Diving Into the Wreck

Murder Girls is created, written, and produced by Eternal Teenager. Content warning. This episode contains discussion of murder and violent death, grief and loss, ongoing themes related to death of family members, panic attacks and anxiety disorders, seizure disorder, surveillance and stalking, breaking and entering, environmental crime and corporate malfeasance, claustrophobic situations, family conflict and dysfunction, references to past traumatic events and car accidents, manipulation and gaslighting, alcohol consumption, and profanity throughout. Listener discretion is advised.

Previously on Murder Girls.

Monday. Dylan leaves the Holt building around four heads straight to loose ends. It seemed like he recognized me. Like he was looking for me specifically and that he had found me.

Look there, under the dock. Paper, something blue under there. Got it. It's a page from Minerva's book.

It's from when we hit out at that crazy old, crazy, terrifying, ruined cabin.

After that swarm of mystery dudes in the football mascot masks chased us through the forest, that was the first time we started to piece things together. What even was that place? I totally forgot about it until now.

Probably still there?

Probably. Wait, wait, wait. What's that? Turn it over. They're in the margin.

Some handwritten notes. The original sin lies buried with the fifth.

It's written in red ink and recently by the looks of it.

Whatever it means, it can't be a coincidence that a page from our book was at the crime scene. But what does any of this have to do with Dylan's murder?

Maybe Dilley found out something about the town's past. Whatever this original sin is, someone killed him to keep it quiet. Old grievances never die in places like Avalon Falls. They just get buried until someone digs them up.

My eyes are drawn to the peeling wallpaper and that's when I see it. A mural painted directly onto the plaster. Abstract but intense. There's handwriting under the folds of the torn wallpaper. In red ink. DS. Look closer.

There's a wrapped painting propped against the wall and stuck to the wrapping. A post-it note. Handwritten message. Red ink. What's that note?

Something Dylan left.

This handwriting is the same from the note in the margins of the page from Minerva's book we found. The same hand that wrote, the original sin lies buried with the fifth.

There's something in the mailbox. It's addressed to me, not Dee Dee.

Who sends you mail here? You've been back what, less than a week? Monday?

That's the day Dylan was murdered.

Is that?

It's a USB drive.

What's on it?

One file. Video.

File name?

Murder Girls.

Here goes. Holy fucking shit, that's Dylan.

I don't know if you'll ever see this, but I found something about my family, about this town, about what really happened, what's really happening. I was going to tell you in person, but I realized I needed a backup plan. If you want to know everything, and I mean everything, then we can arrange to meet at the old ruined cabin. I'll explain everything there. I'll show you everything there. You have to trust me. If the wrong people find out what I know, I don't know what they'll do. I don't have anyone else I can trust to help me. So if you're watching this, please meet me. I want to tell you everything.

Murder Girls, episode 10, diving into the wreck.

I wanna tell you everything.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. We just stare at the screen where Dylan's face was a second ago.

He's dead.

He is. But whatever he found is still out there.

At the cabin.

The ruined, terrifying cabin.

In the middle of the terrifying, scary woods. Yeah, well, I mean, we need to go, right?

Sure, sure, got to, yeah, but now it's almost dark.

I know where to park so we can book it to the cabin quick. Round trip should be like two hours max.

Ugh, fine, you're lucky I actually brought hiking boots.

Are they like special curated hipster ones, all oiled and waxed with rare artisanal oils and waxes?

Yes, what other kind would I have? Even come with their own fucking playlist, fucking smart ass. Dylan knew, of course he knew. The doomed always do.

And he wanted to make sure we found out, even if he couldn't tell us himself. Weirdly un-Dylan.

A message from the dead, from a Holt who wanted to burn his own family down, and he sent it to us. What do you think he found?

Something worth killing for.

The thing is, she's right. We're walking into something, something Dylan thought was dangerous enough to create a dead man's switch, something big enough that he reached out to us. Even though Amy was openly hostile to his entire family, even though he barely knew me. Who are you texting?

The weirdos, well, weirdo, Walter.

Walter, why?

Well, just letting him know we're following up on a lead.

Amethyst, you are not telling him where we're going.

I'm being vague. Following up on lead, see? Super vague, bud. You know, if we go missing, someone should know our last known direction, right?

Sure, sure, just you didn't tell him our last known direction. Vague, right?

Look, we don't need the text.

We'll be fine.

Also, and of course, it's more a cosmic balance thing, right? Put the text out there, and you never need it. Don't put it out there and die or whatever. Look, you know what I'm saying. Don't worry about it, babes. Ugh, fine. I'm texting. Following up on cabin info. Happy?

That's actually smart.

See? I'm not totally chaotic neutral.

I'm reorganizing the evidence folders on the desk, squared corners, parallel edges. If I can manage the logistics, maybe I can manage her. Maybe I can manage this crawling feeling in my chest that says, turn back, prepare, wait until morning.

