The sunset hung low over the wheat. For a second, the hills looked like they were made of gold. “The Way You Move” by Jenny Shields was on. Normally, he hated pop, but tonight he let it play.

Ethan’s F-150 rumbled up the gravel road, headlights catching the eyes of cattle in the nearby pasture as he passed. “Moo.” Cracked himself up.

His phone rang. Jacob had set it up with hands-free everything, and Ethan still wasn’t entirely sure how to work it. “Hello?” Nothing. “Hello!” Then he remembered. “Answer call.”

“Tell me you got at least one wall done today.” His mom sounded well into a fifth.

Ethan surveyed the lot as he pulled in. The trailer sat in the center of the dirt acre of property surrounded by pasture on one side and an empty field overtaken by Scottish thistle on the other. “It’s getting there.”

“And stay out of trouble, please. You gotta be your best self at Giddy Up.”

The trailer was surrounded by lumber and construction materials, and good intentions that hadn’t quite materialized.

“All we’re doing is slapping lipstick on a pig. I vote we light a match and collect the insurance.”

“You were born in that trailer!”

“Sorry you’re proud of that. Gotta go.” He hung up.

He sat there a moment with the engine ticking.

He parked, hopped out, hauled the hay bale from the truck bed, dragged it to the horse tackle shed, and covered it with a tarp.

He took in the whole sad affair. The trailer looked every year of its 20 and then some. “Piece of shit.”

For some reason, the fact that he was actually born in that trailer bothered him more than he let on. He pushed the thought away.

A distant train horn sounded somewhere out past the ridge. It carried across the valley and disappeared.

He couldn’t wait to leave Dread. Any place had to be better.

Ethan climbed the porch steps, sat on the top one, and pulled off his boots. He lined them up neatly, then reached just inside the door for his slippers and put them on.

Nobody needed to know about the slippers, just like his secret fondness for reality TV.

Secrets best left unshared.

Felix met him in the kitchen, spinning circles, painted nails clicking on the linoleum. Ethan shook some food into the bowl and watched him go to town. At least somebody was happy.

His room was full of trophies. Photos of him at the Giddy Up Rodeo, in the chute, on the bull, winning things. He knew he was good at it, the way he was good at most things, naturally, without trying.

He flopped on the bed and swiped through his phone.

Nina Diamond was releasing a country-western single.

He hated it when failing singers pivoted to country like it was an easier genre. At least do the respectable thing like Taylor Swift and go the opposite direction.

“Stick to pop, loser. Real cowgirls don’t need gimmicks. Hashtag RodeoRules. Post to account.” Flat. Masculine. Done.

He impulsively grabbed the bullwhip off the wall and snapped it once for kicks. The popper caught on the ceiling fan, and the butt yanked out of his hand. The fan and the braided whip spun in lazy circles. Highlight of his day. He went back to his phone.

A notification beeped.

“Read my DMs.”

A male voice read back: “Hey there, cowboy. How are you?”

He figured it was Jacob screwing around. Had to be Jacob.

“Not much, just chillin. Who is this? What the fuck is Creepy Alien Face?”

“Just a nickname.”

“Who are you? Jacob, quit fucking around.”

“I’m not Jacob.”

“Nick?”

“Not Nick either.”

“I’m busy. Later.”

He started to set his phone down.

Another beep.

“You think it’s fair you’ll die because of what your mother did?”

Ethan glanced at the message. The question mark blinked. Blood red.

The room went quiet.

Something cold moved through him; the air had changed.

“Fuck you.” Too quick. Too loud.

He pulled up the profile. Eerie alien icon. Face longer than wide. Big eyes, but not the usual round ones. These were canine eyes. Fierce. Hungry. The bio read: Slow vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels — Jonathan Swift.

No followers.

Following only six people…

His best friends.

Ethan’s finger hovered over the block button. Then: “Who the fuck is this?”

“I’m going to stab you in the heart.” A pause. “Right?”

Ethan stood. Hot and cold at once.

“I’ll be there when your mother discovers I murdered her poor baby. It’ll tear her heart out.”

Ethan’s mouth was dry. His senses sharpened. All he could smell was manure from the fields.

“Like I’m about to tear out yours.”

A sudden gust of wind rattled the trailer.

Ethan pressed the block button with his shaking thumbs. Finally blocked. Twice, to make sure.

“Call Jacob.”

Jacob picked up on the second ring. “Sup?”

Ethan could hear his truck idling. Jacob was probably outside Mia’s again, sitting in the dark like that was going to fix anything. “Where are you?”

“Outside Mia’s. She’s ghosting me.”

“Dude, you broke up. Give it time.” A pause. “You get any weird DMs? From a Creepy Alien Face?”

“Wait, what?”

The sound of him spitting tobacco.

“Never mind. Someone’s fucking with me. Just hurry. And bring beer. Not that seltzer shit.”

“You alright?”

“See ya in a bit. And hurry.” He hung up.

Ethan suddenly felt exactly what he was. A 17-year-old cocky kid alone in a trailer guarded by a useless chihuahua with pink nails.

He rushed to his dresser, fished around, and felt the cool metal. He pulled out his Glock 19. “Fuck with me, bitch. Dare ya.”

Felix ran into the room, and Ethan grabbed him, maybe a little harder than usual. Felix squirmed, meaning he had to go outside.

The fog had come in fast, the way it does in the valley: thick and low, swallowing the pasture fence post by post.

