This garage sits at the edge of town, near where the last murder took place, but deeper through the forest that engulfs Westwood Valley. Shitty country roads lead to it, snaking through the forest with stretches of gravel that’s turned to mud in the rain. It let up, though, and there’s an eerie silence that makes me feel the sheer size of this abandoned structure. It’s metal, and huge. I’m not sure what it was used for, but from the looks of it, nobody alive was around when it was used. I came here a few times as a teen, it was a conveniently undisturbed spot to spark up and drink, when I wanted to be alone and stop the world. I didn’t think anyone else knew about this place. Rusted, jagged metal encloses the dark space, but holes in the roof permit the moonlight to permeate the interior. It falls in broad circles at our feet, mine and the seven men from Devil’s Right Hands. Six of them stand in an uneven line a pace or two behind the seventh. Evin, their leader, with a face only a mother could love, stares me in the eye and all I can do is stare right back.
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