I want to tell you everything.

That's what he said.

Whatever everything is, it got him killed.

Then we better make sure it doesn't get us killed too.

She says it like a joke, but there's this edge underneath, bright and sharp. She's high right now, not on anything chemical, but on purpose. We just helped clear Lily. We just found out the murder victim was looking for our help specifically. And Amy's writing that like it's proof she's not cursed. She's chosen. The problem is, I know this version of her. This is the Amy who doesn't check whether the ice is frozen before stepping onto the lake. Okay, but we do this smart. We change into actual hiking clothes, grab flashlights, water, snacks. We're not just wandering into the woods unprepared.

Yes. Yes, absolutely. Very responsible.

I love it.

And we stick together. No wandering off.

Mags, I'm not five.

Oh, buddy, you literally just tried to leave in your current outfit.

History lesson. People in the Old West were wandering around in jeans, dude, mixing it up with bears and pumas and coyotes.

The cabin. Whatever Dylan found, whatever truth he was carrying. It's waiting for us in a place from our past. A place we haven't been since we were 13 years old and thought we could solve the world.

So, real talk. Are you actually worried, or is this just your normal level of baseline concern?

Both. I don't know. This feels big.

Big like, we're finally getting answers big, or big like someone's going to try to stop us big.

Yes. I'm checking flashlight batteries. Pulling the rest of those expired and cursed granola bars from the drawer behind the register. Amy's doing this half-dance thing while she reties her boots. All kinetic energy and manic optimism. And I'm trying to calculate how much of this enthusiasm is adrenaline, and how much is her outrunning something I can't see.

Dylan Holt. Dylan Holt reached out to us, not to the cops, not to his family, not to some fancy investigator, us.

I've been thinking about that too.

Like, why? I mean, I was kind of a dick to him.

I mean, more than kind of, if we're being real here.

And you? He didn't even really know you. No offense, babes.

Some offense, and maybe that's exactly why he wanted to come to us. We're outside the system, outside his family's control.

Or maybe, maybe he knew what happened to my dad. Maybe he figured out we were the only ones who'd actually believe him.

And there it is, the thing she's been circling since we watched the video. The idea that Dylan wasn't just investigating corporate corruption. He was investigating her origin story. The accident, Jonathan, all of it. That's possible.

It's more than possible, Mags. We know he was looking into things my dad was looking into. Things that might have gotten my dad killed. This isn't just about Dylan anymore.

Amy.

No, I'm okay, I'm good. I just, we need to do this tonight before anyone realizes what we know.

Okay, but Amy, listen to me. The cabin isn't as close as you're remembering.

Actually, it totally is. We were kids. Everything feels farther when you're kids, especially when you're scared and exhausted.

I don't know.

Trust me on this. I know where we can park that will make the walk from the old logging road super quick, like 20 to 30 minutes tops.

The old logging road that's probably overgrown and impassable now.

Or hear me out and love me after. It's a convenient shortcut that saves us 20 minutes.

Ugh, fine, two hours. But if it starts getting dark and we're not back at the car, we turn around, absolutely.

Con Dios, chica.

I want to treat this like a clue, like something I can analyze and categorize and file away safely. But it doesn't feel like that. It feels like a summons. The videos, The Seattle Attack and Dylan's, confirmed everything I've been afraid of since I came back to Avalon Falls. That the past isn't dead. It's just unfiled, waiting in the dark for someone to come looking.

You ready?

As I'll ever be.

Then let's go find out what Dylan wanted to tell us.

But here's what neither of us is saying out loud. We don't actually want to go back. We've spent ten years running from this place, this partnership, this version of ourselves, and now we're walking straight into the woods to meet it again. Control, spontaneity, caution, impulse. Amy thinks these are opposites, but they're not. They're just different ways of being afraid. And right now, right now we've never been more terrified.

Okay, so, fun fact. The parking spot I found? It's like literally a 10-minute walk from the cabin. Maybe 15 if you're being dramatic about it. We were kids back then, remember? Everything felt farther, especially when you're running from your own imagination. Oh, right, and also running from about 20 wilding teenage boys in wolf mascot masks who are chasing you through the woods for no apparent reason. Hey buddy, want a granola bar? Or we've got those cheese crackers that taste like childhood regret.

How does someone not like Cheez-Its? I can't process... Cheez-It. Right?

Okay, okay, like 6 out of 10, but only because you're cute.

Oh, come on, man.

We stopped at Falls Mart on the way out of town, grabbed the essentials, snacks, water, flashlight batteries. Very prepared, very responsible. Mags looked weirdly pleased about the whole planning thing, which, honestly, kind of adorable. You know what we're missing, though?

