“Hate is a prison, and we, ourselves, the jailer.” – Unknown
Ashes of Autumn – Copyright 2026 L. E. Gay ISBN:9798170682010
Prologue
Sunday, October 22nd 2000
Nine days before Halloween
The season’s first cold front was two days stale, and the ground was still soggy from the rain. The low-lying land near the creek always held moisture after a storm, but not enough to keep ten-year-old Iris Grant from visiting the swing on the property behind her home. Descending the mildewed stone steps of the back patio, she skirted the jack-o-lantern her parents helped her carve the night before in preparation for Halloween. A votive candle, left burning in the pumpkin’s stringy innards, was now a waxy pool. Careful to avoid the puddles, the chestnut-haired girl made her way down the path beneath the moss-filled trees. Still sporting her church dress and a light sweater that was a year old and a bit too small, she skipped toward the swing.
Iris’s father made the swing years ago, threading rough manila rope through the ends of a scrap piece of board. It proved sturdy enough to support the weight of a child, and even a grown adult when they chose to have a go. He hung it from the limb of a stout oak nestled in a grove of trees just visible from the patio. The swing, frequented when Iris was younger, sat idle now, as playthings tend to do after children grow older.
The swing might still be vacant today were it not for a side note in a Sunday sermon. Sitting in church earlier that morning, young Iris Grant listened to the old Southern Baptist preacher recount a story of how he broke his arm as a child. He had climbed a sweet-gum tree and shimmied out onto a limb to secure a length of rope for a tire swing. The limb snapped and so did his ulna. The anecdote earned a collective chuckle from the congregation, but it also sparked a memory, and Iris’s mind wandered. The choir was halfway through the invitational hymn before Iris realized she never heard the end of the preacher’s tale or the rest of his sermon, but she knew where she wanted to play when she got home.
She liked the feel of the wind tousling her hair, the rough texture of the rope in her grip, and the creak of the weathered knots as they pulled tight against the limb. Tugging on the ropes, Iris straightened her legs out in front and leaned back until her long, brown locks brushed against the damp earth. She and her best friend Molly used to perform similar stunts, twisting the ropes until the swing spun in a dizzying circle, rocking the ropes back and forth, seeing how far and high they could jump. Molly moved away over a year ago during summer break, and Iris hadn’t visited the swing since. She missed her friend and the fun they shared in the little grove of trees by the creek bed, but the memories and the swing made her smile. Grinning like a toddler, she kicked her feet high into the air.
Crisp weather signaled the approaching change of seasons, the promise of Autumn and long, lazy afternoons. If cooler temperatures held, the weather would be perfect for trick-or-treating in just over a week’s time. Mom was currently napping, while Dad watched his precious Cowboys take on a team with red birds on their helmets. Both would be occupied for some time, but Iris didn’t mind. As an only child, she was used to entertaining herself. The swing would keep her busy, and when she grew bored, she could walk down to the creek and look for bullfrogs like she and Molly used to do. She wasn’t supposed to go down to the water alone, but no one would know. Mom wasn’t getting up anytime soon, Dad would be asleep in his chair before the end of the first quarter, and a thick tree line blocked nosy Mrs. Habersham’s view of the southernmost half of their property.
Another pull and another kick. Closing one eye and squinting, she imagined her white, canvas shoes nearly touching the treetops. Just a little higher, she thought, no one would see. Mom and Dad warned her about swinging too high, but what did they know? She and Molly did it hundreds of times.
Tired leaves let go of the branches above and spiraled down around her as she tugged on the rope. One more pull, one more kick. The tip of her toes were just cresting the pine trees in the distance when a voice whispered behind her.
Iris.
She whipped her head around, nearly losing her grip. The swing wobbled left and right, twisting and losing inertia. She dragged her feet across the ground and slid to a stop, listening and scanning the woods. A shiver trailed up her spine.
“Billy, is that you?” she called. The younger boy lived two doors down from Mrs. Habersham. He probably saw her swinging and decided to pull a prank. Billy tried to prank her a lot. Boys!
“Billy?” The rustling of new wind through old leaves was the only response. “If it is you, you don’t scare me,” she called, her voice cracking on the last word.
Scanning the underbrush a final time, she turned back and gently kicked off the ground. Her swing barely made a cycle before she heard…
Iris.
