Chapter 5: Devil’s Ridge

The guilt sat on my chest like a rock, but it was the only way.

It was tiny, almost hidden—a scrap of paper rolled tight and tucked inside a zippered pouch.

His handwriting was shaky but clear: "Let go, Bailey. Be happy. Don’t let anger eat you up inside."

He’d thought of everything, even when he knew he might not come home. "If things get rough, go to Rick. He’ll know what to do."

There were numbers scribbled on the back, a bank account and a list of ingredients for my favorite lunch.

He wanted the tradition to live on, even if I couldn’t stay. "Teach Rick the recipe, so you’ll always have a taste of home."

I stared at the paper, tears blurring the words. What’s the point of a recipe when the people you love are gone? I’d trade every sandwich in the world for one more day with them.

Folks in Silver Hollow say it’s cursed, a patch of land that swallows hope and spits out sorrow. On the map, it’s just a line of hills, but everyone knows better.

Old-timers at the diner would say Devil’s Ridge was cursed—nothing but rattlesnakes and bad luck up there.

They say nothing grows there, that the ground remembers every soul lost.

People steer clear. Kids dare each other to go near the ridge, but nobody stays long—the air crackles, uneasy, charged with old anger.

Or so the legends say—she tamed the chaos, made the world safe for the rest of us. Folks still light candles on her feast day, singing hymns and hoping she’s listening.

It didn’t matter what she’d done—they said her suffering redeemed us all. Statues went up, streets renamed, whole festivals held in her honor.

It was the kind of soap opera people gossiped about over pie and coffee at the diner: love gone wrong, hearts broken, old grudges burning bright.

Her words echoed across the land, stirring up old wounds, sparking new fires. She threw away all she’d built, choosing freedom over duty.

In her grief, she tore open the barriers, and the darkness came rushing out. The world shuddered, and people locked their doors tight at night.

Even the mightiest have limits. The world above scrambled to restore order, sending wave after wave to clean up the mess.

So many lives lost, their stories left untold. Families waited for word, holding vigil, clinging to hope that turned to dust.

Dad went bravely, but the world barely noticed his passing. He was just one more casualty in a war that had nothing to do with us.

I wanted something to hold onto—a piece of him, a weapon, a purpose. I’d heard stories of relics left behind, waiting for those brave enough to claim them.

It wasn’t just revenge. It was the only way I knew to honor everything I’d lost. I tightened my grip on the keychain, feeling my father’s spirit at my back.