Well, you got like, I don't know, 40 or 50 fucking 3 Musketeers or whatever, so no, I don't know what we're missing.

Calm down, dude.

It's like 8 bars, okay? You're about to witness greatness once again as I beat my previous record.

But also, and of course, I meant Bud, Bud.

Amy.

I'm just saying, we're about to hike into a cursed cabin in the woods at dusk. That's prime. I could really use an edible right now territory.

You want to be high while investigating a potential crime scene?

I mean, when you say it like that, it almost sounds irresponsible, right?

Because it is irresponsible, Amy. It is very irresponsible.

Fair, fair. Noted for the record.

We should still get more, though. Like, in general, for later. There's a dispensary in Cedarbrook we could check out. Could be a good excuse to do some recon on Nora's place. Sniff around for other connections.

Amy, we have so many things we need to follow up on already.

I know, I know.

Do you? Because let me just run through the list real quick. We need to figure out what the machine actually is. That's number one on the list. Like, I don't know. Why did my tiny hot weird aunt create this fucking NSA level surveillance network around our hometown? Right? Supplemental question. How did she fucking do that? Number two, who killed Dylan Holt and why? Like, which fucking branch of several fucking branches of sketchiness and, like, just fucking bleak shit he was looking into got him killed? So, which fucking straw and which fucking camel's back, was it? Is it just that he was looking to kill the Omnia deal? Or is it something else? Why is art involved? Riddle me that, BatFam, right? Like, what is even up with that?

Okay, okay, I get it. We're juggling, like, 17 plot lines. Very ambitious of us.

It's not ambitious.

It's very prestige TV season one, I know.

I was going to say overwhelming, but sure.

She's not wrong. The case is sprawling. Every answer just opens up three more questions, and we're running out of room on the murder board in my brain. But that's the thing about momentum, right? Once you start moving, you can't really stop to take inventory. You just keep driving.

Can we, can we maybe not have a full concert right now? What?

This is my road trip playlist.

Come on, man.

It's giving me a headache.

It's giving you a heartache, like only in the best possible way, and you're welcome.

It's giving me anxiety.

Fine. Compromise. Semi-heartache.

Thank you.

See? I can be flexible. I can be chill. I'm very chill right now. Super chill. Absolutely not white-knuckling the steering wheel or avoiding looking at the mile markers or counting my breaths or, okay, so maybe chill is overselling it. So Dylan's funeral is in a couple days.

Yeah.

You planning to go?

Are you planning to go?

I asked first.

I think we should, especially now, now that we know he was trying to reach out to us.

Right? Like it feels, I don't know, necessary, respectful even.

Also strategic.

God, you're such a detective.

You literally just said the same thing.

Yeah, but when I say it, it sounds like empathy. When you say it, it sounds like a stakeout.

Those aren't mutually exclusive.

Fair point. The funeral. Funny thing, I've never been to one. I was in a coma for my dad's, and when Dee Dee died, well, her service was in Seattle. Showing up after a decade of radio silence felt like the worst possible reunion plan. So yeah, Dylan's would be my first. Weird. But this feels different. Dylan's not just a victim anymore. He's, I don't know, a collaborator, an ally. It's weird to think of him that way, but that's what the video made him. Someone who saw the same things we're seeing now. Someone who tried to burn it all down. Okay, so here's the thing. The thing I'm not saying, the thing I'm wrapping in jokes and banter and medium vibes indie music, I know exactly where we are, like exactly, every turn, every tree, every shadow the headlights make on the road. Because this is the road, the one from that night, the night everything changed. You know what's funny?

Dogs and sunglasses?

Yes, but also the way you remember things, like you have this whole system, right? You catalog everything, put it in little mental boxes, very organized, very controlled.

Okay.

But that's not really how memory works, is it? It's not neat, it's not linear, it's just fragments, flashes, feelings you can't quite place.

What's your point, friend?

My point is, you, Mags Park, you edit. You file the messy, scary stuff until it feels like safety.

And you don't?

Oh, I exploit it. I turn it into a personality trait. Very emotionally healthy.

At least I'm not using trauma as a punchline.

That's not fair.

Isn't it?

Okay.

Okay. So that landed wrong. That whole conversation went sideways, and now the air in the car feels thick and sharp, and I can't figure out how to backpedal without making it worse. My hands are doing that thing, that finger tapping thing on the steering wheel, keeping rhythm with the wipers, keeping rhythm with my pulse.

Sorry, that was...

No, you're right. I do that. I know I do that.

I didn't mean...

It's fine.

We're fine.

See? We're having a normal argument about emotional processing. Very healthy. Super therapeutic.

Yeah.

Except nothing about this is fine, because we're almost there. And the closer we get, the more the road feels like it's narrowing, like it's pulling me in. Headlights on wet asphalt, the smell of rain and gasoline, the hum in my teeth that I can't explain, but that I remember. Almost there.

