FICTION BY PAMELA COWAN

Pamela Cowan is an Amazon best-selling, NIWA award-winning author whose work spans psychological thrillers, science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Her novels include the Storm Vigilante Series, El & Em Detective Series, the epic fantasy series ThePocket Worlds, and stand-alone titles such as Repoe Man, Cold Kill, and Something in the Dark. Her short fiction has appeared in Alien Skin, Argus, Space and Time, Visions, and numerous anthologies. Born in Germany and raised as an army brat, she eventually settled in Oregon, where she has two grown children, a supportive husband, and a dog devoted to defending the home from any and all delivery drivers. Learn more at pamelacowan.com

HOMECOMING
by Pamela Cowan

They found her barefoot, walking down the center of 8th and Alder like it was a path through the woods and not a busy main street. Her hair hung long and tangled with leaves. Drying mud made dark streaks across her pale skin. She wore nothing but a blanket draped around bony limbs. Her eyes were wide, glassy, unblinking. They looked straight through the police officer who came to help her.

Drugs they thought, or maybe something worse. A teenager. A young woman. They weren’t sure which. She didn’t speak. Not at first.

At the hospital, they cleaned her up, took blood, ran scans. She didn’t flinch at the probing fingers, the needles. When they asked her name, she hesitated, then said, “Lila.” No last name. No address. No explanation of how she came to find herself in the middle of the small town of Rogers Crossing on that hot summer day.

They ran her DNA through CODIS and were astonished when they got a result. It had found the profile of a missing girl.

It was a detective assigned to the case who went to the hospital. He told her, “Your name is Lila Elizabeth James. You’ve been missing for ten years.”

*****

Marianne answered the phone and listened to the calm, reassuring voice of the social worker on the other end. “A girl has been found. It’s your daughter, Lila. She’s alive.”

Marianne didn’t speak. Her husband, Derek, stood in the doorway, a coffee mug in his hand, a questioning look on his face.

“They found Lila,” she said.

The mug shattered on the floor.

They drove to the hospital in silence, Marianne in the driver’s seat. Derek staring out the window, jaw clenched so tight she could see a muscle twitching.

“Don’t get too excited. She can’t be alive,” he said finally. “It’s some other girl. It’s a mistake.”

Marianne didn’t answer. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear the engine, the tires, the cars around her. She gripped the steering wheel with sweat slick hands.

When they walked in, they found the girl sitting up, dressed in a hospital gown, legs swinging off the edge of the bed. Her face was older, but unmistakable: same dimple in her chin, same birthmark on her collarbone.

“Hi,” she said, smiling. “Are you my mom and dad?”

Marianne’s knees buckled. Derek caught her before she fell.

Two days later, the hospital released Lila to her parents. They had found no signs of trauma, no physical injuries. Her bloodwork was clean, her scans normal. She answered questions politely, but vaguely. She didn’t remember where she’d been. She didn’t remember her mother, or her stepfather, or the house. But she smiled when Marianne hugged her, and when they asked if Lila would like to come home with them, she said, “Yes. Thank you.”

Marianne thought the house hadn’t changed much since Lila had seen it last. Some new paint. Some new furniture. Maybe that’s why she walked through it like she’d lived there yesterday. At one point, she paused at the hallway closet, opened it, and stared at the empty floor.

“Was this my old bedroom?” she asked softly.

Marianne froze.

Derek said, “No, of course not, honey. That’s just an old closet.”

“Okay,” she said easily, accepting what he said.

That night, Marianne sat at the edge of Lila’s bed, watching her sleep, watching a stranger. Her daughter, a teenager now, sleeping on her side, hands folded under her cheek as she had when she was little.

“She doesn’t remember,” Derek said from the doorway.

Marianne nodded. “No. Not yet.”

“What if she does?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Lila’s forehead. The girl didn’t stir.

“She’s different,” Derek said. “She’s not…the same.”

“She’s been gone ten years,” Marianne whispered. “Of course she’s different.”

But she knew what he meant. Lila was calm, thoughtful. She didn’t talk much, didn’t laugh or cry. She just…watched.

In the morning, Lila sat at the kitchen table, tracing the rim of her glass of orange juice with one finger. She’d taken a sip of the juice. Hadn’t touched her cereal. Outside, the wind was blowing hard. The windows rattled. Inside, the silence was thick.

Marianne and Derek leaned against the kitchen counter and watched Lila, who did not seem to notice or care. It was easy to believe she couldn’t see or hear them; that she was adrift in a world of her own.

Marianne whispered. “She said something last night,”

“What?”

“She asked if the woods are still there.”

Derek didn’t move. “She’s remembering.”

Marianne said, “Maybe. I’m not sure. Probably not.” Was there a note of hope?

Lila looked up then, as if she’d heard them. Her eyes met Marianne’s. Calm. Unblinking. No. She couldn’t know. Marianne was sure of it.

