The Wraith by the Bog
There’s something about small towns in summer that makes you feel untouchable. Maybe it’s the hum of cicadas in the trees, the laughter echoing off the lake, or that golden haze that settles over everything when the sun starts to dip. It’s the kind of place where you feel like nothing bad could ever really happen. That’s what Evan thought when he moved to Brookridge. He’d only been there two weeks before he met some kids his age—Jonas, Tiff, and Ryan—at the corner store near the bridge. They invited him to a bonfire by the bog that night. He didn’t know it then, but everyone in Brookridge had a story about that bog. The fire crackled, spitting orange sparks into the warm air. Marshmallows burned, laughter echoed, and somewhere in the dark, frogs croaked. The air smelled like wet moss and smoke. When the conversation turned quiet, Jonas leaned in, his grin flickering in the firelight. “You new here don’t know about the Wraith, huh?” Evan smirked. “The what?” Tiff rolled her ...