Where is there, exactly?

The trailhead. Well, not the official one. There's a pullout spot just up here. Locals use it. Easier access to the old logging road.

Amy, where are we?

And here it is. The moment. The one I've been out running since we left Lucerne's. Since we got in the car. Since I suggested this whole idiotic plan. This is the spot. The exact spot where the accident happened. Where my dad died. Where my whole life split into before and after. I thought I could handle it. I really did. Thought if I just drove here, if I just parked here, like it was nothing, like it was just a convenient trailhead, and not the place where everything ended, then maybe it would stop being the place where everything ended.

Amy.

Here we are. Told you it was close.

Is this?

We should get moving.

Lights fading fast, right? Ames?

Amy, look at me. Amy, is this where?

I want to lie. I want to laugh it off. I want to make a joke about what a cosmic coincidence it is that the best parking spot also happens to be my own personal ground zero. But I can't because she already knows. I can see it in her face, yeah.

This is where it happened. The guardrail still bends. Not much, just a subtle curve where metal met force and lost. The asphalt's patched here, darker than the rest of the road. The tree on the right side is thinner now, scarred bark where something tore into it years ago. She's already out of the car, moving, always moving.

So, like I said, super close to the trailhead. We'll be at the cabin in like 20 minutes, 30, tops.

This is where it happened, where your dad...

Yeah, I know, it's fine. I mean, it used to be, you know, a thing. Used to give me flashbacks, panic attacks, the whole deal.

But I've been here before.

Like a bunch of times, it's not the first time.

You've been back here, like, like multiple times?

Yeah, part of the whole exposure therapy thing. Face your fears, reclaim the space, blah, blah, blah, all that. It works, actually. It used to mean something. Used to be hard, but now it's just a road. Well, I guess a road is hard, technically, but you know what I'm trying to say about all that stuff.

She says it like she's reading from a self-help manual. Like, trauma is something you can just decide to be done with. Check a box, complete a survey, move on. Just a road.

What?

Nothing.

Mags, if you have something to say.

I just, I didn't know you'd been coming back here.

Why would you? We haven't exactly been in touch.

There's an edge to her voice now. Like, I've accused her of something, like I'm the one being unfair. I saw the videos.

What videos?

The ones Dee Dee kept, from after the accident, your recovery.

Okay.

You were so hurt, Amy. I knew you'd been injured, but I didn't understand how bad it was until I saw them. You were unconscious for days. They didn't know if you'd-

But I did. I woke up.

I'm fine. You're not fine. You have a seizure disorder. You-

Yeah, Mags, I know. I'm aware of my own medical history, thanks.

I'm not trying to-

Then what are you trying to do? Because from where I'm standing, it kind of feels like you want me to be more broken than I am.

That's not-

I worked hard to get to the point where I could stand here without falling apart. I thought that was like progress, growth, healing, whatever you want to call it.

She's pacing now. Three steps toward the treeline, then back. Keys jangling in her pocket. She won't look at me directly, just keeps glancing past my shoulder like I'm something to navigate around. I know you did. I'm sorry. I just- seeing those videos, it made it real in a way it wasn't before. I knew Jonathan died. I knew you were hurt. But I didn't see it, and now I have, and I can't-

Can't what?

I don't know. I don't know how you just move past it. How you park here like it's nothing. How you drive this road and make jokes about weed and act like-

Like what, Mags?

Like I'm not permanently destroyed by it? I'm sorry my coping mechanism isn't performing enough pain for you.

That's not fair. No? There's this part of me, this ugly, shameful part, that is angry she's not more broken. Because if she can survive her father dying in front of her, if she can drive back to the spot where it happened and call it just a road, then what does that make me? Still waking up at 3 a.m. from dreams about a middle school dark room in Seattle, still checking over my shoulder every time I walk alone at night. If she's moved on, what's my excuse?

Look, I get it. You're processing a lot right now. The video from Seattle, coming back here, all of it. But you don't get to decide how I deal with my trauma just because you're dealing with yours.

You're right.

Uh, I am?

Yeah, I'm sorry. That was- I shouldn't have said that. It's just hard to watch you never stop. Your dad's death, what happened to me, the break-in at loose ends, your seizures. You just keep going like nothing can slow you down.

What's the alternative? Curl up and quit?

No, I just- I don't know how you do it.

I don't either, honestly. I just- I keep moving. Because if I stop, I'll- Anyway, we should get going, losing the light.

And there it is, the exit. The thing she does every time we get close to something real. She speeds up the conversation physically, puts distance between us before I can ask the question she won't answer. Amy, wait.

Come on, Mags. Adventure awaits.

