u/AmyWeaverAuthor

Absolute amazing book, I re-read every summer. If you haven’t read it before I recommend you listen to it on audiobook, Bahni Turpin does the narration and she is great.

The way Grady Hendrix depicts South Carolina is so vivid that I felt like I was there—the heat, the humidity, the neighborhoods, all of it.

What really stuck with me, though, is that the misogyny in the book is ultimately scarier than the vampire itself. The vampire only succeeds because he crawls into a community where the men constantly dismiss, patronize, and underestimate the women. He exploits their arrogance and stupidity, and that’s what makes him so dangerous.

The horror elements are great, but the real terror comes from watching the women know exactly what’s happening and being ignored at every turn. That’s what made the book memorable for me.

What are your thoughts?

March 9, 1988

The clock dragged.

Sunlight cut through the classroom windows in long strips, catching dust in the air.

The air carried the sour weight of sweat and unwashed bodies.

Chalk screeched against the board, a harsh, scraping sound that made a few students wince.

Pencils scratched across paper. Some spun lazily between fingers. Others were clamped between teeth, the yellow paint slowly flaking away.

At the front of the room, Mr. Hargreaves kept talking but the words never quite landed. This was his seventh class of the day, and almost certainly the worst.

He rolled the chalk between his fingers until it left fine white dust on his skin, a habit of his, grounding and pointless all at once.

Class 12B History was full of jocks, cheerleaders, and the chronically disengaged. All counting down the seconds until release. Mr. Hargreaves had been at Oakridge High School for four years. Four long, grinding years. The Head of Department role had once been dangled in front of him like a promise. Now it felt like a joke told in poor taste.

He was thirty-nine, divorced, and trapped in a loop of explaining the American Industrial Revolution to teenagers who would not have cared if he dropped dead mid-sentence. He had watched some of them grow up. If there was one thing he had learned, it was that a few turned into exactly the kind of adults his mother would have called “grade-A assholes,” and the rest - well, the rest just drifted through life.

At the back of the room, Ryan Kessler sat slouched in his chair, his gaze fixed on Maggie Caliborne a few rows ahead.

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, then checked his watch without really reading it.

Ryan was one of the Red Riders’ quarterbacks. He carried himself with the quiet certainty that this was his year—the year he proved himself. By senior year, he told himself, the team would be his.

And Maggie was a part of that picture.

She had something the others didn’t—real influence. They had been on a few dates over the past couple of weeks, but nothing serious, nothing official. Not yet.

That didn’t discourage him. If anything, it sharpened his focus. Maggie wasn’t just a girlfriend-in-waiting; she was a shortcut into the version of himself everyone already expected him to become.

Ryan liked the distance, the uncertainty of it. The chase made everything feel more real, more earned.

Maggie, as if sensing his stare, turned slowly in her seat. Her wide green eyes found him, held him for a moment. She thumbed the thin ring on her finger once, then gave him a small smile.

Ryan tipped his chair onto two legs, balancing with practiced ease, pretending to grin at something Dylan Price had just muttered. It wasn’t even that funny, but Ryan laughed anyway. Loud and easy, the kind of laugh people turned toward. A couple of the guys joined in, and it spread like wildfire.

Noah drummed his fingers against the desk, fast and restless. Not quite a rhythm. Just noise.

Mr. Hargreaves’ temper had worsened over the years, his calm slowly eroded—like water against a riverbank, wearing him down bit by bit until there was less of him left than there used to be. He turned sharply. His gaze didn’t settle on anyone, but it didn’t need to. The room felt it anyway.

“We have fifteen minutes left—try to keep yourselves under control, unless you all prefer detention after school.” His words echoed through the class.

Hunter kept tapping his pen. Louder now. Deliberate.

“Hunter.”

The tapping stopped.

Maggie and Lily Moreno leaned into each other, passing notes and whispering. Maggie tilted her head, listening, a small, private smile forming. Something that didn’t quite reach anyone else in the room, as if what Lily was saying existed in a space the rest of them weren’t allowed into.

“Stop,” Lily hissed. “You’re insane.”

“I’m serious.” Maggie said, shrugging.

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

Lily shook her head, laughing quietly.

At the front, Mr. Hargreaves turned, chalk in hand.

“If anyone can tell me the main cause of the—”

“God, this is painful,” Dylan said, loud enough.

He rolled a coin over his knuckles beneath the desk, the soft metallic click barely audible.

A few people snorted.