Ethan stepped onto the porch and lit a cigarette. The flame flickered in the wind. The porch light buzzed, throwing shadows.

Cows lowed somewhere in the dark.

Felix shot off the porch into the blackness, barking at something that would terrify him if he caught it. Ethan followed down the creaky steps.

He heard the stomps before he saw the white stallion burst from the fog and gallop across the field, hooves striking hard, fence posts flashing past in the haze.

The white stallion was still in the pasture.

He didn’t see the black gelding.

His grip tightened on the flashlight. The Glock sat heavy at his back. He rounded the corner of the trailer and nearly walked straight into the black gelding—eyes white-rimmed and nostrils flaring.

“Easy.” He grabbed the bridle, talking low until the horse settled. He led it back toward the corral and latched the gate firmly, checking it twice.

Out in the fog, the white stallion continued running the fence line, spooked by something Ethan couldn’t see.

Ethan scanned the yard. Near the haystack, something darker than the dark. A figure. Motionless.

He blinked.

Gone.

“Felix, come on!”

Felix came scurrying out of the shadows as if escaping something.

Ethan shook his head. Letting some goddamn troll get to him. Jacob would never let him live it down.

He could hear it already. Every time something creaked, Jacob would laugh and blame Creepy Alien Face.

He hoped to God Jacob wouldn’t get Seltzer this time.

Ethan put his gun on the dresser, hopped on the bed, crossed his ankles, and picked up his phone.

A new DM. Different account. A brief scan revealed that she was 17 and from Portland. Hot. Star Pfisher.

People from Portland were so weird.

She had liked one of his Giddy Up posts. “DM me. Let’s chat. Not a stalker. But I have been following you for a while now.”

He smirked. This he understood. “Yeah. Not really in the mood tonight.”

The reply came almost instantly. “All day, in fact.” Then: “I like your slippers!”

Blinking blood-red exclamation mark.

The smirk died. The cold flush returned.

Felix yelped from beneath the trailer. Not a bark—a yelp.

He had gotten out. “Felix!”

Ethan grabbed the Glock, checked it, and rushed toward the front door.

Outside, the fog had thickened.

The white stallion ran the fence line again, neighing.

Felix’s whimpering came from under the trailer, thin and scared.

Ethan dropped to his knees in the wet grass, clicked on his flashlight, and crawled in. Cobwebs. Dirt. Old pipe. Felix curled up, shaking. A raccoon scurried into the dark. He flashed his light on the dog’s bloody paw.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Ethan got him out slowly and carefully. Stood up. Felt something behind him. Whipped around…

Nothing. Fog. Farm sounds. In his arms, Felix’s breath was strong. Ethan realized he carried a lot of tension in his shoulders and rolled them.

Ethan took the porch steps two at a time and kicked the door open.

He left a message for his mom, his voice pitched higher than he’d have liked. He wrapped Felix’s paw with a dish towel and set him gently on the bed. Then his phone vibrated, and he told it to read his texts.

“Hey there. How are you? Nice save.”

“Fuck off, whoever you are.”

“You go off on poor little pop stars, and I can’t do the same? You don’t like being trolled, troll?”

“FUCK. OFF!”

“Rude.”

“Who are you?”

“I’ll tell you. But you have to play along. Knock knock.”

Ethan paced the room. Looked at Felix panting on the bed.

“Knock knock. I’m not big on waiting.”

Ethan took a breath, rolled his eyes. “Who’s there?”

A long silence.

“Me.”

Ethan stared at the screen. Mind-blown emoji. Alien emoji.

Then, a sound like the trailer was being dismantled. Shaking. Banging. Hard and fast, coming from every wall at once.

No more games. This was real as fuck.

“If this is a prank, motherfucker, I WILL shoot you.”

“Not a prank, asshole.”

Ethan bolted to the dresser, swiped his keys, and held the gun in front of him. Entered the living room.

Plastic sheeting on the walls whipped slightly. The paint and varnish smelled like sour apple schnapps.

He swept the room, side to side, and made his way to the front door. Felt the cool fake-brass knob and turned it—

“Did you forget about your little doggie?”

Ethan stopped.

“Fuck.” He couldn’t tell if he thought it or said it. He was that scared.

He let go of the knob. Turned back. Gun up, hand shaking, inching toward the bedroom. Felix whimpered on the bed. Ethan grabbed him.

“One,” the voice said.

Faster through the room.

The plastic caught more wind now.

“Two.”

Door handle. Twisted.

“Three.”

Electric with adrenaline, Ethan threw open the door and sprinted, Felix under one arm. Gun in hand.

He didn’t see it coming. Nobody would have.

The 72-inch digging pole caught him just below the sternum.

Masked Creepy Alien Face tilted his head. Then rammed it forward.

Ethan slid along the floor, his feet losing the slippers.

No pain yet, just a dull pressure in his chest and coldness arriving fast. A light clunk as the metal pole pinned him to the wall.

Then the pain grew agonizing as Creepy Face leaned in, pushing the pole deeper, through him, through the wall… closer and closer. Those eyes. Fierce. Like a wolf.

Ethan’s arms slumped. Felix slipped from his grip. The gun hit the floor.

Breath came in brief interludes. He watched the killer walk to the stove, turn the knob, click click click, then fire, which was blown out.

The fumes rose, wispy and light, into nothingness.