I follow. Of course I follow. That's the pattern, isn't it? She pushes forward. I pick up the pieces. She refuses to stop. I refuse to let her go alone. The light shifts as we step under the canopy. It's golden hour. That brief window where the sun breaks through the clouds and turns everything amber and warm. The rain's letting up. Just missed now, catching in the branches above us. The sun hits her hair like it's blessing her for surviving. Like the universe is telling her, yes, you were right to keep going. Yes, you were right not to stop. I follow anyway. The forest feels older than it did when we were kids. Or maybe that's just us.

You good?

Yeah, I'm good.

The trail gets narrower up here. Just stay close.

Always do. She says it used to mean something. This place, this road, the memory of her father dying in the seat beside her. She says it used to be hard. I want to ask what changed, but I already know the answer. She did.

The thing about following a trail is, you assume it's going somewhere, like it has a destination in mind, a purpose. But trails don't care about purpose, they just are, and sometimes they just aren't. Okay, so according to my memory, we should hit the old logging road in like five minutes, then it's a straight shot to the cabin.

I don't have a signal.

Yeah, we're pretty deep in these here woods now.

Do you have a map?

A map, what is this, 1992?

Amy, I'm serious, do you actually know where we're going?

Yes, I told you, I've mapped this out in my head like a hundred times, we're fine. You're doing the thing.

What thing?

The anxiety thing, the I'm fine, but I'm actually calculating all possible disaster scenarios thing.

I'm just being cautious.

You're being paranoid.

We're walking through the woods at dusk toward a rundown unknown cabin. I'm being realistic.

Mags, we're not lost, we're just temporarily not found.

Classic.

What?

Nothing.

No, you said something. What did you say?

I said classic, as in classic Amy, making a joke out of everything.

I'm not making a joke, I'm being optimistic.

You're being reckless.

Oh my god, here we go.

We've been walking for 30 minutes, and nothing looks familiar. The trail is barely a trail anymore. We're losing light. And you're acting like this is all fine.

Because it is fine. We just need to keep going.

Keep going where, Amy? Where exactly are we going?

To the cabin.

You don't even know where the cabin is.

Yes, I do.

See that tree, the one with the broken branch? We passed it 15 minutes ago. No, no, no.

That's a different tree.

Oh my god.

It's the same tree.

Trees look alike, Mags. That's kind of their whole thing.

This is exactly what I'm talking about. You charge ahead no matter what, and then act surprised when we end up...

When we end up what?

Lost?

We're not lost.

We are definitely lost.

We're just off the main trail.

There is no main trail anymore, Amy. Look around. This is just forest.

And there it is. The thing under the thing. The real argument that's been waiting under all the other arguments. I can feel it rising in my chest like water, like flames, like lightning about to strike.

You always do this.

You follow me and then blame me when things don't go perfectly.

I didn't ask to follow you. I came back.

Yeah, ten years later.

Don't.

Don't what?

Don't bring up the fact that you left, that you moved away and never looked back.

My family moved. I was 13. I didn't have a choice.

You had a choice about calling, about writing, about literally any form of communication.

You think I didn't want to?

I don't know what you wanted because you never told me.

One day, we're best friends, and the next day, you're in Seattle, and then just nothing! Radio silence for a fucking decade.

Because I couldn't-

Couldn't what?

I couldn't keep being the person everyone expected me to be, okay? The smart one, the careful one, the one who was supposed to keep you safe. And then I failed at that, and I just, I needed to be someone else, somewhere else.

Well, congratulations, you succeeded.

That's not fair.

You want to talk about fair? You left me here, Mags. Maybe you didn't choose to move, but you chose not to stay in touch. You chose to cut me out completely.

You make it sound like it was easy, like I just forgot about you.

How would I ever know? You never reached out, you never gave me anything.

Because every time I thought about you, I thought about how I failed you. I thought about how I ran, how I disappeared, how I became someone who hurt you.

And you thought what?

That pretending I didn't exist would make it go away?

I thought it would hurt less. I thought if I could just separate myself from everything, then maybe I could stop having nightmares, stop being scared, just be fucking normal.

Mags.

But I couldn't. Everywhere I went, I carried it. And when I finally saw Dee Dee's videos, the ones from after your accident, I realized I was carrying your pain too. I saw how hurt you were. I saw you in the hospital, unconscious, barely breathing. And I wasn't there.

No, you weren't.

I know. Don't you think I know that?

You could have stayed connected.

You could have tried.

I was a kid, Amy.

So was I. And my dad had just died. And you were my best friend, and I needed you, and you just, you just let me disappear from your life like I never mattered.

You mattered more than anything.

That's why I couldn't...

Then why does it feel like I spent ten years waiting for you to remember I existed?

Because you did. And I'm sorry.

You think I like being this way? Always chasing something?

Always moving?

Looking for answers? That's the only time I ever felt real. The only time I feel like I matter.

You matter.