That night, Derek didn’t sleep. He sat in the living room, staring at the fireplace. When Marianne came down looking for him, he said, “If she remembers, we’re done.”

“She’s just a child,” Marianne said.

“She was,” Derek replied. “We don’t know what she is now.”

In the morning, Lila asked for pancakes. She smiled when Marianne brought them. She ate slowly, methodically, looking only at her plate.

“Do you remember this?” Marianne asked gently. “Pancakes for breakfast?”

Lila tilted her head. “I think so. But you used to only make them on Sundays.”

Marianne’s hand trembled as she poured the syrup.

Derek stood in the doorway, watching. His knuckles were white.

*****

That afternoon, Lila sat cross-legged on the living room rug, flipping through an old photo album Marianne had pulled from the attic. Her fingers moved slowly, deliberately. She paused on a picture of the backyard. The grass was tall, and thick with dandelions gone to seed. At the edge the woods pressed close, a tangle of brush and trees. There was no clear boundary between the yard and the forest, no line to show where the lawn ended and the forest began.

“I remember this,” she said. “There was a man. He had a red hat.”

Marianne’s breath caught. Derek looked up from the couch, eyes narrowing.

“What man?” he asked.

Lila tilted her head. “I don’t know. I think he was yelling. You were both there.”

Marianne forced a smile. “You were very young, sweetheart. Probably just a neighbor.”

Lila didn’t respond. She turned the page.

Later, in the kitchen, Derek leaned against the counter, voice low.

“She’s remembering,” he said.

“She was seven,” Marianne replied. “She didn’t understand what she was seeing.”

“She does now. Or at least, she will.”

Marianne stared at the sink of dirty dishes.

“She’s remembering,” Derek repeated. “And if she tells anyone—”

“She won’t,” Marianne said quickly. “She’s my daughter.”

Derek didn’t answer. He opened the drawer, pulled out the old carving knife, and turned it in his hand.

“She was,” he said, “But we buried her.”

Of course they buried her. It was the simplest solution, given their house sat at the edge of Ostern Woods. The soil was thin and poor. The trees had shallow roots and slender trunks that leaned against each other, like frail bodies seeking support. Even on windless days, they creaked and groaned, and sometimes they gave up entirely, collapsing with a sigh and a final, hollow thump.

It was probably those strange sounds, those strange movements, that made the town decide the woods were haunted. No one went there, except for the occasional child on a dare.

“We don’t know she’s remembering. Not for sure. Not yet.”

Derek sighed but replaced the knife.

That night, Marianne stood in the doorway of Lila’s room, watching her brush her hair. The girl moved slowly, methodically, like she was mimicking a routine she’d seen but never performed. The brush caught in a tangle, and Lila paused, eyes fixed on the mirror.

Marianne stepped inside. “Need help?”

Lila smiled. “No, thank you.”

Marianne hesitated. There was something in the air, faint but unmistakable. A damp, earthy scent. Not sweat. Not soap or shampoo. Something dank and musty. Like leaf mold. Like the underside of rotting bark.

She’d smelled it before. In the woods.

She stepped into the room, pretending to straighten the bedspread. The smell clung to the sheets. Marianne’s stomach turned.

She looked at Lila’s reflection. The girl was smiling, but her eyes didn’t match the smile. They were too still. Too calm.

This wasn’t her daughter. It couldn’t be.

But the DNA matched. The birthmark was there. The eye color was right.

She and Derek had explored all the possibilities, and only one explanation worked. Derek hadn’t hit her as hard as he’d thought. The grave had been too shallow. She’d dug herself out and wandered off, and someone had taken her in. The details weren’t important. What mattered was that she was here.

Marianne believed in luck, the kind you made yourself, even if it meant burying a problem in the backyard. Lila’s return wasn’t a miracle. It was an opportunity. Proof that whatever force ran the world was finally working in her favor. Maybe Lila had amnesia. Hopefully she’d keep her mouth shut. Either way, Marianne saw it plainly. The cops had given her daughter back. They were giving her a second chance. No jail time. No questions. Maybe even sympathy.

She went downstairs to the living room. Derek was kicked back in his recliner, reading a hunting magazine.

“She’s remembering,” he said without looking up. “She said something about the guy in the red hat again. The one we buried right before her.”

Marianne didn’t answer. She was about to tell him about luck and how she might make this work for them. But then a chill slid down her spine. That feeling, her mom used to say, was someone walking across your grave.

“More like pissing on it,” her father had added.

It made her wonder. Had she misread things?

“She smells like the woods,” she told Derek.

He stared at her intently. “Then maybe she never really left. Maybe she knows about all of it.” Then he shuddered, as if someone had also pissed on his grave.

