dirt down my arm. You went down there, didn't you? I opened my mouth to speak, but the words weren't ready. My throat closed around them.

Behind her, another man leaned out from the post office step. He took one look at me, then shook his head like he's seen all he'd needed. You were warned, son. Better not bring that hassle into town. Either leave or go back and finish what you've started. I shook my head, still breathless, voice barely there. I need the police. I need someone to... The woman scoffed. Actually scoffed. Oh, love, no one's calling anyone. What would they even do?

Fill out of form and lose it? I looked up at her. Mud streaked at my legs, acid in my throat, one shoe gone to the river. I must have looked half mad. She's gone, I said. It came out dry and it stung. They took her. The woman from the shop just shook her head.

Then it's done. She looked me over again, but there was no pity in it. They're not coming for you, she said. Whatever happened out there, it was between her and them. They don't take much interest in men. She nodded at my state, like that explained it all. You're not there's the bother, unless you give them a reason. She paused momentarily, as if decided.

whether to waste the time saying the rest. Then she nodded toward the village green. You can waste your morning reporting it. The police will be down there, poke around with a notebooks, and by the time they do, they won't find a thing. They never do. She shifted a weight and tucked her hands into a cardigan sleeves. Or, you can come inside, sit down and have a cup of tea.

Let it settle a bit. figure out what you want to do next, if anything, I couldn't answer. The clouds had closed in, and rain had started again. That fine, soaking kind. She gave me a look that wasn't quite sympathy, just something like, well, pick. The weeks that followed were slow and quiet in the worst kind of way. The shop lady was right. The police didn't find anything.

They looked at me like they knew what was happening, like an adult checking under a child's bed for monsters. They asked me to walk them through it, so I did. The whole thing sounded like a story. One of them nodded like he was listening, but I could tell he wasn't hearing a word and just filling in boxes in his head. They stepped down to the river eventually,

boots careful on the edge like they didn't want to get dirty. One of them crouched and stared at the water for a while like it might offer something up if he looked long enough. The other paced around with a stick prodding at the reeds like you would find her folded neatly

in the mud, just waiting to be uncovered. They didn't find anything. They knew they wouldn't. I could see it in the way they moved. slow and half-hearted. In the end, they gave me a number to call and said someone might be in touch if anything came up,

though it probably wouldn't. I didn't leave the town. I couldn't. Every room still had her in it, despite our short time here. Her handwriting on labels, her coat on the back of the door, a stupid mug with a chip in the handle

she always said gave it character. Some mornings I'd wake up forgetting, turning to her side of the bed, expecting her weight and warmth, only to be met with a flat sheet, and silence. And that's all it took. The silence would drag me back to that day, straight to the mud, her final moments when she reached out. My chest would lock up like someone had stuck their hand inside and squeezed tight, and my hands would shake. Breathing would come out wrong, sharp and fast like I was choking.

Sometimes I'd curl up and try to ride it out. Other times I'd sit up and press my palms to my knees like they might pin me to the moment and anchor me down until the wave passed. It always passed, but it took its time. Some days I thought I should burn the whole, the whole house down with myself in it.

But I didn't. The people in town started treating me differently, with nods and cups of tea. The townspeople stopped to ask how I was holding up. They didn't say sorry, not outright, but it was there in the way they helped me. The shopwoman, Hilda, even started saving me the good milk without asking. with the older men gave me a spare radio, in case the silence ever gets too loud. You're one of us now, Hilda said, handing me a paper bag of apples without charging. Everyone loses someone eventually, in one way or another. So I stayed, partly because I had

nowhere else to go, and partly because of my debt. Even if I could, the thought of packing up and moving on somewhere else without her made me feel sick. I kept Mara's little shop going under her name, changed the labels on a soap to Mara's blend, and started selling them at the market. They did well. I messed up a few batches, some trial and error. But before I knew it, they started to smell like hers. It was maybe a month when I realized I was out of Yarra. I'd use the last bit of it on the latest batch. It didn't feel right to stop making one of her bestsellers. I thought about asking someone to fetch some for me,

but that felt like cheating. So I waited. A few days turned into a week. I kept putting it off and even tried looking for it in different areas. At one point, I told myself the blend didn't need Yarrow. But I knew I was wrong every time I ran my thumb over the label. Mara would have been furious at me for half-assing something under her name. The thought stuck and grew teeth.