Do I? Because for ten years, I sure didn't seem to.

That's not, Amy, that's not true.

Isn't it? You didn't call. You didn't write. You didn't even send a fucking birthday card. How is that supposed to make me feel like I matter?

II didn't know how to be there for you when I couldn't even be there for myself.

Then you should have said that. You should have told me you were struggling. Instead, you just... vanished. Like I didn't deserve an explanation.

You're right. You're right, okay? I was a coward. I was scared, and I thought it would be easier to just cut everything off. I was wrong. I hate that I keep following you into things. I tell myself it's to keep you safe, to make up for when I wasn't here. But really, it's because I don't know what else to do. How can I be your friend without also being someone who failed you?

And I hate that I need you to follow me.

Because I'm scared if you don't, you'll disappear again. And I won't survive it a second time.

We're kind of a mess.

Yeah, we really are.

Shit, dropped my flashlight. Uh, Mags, look. The flashlight beam catches something through the trees. At first, I think it's water. Then I think it's glass. Then I realize it's a window, reflecting our light back at us. Is that? It's the cabin. There's a moment after a fight when the world feels embarrassed for you, like it saw you naked and doesn't know where to look. She's still here. I'm still here. For now, that's enough.

You okay?

Nope.

Are you? No.

Nope.

We don't apologize. Not really. But we start doing tasks, checking batteries, adjusting straps, pretending to look for the trail. It's how we say sorry without words. And then, without planning it, we start walking toward the cabin. Slowly, together. The light's gone strange. That heavy metallic dusk right before true dark, where everything feels two-dimensional. The forest has gone quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Hospital room quiet. Like the air's waiting for bad news. The cabin resolves out of the fog. Wrong proportions. Windows too small. Roof sagged like a spine.

Look.

I see it.

Every story starts with someone going back where they swore they wouldn't. We walk anyway. The boards look wet, but when I touch one, my hand comes back with soot, not moisture.

There's a smell.

Not rot. Not smoke. Something like metal and vinegar. Mags, what do we do?

We go in.

Yeah. Yeah. Let's go.

We walk toward it like people heading back into a dream they swore they'd already escaped. We don't touch, but the distance between us has changed. Less defensive now. More protective.

The cabin is both exactly as I remember and completely wrong. Like a word you've said so many times, it stops sounding real. It's bigger than it should be and smaller. Collapsed on one side, the roof caved in, walls buckling like broken ribs. But it's still recognizably a cabin, still the place we hid when we were 13 and terrified.

Well, it's definitely fucking worse than I remember.

I mean, I guess it's been 10 years, and it wasn't exactly House Beautiful to begin with. We had no idea who owned this place. Didn't even know it existed until we stumbled on it during the Osprey Island case, when those boys, teenagers probably, wearing those Cedarbrook Wolves mascot masks, chased us through the woods like it was some kind of game. We ran until our lungs burned, and then we found it, the ruined cabin. We hid under debris, old tarps and broken furniture. Amy kept eating three musketeers she'd stuffed in her pockets, kept shoveling them down on a dare to distract me from spiraling into panic. It worked. We laughed until we cried, and then we cried until we laughed again. We still don't know why we were chased, who sent them, if it was random or coordinated. It's Avalon Falls. Why not both, I guess?

Jesus, this place is even more wrecked than I thought.

Careful, the floor might not hold.

Always with the optimism.

Well, look at the walls.

What am I looking at?

Artwork, or what's left of it. It looks like someone tried to erase a scream, ruined paintings, or murals. Similar to what I saw under the wallpaper in the sloppy otter's bathroom. Those twisted, elongated figures. Except here, they're shattered. The walls themselves are broken. Pieces rotting and strewn across the floor like the cabin tried to vomit them out.

Were these always here?

I don't remember them.

Me neither. But we weren't exactly taking in the decor when we were hiding from masked psychos.

Nope, we were pretty focused on not being found. Yeah, must have blocked it out. Or it was too dark to see, but they were here all along.

That's deeply unsettling.

This wasn't just abandoned. Look at the way the wood splintered. The way the paint scraped away. This was destroyed. Deliberately.

Yeah, check it out. Looks like some ax work here. Someone tore this place apart.

Yeah, someone did. And definitely before we hid here as kids.

Okay, so creepy cabin. Check. Mysterious, disturbing artwork. Check. Growing sense of existential dread. Check. Tell me you're in a horror movie without telling me you're in a horror movie.

Are you trying to make this worse?

I'm trying to make this survivable.

Wait, over here.

What is that?

So it looks like a trap door. Yep, you know, a trap door in the floor. Yep, yep, yep. Under the wreckage, rotted boards, rusted nails, layers of forest detritus. There's a hatch. Recently disturbed. The dirt around it is loose, fresh. Someone's been here. And recently, Dylan had to be. He found this. Whatever he was looking for, it's down there.