The voice was stronger this time, but soothing, almost familiar. Iris stopped her swing, twisting around until the ropes crossed each other overhead. She peered into the trees, searching. To her surprise, the only movement she spied was a skittish, gray bunny hopping near a thick line of shrubs.
“Well, you couldn’t have called my name,” the young girl said, standing and making her way toward the animal. The rabbit’s jowls kept munching, but its eyes were keen on the approaching child.
“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I like bunnies. See?” The girl gingerly extended her wrist to reveal a thin silver bracelet. A tiny charm dangled from a link in the center of the chain, a white rabbit with pink ears. Engraved on the back in miniscule letters, the phrase SOMEBUNNY LOVES ME was barely legible. “My daddy says rabbits are good luck. Are you a lucky bunny?”
Moving as slowly and quietly as her exuberance would allow, the ten-year-old tread forward inches at a time, unsure of what to do should she actually catch the tiny beast. For now, the chase was enough. As she approached, the rabbit turned and hopped just out of reach. The girl stopped in her tracks, waiting to see if the bunny stayed put. It did, and so she eased forward again, slower.
Iris continued the mesmerizing game with the bunny until the sound of water rushing over rocks snared her attention. Looking up, Iris realized she was skirting the edge of the creek, her home no longer visible. The thought of turning back flitted through her mind, but a stroke of rebellion persuaded her thoughts. “I’m old enough to go by myself,” she reasoned. “I’m practically in middle school.” Turning back to the creek, Iris found she’d lost sight of the bunny. The roar of rushing water thundered in her ears as a second thought of home tugged at her conscience, but once again, the voice whispered…
Iris.
Something in its timbre soothed her spirit like a lullaby sung over a sleeping child. Iris didn’t know what, or who, whispered her name, but curiosity urged her forward. Stepping to the edge of the creek, she peered into the water as if expecting to find an answer beneath its rippling surface. She saw nothing but her own distorted reflection.
Iris.
She looked up. The rabbit was there, across the creek, nibbling clover and staring. A pale blue halo of light engulfed it, oscillating in a steady rhythm. Iris gasped, fascinated. Unable to look away, she felt a strange, warm sensation rise somewhere behind her belly, pulsing in unison with the light.
Come over, Iris.
The message was clear and distinct, comforting, benign. The bunny pivoted, hopped twice, then swiveled back to stare at the girl again. The warm glow touched her soul until Iris forgot about her swing, her home, the creek, everything. The edges of her vision grew dark, the forest fading from existence. Her head grew dizzy, swimming on the tide of the pulsing light. For a moment, she believed she was falling, but there was no creek, no rocks, no wood. There was only the blue light, and the rhythm of its energy pulsing like a beating heart.
Though she did not will her feet to move, Iris took step after timid step forward onto the surface of the water, her canvas shoes as dry as when they were soaring toward the treetops. Her gaze held squarely on the bunny, Iris did not see the phantom hands rise from the water, pale and rotting with the sickness of a decades-old vendetta. They broke the surface of the chilled water just enough to sustain the footfalls of a ten-year-old girl following a pulsing blue light into the forest beyond the creek, beyond the veil.
Iris watched as the rabbit turned and bounded up the path, beaming as its prey followed the glowing trail of blue light lingering like smoke in its wake. She did not notice its eyes distorting like static. She did not see its grinding jaws twist into a sly, human smirk, nor did she see its matted, gray fur give way to the darkness of a rising shadow. By the time Iris Grant crossed the water, her lucky bunny had already vanished behind a stout pine tree with a radiant symbol resembling an upside-down number four slashed into its bark.
Reaching the other side of the creek, the only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Grant snapped her feet together and stepped out of her canvas shoes. As her toes sank into the soggy ground, Iris merged with the spirits of the woods. She did not feel the chill of the wet grass nor the prick of the stickers along the path. Thoughts of the rabbit consumed her consciousness. The pulsing, warm sensation swirled inside what was left of her mind until nothing else remained. Without reservation, she followed the fading trail of blue light unaware of time or distance, her mind entranced, her will surrendered.
__________________________
Several hours passed before Iris Grant’s parents realized she was missing, a handful more before they contacted the Big Pine Police Department. By the time her white canvas shoes were found on the bank beyond the creek, it was nightfall, and no officers were available to respond. Jeff Hargrave, a local mechanic and town drunk, was holding his famous sister hostage at gunpoint on top of a scaffold in the town square.