He rubbed the chalk dust into the pad of his thumb, a quiet warning to himself to stay calm.

Mr. Hargreaves froze. He drew in a slow breath, then carefully set the chalk down on the ledge. “You’ll find,” he said carefully, “that most things worth understanding require patience.”

“Or they’re just boring,” Dylan shot back.

He flashed a quick, almost polite smile toward the front and a few students laughed.

Ryan smirked but didn’t laugh this time. Dylan was like a dog you didn’t look directly in the eye; unpredictable, always half a second from snapping. It was easier to go along with him. Easier than being the one Dylan decided to make an example of.

Near the window, Elias Ward sat alone.

Dark hair fell across his pale face, catching in the light. His notebook rested on his knee, not open the way you’d expect, flat and careless, but angled. He wasn’t writing. He was drawing. Small shapes. Careful lines. A plane. He paused, staring at it. Almost absentmindedly, he marked a small X beneath one wing. Then another. After each mark, his thumb dragged lightly over the graphite, smudging it as if he needed to feel it to believe it was there. He didn’t seem to notice he’d done it.

Elias didn’t really belong to any of the groups in 12B. Teachers described him as “quiet” in a way that usually meant they didn’t know what else to say. Students mostly forgot he was there until they were close enough to notice he wasn’t. He and Nathan Li were technically friends, though not in any way that anyone would notice. They talked sometimes between classes, shared the same space at lunch on occasion, but it never went beyond that, nothing close, nothing solid. Just a connection that existed because it hadn’t quite disappeared yet.

He shut the notebook.

The bell rang.

The hallway filled all at once. Lockers slamming. Voices overlapping. The sharp crack of footsteps on tile.

“8:30 a.m. tomorrow,” Mr. Hargreaves called after them. “Don’t be late. Bus leaves on time whether you’re on it or not.”

No one listened.

At her locker, Maggie spun the dial halfway, then stopped, glancing sideways at Ryan as he walked down the hall, backpack slung over one shoulder. 

“Oh my god,” Lily groaned. “You’re actually doing it.”

“Probably.”

“With him?”

Maggie didn’t answer right away. She pulled out a sweater, folded it once, then again, like she had all the time in the world. “Why not?”

Lily watched her, unimpressed. “Because it’s Ryan Kessler. You’ve only been on a couple of dates with him.”

Maggie shrugged, spinning the locker dial again even though it was already open. “I know.”

“Then why are you acting like this is some big decision?” Lily asked. “It’s basically nothing right now.”

Maggie pulled out her sweater and paused for a second. “It doesn’t feel like nothing.”

Lily chewed at a torn hangnail, eyes narrowed, shaking her head. “Yeah, well—he’s a preppy little quarterback wannabe. That’s all he is.”

Maggie finally looked at her. “He’s not that bad.”

“He’s a varsity poster boy with legs,” Lily said flatly. “Trust me, Maggie—you’re not dating Ryan Kessler. You’re dating the version of him he puts on for an audience.”

Maggie exhaled, like she was deciding whether to argue or not. “Maybe” she said quietly.

They slammed their lockers shut in unison.

Further down, Ryan and the others clustered near the doors.

“Season’s going to be a mess if Carter doesn’t recover.” Ben was saying.

“He’ll play,” Ryan said. “He always does.”

“Yeah, and break something worse.”

Dylan leaned back against the wall, arms loose. “Still better than this trip. Toronto?” He made a face. “What even is there? Museums?”

“Yeah,” Ethan said. “Real thrilling.”

Dylan’s gaze drifted past them, catching on Maggie for a second.

“Guess you’ll find a way to stay entertained.” Dylan said, low, eyes still on Maggie.

A couple of the guys snorted.

Ryan didn’t.

“Drop it,” he said.

Dylan looked at him. “What?”

“I said drop it.”

For a second, Dylan seemed to consider pushing it further. Instead, he grabbed Finn Gallagher by the shoulder and slammed him into the lockers. Metal rang out down the corridor.

“Move! Dylan said, grinning.

Outside, the air felt cooler than it should have.

Hunter stood by the side wall, a spray can rattling in his hand. A streak of black paint curved across the red brick. Unfinished, messy.

“Hey!”

A voice from somewhere behind him.

Hunter didn’t even look. He bolted, cutting across the grass and vanishing around the corner.

The paint stayed behind, dripping slowly down the wall.

Near the parking lot, Tara Singh  walked with Sophie Laurent to her car, an old, battered Beetle they’d called Silver when Tara’s father bought it just a few weeks earlier.