Cool, cool, cool, cool.

We're gonna go down into the murder basement now.

I mean, when you say it like that, it sounds irresponsible.

Look, I'm okay if we don't do this now. Just so you know, like, we could come back tomorrow with, I don't know, proper equipment in daylight. Oh, and maybe a priest.

You want to leave?

I mean, I'm saying I would understand if you wanted to leave because, you know, ugh, I want to leave too, okay? This is a lot and it's creepy. And I'm, like, I'm a little scared, Tbh.

Oh yeah, me too. I mean, like, obviously. But, oh man, I think we need to go down there, and it has to be now. We have no idea when we'll get back here. This week has been insane. Dylan went to all this trouble to lead us here, and if we turn back...

We might never know what he found. Yeah.

Yeah, and I really want to know what he found.

Together?

Together.

Oh god, there's a ladder. Of course there's a ladder.

I'll go first.

No, I'll...

Amy, let me go first.

Okay.

It's stable, come on. And just like that, we're descending into the dark again, because apparently we didn't learn our lesson the first time.

So trying to get a reading on the scary cabin in the woods scale here, and okay, yeah, yeah. This is very House of Leaves terrifying, not quite Blair Witch. Definitely not Evil Dead. I mean, dated references, but you get my point, right?

Is that supposed to be comforting?

I'm just setting reasonable expectations for our impending doom.

At first, it just looks like what you'd expect, a ruined cabin's basement. Part of the collapsed structure above has caved further down here, broken wood everywhere, rot and dampness and the smell of earth. Whoa, the Pacific Northwest can destroy a place fast.

Yeah, moisture does not fuck around here.

Whoa, ah! Mags!

Are you okay?

Uh, yeah, yeah, I fucking tripped, that's all.

You're not hurt, right? You scared me, Park.

Yeah, I'm okay, honey. Wait, shine your light over here. Let's see what I tripped over.

Don't be a body, don't be a body. What is that? Is that a table?

Yeah, metal table flipped over. And they're, see, like, broken ceramic and frames for canvases, I think. The wood's rotten, but still holding shape.

See this? Leather. Looks like a sketchbook or what's left of one. The pages are basically disintegrated.

Paint tubes, plastic brushes, metal palette knives. This was an artist's studio.

Down here in a cabin basement?

I mean, imagine this place in a prequel sense, before it got terrifying and cursed, quiet, hidden, wrapped in trees. If the vibes weren't rancid, it'd actually be the perfect little art bunker, right?

Or like the perfect little murder dungeon or demon-summoning circle place, you know, or whatever.

Someone created here, and someone destroyed it.

Okay, so we're looking for signs of recent activity, right? Maybe Dylan did our work for us and left us a nice, convenient clue.

Amy. Footprints. Relatively recent.

Looks like two people?

Different shoe sizes. One larger, one smaller. Man and a woman, maybe.

Dylan and Nora?

Well, it's not gonna be fucking Eleanor, right?

Hey, you never know.

There, in the corner.

Is that a trunk?

Metal. Looks like it was buried at some point, but it's been dug out.

Oh, man, it's empty.

Dylan must have taken whatever was inside.

Damn it. I really wanted to see what he found.

We will, eventually. We just have to figure out where he put it.

Wait, hey, hey, look, there's something else here behind the trunk.

What are those?

Sculptures. Bronze, I think. They are fucking heavy, dude.

They're maquettes, yeah, like small-scale practice models. Helps you study for larger sculptures or paintings to get the light and shadows and proportions right.

These are, wow, these are intense.

Two figures. Abstractly hewn but clearly human. A man and a woman. Both twisted into poses that read as pain. Or surprise. Or both. The kind of expressions that make you uncomfortable to look at for too long.

Oh, hey, there's something carved underneath.

Uh, let's see, huh. Says Dorothy Calhoun.

Is that the artist?

Maybe, or, wait, there's something else. On the side of the base, yeah, initials, DS.

DS. That's what Dylan wrote in the Otter, right? DS look closer, with the arrow pointing to the mural?

Yes, so DS is connected to all of this, the cabin, the studio, the artwork.

But who is DS.?

I don't know, check the other one.

Same initials on the side, DS., but the name underneath is different. Nathan Calhoun.

Nathan Calhoun.

So, Dorothy and Nathan Calhoun, related, obviously?

Must be. Same last name. Husband and wife, maybe, or could be brother and sister?

And both connected to DS., whoever, or whatever that is. Or, what if those names aren't the artist? What if they're the subjects, like these maquettes are of Dorothy and Nathan Calhoun?

That would make sense. If DS is the artist, and these are portraits of the Calhouns.

Then who the hell is DS.? And why were they making art of people frozen in pain and terror?