*****

It had started small. A new neighbor invited them to his home and gave them an eyeful of his rare coin collection. The man was supposed to be out of town. It wasn’t Derek’s fault that the guy walked in on him and got a whack on the head with a hammer. A hammer he’d only brought along to “open” a window.

Luckily the neighbor’s wife hadn’t come back with him, so it was quick work to drag him out to the woods. The coins, watches, and other jewelry sold for even more than they’d hoped.

There had been a few more over the years. Not many. They weren’t greedy.

Some he found in their homes. Some he managed to invite over to his place, on one pretense or another.

Marianne hadn’t helped, but she hadn’t got in the way either. She’d enjoyed the extra cash, the nice things it could buy, as much as he had.

Everything had been going along fine.

Until Lila had seen him.

She’d wandered out of bed that night, seven years old, barefoot and curious. In the past, he’d locked her in the closet to make sure she was out of the way when guests arrived. This time, things moved too fast, and he hadn’t got around to it.

Lila had seen him kill the man with the red hat. She’d followed him into the woods and watched while he dug the grave. When he looked up and saw her, he’d almost had a heart attack. She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She’d just stood on the edge of the clearing and stared.

But that was enough.

They hadn’t planned for this. But Lila knew—and that made her dangerous.

Marianne couldn’t do it, so he took Lila out to Ostern Forest alone. Led her deep into the woods, dug a shallow grave, told himself it was mercy. Not mercy for her, but for him and Marianne. They could have another kid but not if they were arrested. Not if they were locked in a prison cell, separated from each other.

That’s how he talked her into it. It wasn’t that hard. She didn’t fight or argue much, just looked away when he grabbed the shovel.

Afterward, Marianne played the part of the grieving mother perfectly. She even went on TV to plead with the kidnapper to return Lila. Derek was so impressed, he bought her the mixer she’d been eyeing for months. Not jewelry. Not perfume. Marianne wasn’t that kind of woman. She liked practical things. Things that made life easier.

He appreciated that about her. She got over Lila being gone pretty quick too.

But now, of course, Lila was back. Or at least something wearing her face was.

Time to fix that.

*****

Lila had gone to bed without protest. She kissed Marianne on the cheek, gave Derek a quick hug.  He thought her skin felt cold and sort of damp.

“I want you to come with me,” he told Marianne.

She’d argued at first, but Derek wouldn’t let it go. He had his reasons. Ones he didn’t have to spell out.

If this went sideways, he wasn’t about to take the fall by himself. She’d paint him as a monster, a man who acted alone. He’d rot in prison while she played the grieving mother.

Plus, if she ever wanted out of the marriage, she’d have leverage. Knowing he killed the girl would be a loaded gun she could point at him anytime.

No. If they were going to do this, they were going to do it together.

They told Lila they wanted to go for a walk after dinner.

“But isn’t it going to be too dark?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about that,” Derek said. “I’ll bring my flashlight.”

They walked across the lawn. Marianne stumbled twice over the uneven surface, until finally taking Derek’s arm. She was still mad at him for making her do this, but he was a strong arm to lean on when needed.

They reached the narrow path that snaked through the forest, walking in silence, flashlights bobbing like some nervous animal’s eyes.

The trees closed behind them, branches tangling overhead until the sky disappeared. Shadows swallowed the last of the moonlight. The air was thick, wet, and dank with the smell of mold and mushrooms.

Their shoes sank into the soft earth with muffled squelches. Twigs snapped underfoot like brittle bones. The trees creaked, shifting and groaning, as if they were sleeping but caught in a bad dream.

Somewhere ahead, something rustled. Something out of synch with the wind.

“This is where we used to camp,” Derek said. “You remember that?”

Lila didn’t answer right away. She had stopped before a small clearing. A place of rotting stumps and char. The remnants of an old fire, started by a lightning strike or a careless smoker. A place where the ground was clear of brush, the soil easy to dig.

She turned to face him and replied, “Oh, I remember everything.”

Marianne froze. Derek reached for the knife in his coat.

But Lila only smiled.

“You buried me here,” she said.

The wind shifted. The trees moaned. And then figures, six of them, stepped from the shadows. Silent. Watching. Familiar.

“They waited with me,” Lila said. “They didn’t want me to be alone.”

The group moved closer. No sound. No breath. Just the hush of leaves and the soft, wet shuffle of feet dragging through the soil. They stopped in a loose semi-circle, heads tilted, limbs slack. The wind rose suddenly, tugging at the moldy tatters of clothes clinging to their bodies.

Cloth flapped like old banners, revealing chests open like gaping mouths, wet hollows where hearts should be, ribs jutting out like cracked brown teeth, slick and glistening, as if something inside had chewed its way free.

Marianne dropped her flashlight. It flickered once, then died.

*****

By morning, the woods were quiet. No sign of struggle. No footprints. Just a clearing, where trees grew in thin soil, each bending over the forest floor like a mother sheltering a child.