I kept seeing her hands the way she held the bars when they were still curing, her thumb running along the edge. She'd never half-finished anything, not even breakfast. And there I was, letting fear decide what? got made and what didn't, letting it whisper that maybe it wasn't worth finishing. Maybe I was safe and not to. Mara would have seen through that in two seconds. She'd have thrown something at me, probably a damp tea towel, and she'd have followed

it up with that sharp look she had. The one that said, pull yourself together. And she'd have been right. All I did was give the anger space to grow. It started low in my chest and curled around the edges of everything as it festered into the corners of the cottage and onto her side of the bed. Eventually, it boiled up into an idea. One I couldn't shake away, no matter what I tried. That evening, the local pub was lively and dimly lit.

A few of the regulars scattered across the local. tables, shouting across to each other, cracking jokes. The fire was more glow than flame by now, mostly embers tucked into the grate, flickering just enough to keep the cold off the walls. George, the gent who gave me the radio sat near the back, half watching darts on the telly. I took the stool next to him, no fuss, and didn't bother with a pint. You still got that shotgun, I asked. Bloody hell, he said after a pause, you don't start with hello anymore. Didn't feel like chatting.

Clearly, he glanced at me suspiciously, like he already knew why I was there. What for? Foxes, I said, being getting into the garden, they've dug up half the beds, most of Mara's corner, chewed through all her hard work. That made him pause, and he set his pint down. onto the sticky table somberly. Bloody hell, he muttered. That patch always looked proper. Never thought foxes would go after herbs.

He went quiet at that, brows drawing in a touch, the lines around his eyes settling deeper as if he were figuring out whether that was the truth or not. Been hearing that from folks too, he said after a beat, not just foxes,

badgers and rabbits too. All of them turning up where they shouldn't be. They're bold, like they forgot how to be wild. Don't bolt anymore. Just stand and watch you like they're taunting you. I nodded once. That's what they've been doing. He studied me again.

You planning to shoot anything? Only if I have to. He let that sit between us for a second, then gave a small nod. I'll get it to you in the morning. he said, One day only. Barrel pulls a bit left if you're not paying attention,

and it kicks like it's got something to prove, so don't try and be clever. I won't. Once I had the gun, I set out early. The sky was grey, and the path was soft with last night's rain. The shotgun was wrapped in oil cloth

and strapped across my back. I could feel it with every step. foxes I'd said Pests George must have known He'd handed me the gun like he understood He said nothing but gave me a small nod The kind that said

Do whatever you gotta do mate But don't come crying after The fog was thicker this time Proper thick It clung to the hedges And swirled low across the path The visibility was awful. The river wasn't even in sight yet, but I could feel it just around the bend. That damp, cold

presence and impending doom. I stopped walking, reached back and undid the strap. It came free without fuss, oilcloth damp with mist. I enrapped it slowly, feeling the weight of it in my hands. It felt wrong, like it knew I had no business holding it. My arms weren't made for this, my hands weren't steady. I never handled one before, not properly, not like this. And there I was, alone in the mud with fog at my ankles, and a loaded shotgun in my grip, like I knew what the hell I was doing. I broke it open to check the two shells.

They were right where they were meant to be. And when I clicked it shut, it made a proper sound, clean and final. Then I kept moving slowly. My boots sank a little into the wet ground with each step. I could feel the thud of my heartbeat in my jaw and fingertips. Then I saw it. A figure of a woman standing in the water with her back turned, her dress soaked and clinging to her legs.

and her head was wrapped in a scarf pulled tight. Every muscle in me went taut. I raised the gun and flicked the safety off with my thumb, clumsy and stiff. The click was louder than I expected. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The figure reacted to the noise, one foot dragging through the water like she was remembering how to stand.

Her body swayed slightly, and every part of me tensed. My arms were locked and my shoulders tightened. I braced the stock against my shoulder properly, lifted the barrel, and lined it up through the grey. The fog swirled around her, thick as milk, only showing a blur of her. I couldn't see her face, but I knew what this was, what it had to be. one of them I'd seen this before I knew this shape

this silence the soap dress clinging to her legs sleeves hanging heavy hair hidden no part of her left to recognise she was just another one of them waiting for a next victim so I aimed

and just when I had her square in my sights she spoke Did you finally bring those biscuits you promised me? The words took the ground from under me without warning, and my arms dropped just a little and shook. I couldn't help it. It felt as if the gun had become heavier.

Because it was her, it was Mara.