To be fair, a lot of artists do that, but why did Dylan care about this one? We stand there in the dark, holding these small bronze figures. Two people captured mid-agony, preserved forever in metal. And I think, that's us. That's what we've been doing for 10 years, holding our pain in place, making monuments out of our worst moments.

I think we need to leave.

Yeah, yeah, I think you're right. We should take it. The statue, I mean.

What? No, absolutely not. Come on, man. That's how every fucking Conjuring movie starts. You grab the haunted statue, next thing you know, you're floating on the ceiling, yakking up blood and hell spiders over the bodies of your friends and family, and it's paying rent in your soul.

Wow, super vivid. But look, it's evidence aims, or at least context. If Dylan dug this place up, he was looking for something. Maybe this is it, or part of it.

Or maybe he found a different one, took it home, got cabin cursed, and got himself murdered.

Then we'll just have to be careful.

Oh my god, fine. But when it starts whispering, I'm throwing it out the window.

Deal.

Okay, so we've got the names, and this one statue for some reason.

For evidence.

We can research them, figure out who owned this cabin, track down who or what DS is.

And maybe get some sleep. And process literally any of what just happened. Like, since Monday, I mean. The walk back to the car is a fever dream. We're both stumbling, both half laughing, half crying, both so amped on adrenaline and exhaustion that everything feels slightly unreal. And somehow, impossibly, we make it. We find the trail, we follow it back, we emerge exactly where we started.

That was absolutely fucking insane!

Why did we do that?

Oh boy.

Dude, I have no idea for real.

We sit there for a minute, both of us just breathing, both of us letting the adrenaline drain out, both of us realizing that somehow, impossibly, we survive the day. It's all connected, all of it.

I know.

This is big.

And we're right in the middle of it.

We really are. We drive back in comfortable silence, the kind you only get after you've walked into the dark and chose to walk back out. I've said enough for one night. The cabin's behind us now, but whatever Dylan found there is coming with us.

We make it back to Lucentz around 730. Both of us move like we've aged 40 years in the last four hours. Mags fumbles with the keys, I carry the pizza like it's precious cargo, which right now it is. Okay, pizza, we need pizza.

God, yes, pizza.

We sit on the floor with the box between us like we used to, like when we were kids and Dee Dee would bring home pizza after a long day at the shop. Holy shit.

This is the best pizza I've ever had in my entire life.

Okay, okay, critical question, spiritual question. What's your ideal slice?

Mm, bacon, pineapple, jalapeno.

Wow, okay, unexpectedly hot.

It's toppings, Amy.

No, it's a statement.

About what?

About your whole vibe.

My vibe?

Yeah, bold, dangerous, unexpectedly sweet.

Oh, is what is your pizza vibe? Is what I mean. Miladies, pizza preference.

Yep, yep, yep.

Right.

Okay, we're moving on.

I need water, I need to lie down.

And for a minute, we're just us, not Murder Girls, not two people carrying 10 years of baggage and trauma, just Amy and Mags eating pizza on the floor.

So, tomorrow, we need to figure out who Dorothy and Nathan Calhoun are, and DS, and how it all connects to the Holtz and Dylan and...

Mags.

Yeah.

Let's do that tomorrow, or at least after pizza.

But...

No, no buts. Right now, we eat the pizza, we enjoy the pizza, we be two people who successfully survived a very weird day and are now eating carbs and cheese and whatever jalapenos are.

They're also carbs, but okay, just Amy, just Mags, just pizza. Yeah, that sounds perfect.

Right?

Yeah.

I'm gonna grab more soda. You want one?

Yes, please.

I pull out two cans of orange Fanta, Mags' favorite, though she pretends it's too sweet. I turn around to hand her one, and she's asleep. Just... gone. Slumped against the side of the counter, head tilted to the side, mouth slightly open. She's still holding her pizza slice, grease spotting her fingers, like a peace offering to the universe. I should wake her, tell her to go sleep in an actual bed, or at least lie down somewhere that won't destroy her neck. I don't. Instead, I grab one of Didi's old quilts from the back room, the one with the stars on it that smells like lavender and dust. I drape it over her shoulders. Careful, gentle. She doesn't wake up, just shift slightly, pulling the quilt closer in her sleep. For the first time in 10 years, I'm not doing this alone. For the first time in 10 years, I'm not sure I want to. If the world ever ends, I hope it ends like this. Greasy fingers. Warm light. And her.

Hello, Mags Park here. If you like what we're doing here in Avalon Falls, please, please, please tell someone before it disappears again.

Yeah, like, rate, review, subscribe, absorb, swipe right, blah, blah, blah.

No, seriously, it helps the algorithm Ghosts find us.

And maybe it'll keep us from dying broke in a fog-soaked town.

You maybe, I'll be totally fine.

Yeah, that tracks.