“Just stick with me,” Sophie said. “Back of the bus, back of everything. No one notices.”

Tara nodded. “I don’t want… drama,” she said, but her fingers tightened on her keys like she was already bracing for it.

Sophie snorted softly. “Then avoid them.”

Sophie jerked her head toward Maggie and the cluster of cheerleaders around her.

Tara followed her gaze, once she spotted Izzy, she looked away quickly. “Yeah.”

Izzy Flores   was one of the youngest cheerleaders at Oakridge High, barely making the squad on her first try. That was what set her apart: she fought for everything she got. She’d learned the school’s social landscape fast, and things went smoother when she stayed close to Maggie’s crowd. The perks didn’t hurt either—Lily’s older brother always seemed to have beer and cigarettes, and one of Maggie’s friends had enough money to cover free lunches whenever the group wanted. Compared to Tara and Sophie, this felt like the smarter move.

“Hey, Izzy—you need a ride home?” Lily called. Izzy gave her a dazzling smile and agreed. They said goodbye to Maggie, Izzy adding she’d call her later that night—a thoughtful touch, and Maggie noticed.

Maggie lingered by the curb, her bag resting at her feet. The air grew warmer, hinting at the arrival of spring and with it came thoughts of the Spring Formal, summer break, and the Fourth of July. Everything around her felt vast and full of possibility, her world stretching out in every direction. She watched the parking lot, where cars flowed in and out, parents waved goodbye, and engines idled in the early evening light. Across the lot, she noticed two boys talking quietly by the fence. One was Elias, the sheriff’s son. Better to steer clear of him, she decided. She had big plans this year and didn’t need a snitch complicating them.

She spotted her dad’s car turning in and raised her hand.

Across town, the day was winding down in different ways.

On the other side of town, Nathan’s garage was thick with the scent of oil and gasoline, the familiar drone of an aging engine echoing through the space. His father knelt beside the wheel well, hands stained black from years of work, quietly muttering instructions as he tinkered. Nathan crouched next to him, stubbornly twisting a bolt in the wrong direction, his jaw tight with frustration.

Nearby, Nathan’s mother sat on a worn bench, fingers curled protectively around a folded letter. She kept it hidden from Nathan, not ready to share its contents. Though she tried to keep her expression calm, her trembling hands gave her away.

“Hold it steady.” his father said, his voice firm.

Nathan scowled. “I am holding it steady!”

Even annoyed, he stayed close, more stubborn about not quitting than about being right.

He wiped his palms on a rag anyway, drew one slow breath in, and tried the bolt again.

“I said hold it steady, not glare at it.” His father grunted, smoothly nudging the bolt into place with practiced hands.

Nathan’s mother shifted the letter to her lap. Not tonight, she thought. Not now.

Later that evening, Elias sat across from his father at the dinner table. The clatter of silverware echoed too loudly in their cramped kitchen, each sound slicing through the silence.

Elias’s father hadn’t fully shed the day’s work, dark trousers remained crisply pressed, boots by the door bore a crust of dried mud. On the counter behind him, a radio played low, its static punctuated by the distant voices of dispatchers. Occasionally, it crackled to life, and his father’s gaze flickered to it, just briefly, never giving it his full attention.

“You ready for tomorrow?” his father asked, voice gruff but not unfriendly.

Elias pushed a cluster of peas around his plate with his fork. “Yeah. ” he replied, keeping his tone neutral.

His father chewed slowly, eyes fixed on his food as if lost in some private calculation. “Trips like that,” he said at last, “always seem simple at first.”

Elias didn’t respond.

The radio snapped louder, a voice relaying a call from out near Miller’s Road. Without turning, his father reached over and dialed the volume down to a soft murmur, attention shifting back to Elias.

“But they never stay that way,” he continued.

Elias looked up, meeting his father’s eyes for the first time that evening.

“People get heated,” his father went on, setting his fork down. “They talk over each other, not wanting to be wrong. They get stubborn. That’s when things can turn on you.” His gaze held Elias’s, serious and steady.

Elias didn’t blink, matching his father’s intensity.

His father gave a small nod, as if Elias had answered a question without speaking. “So, you keep your cool. Let everyone else make the noise they need to.”

A moment of silence stretched between them.

“And when it matters,” his father added, voice dropping lower, “you speak once. Clear enough that no one can ignore you.”

Elias swallowed hard. “What if they still don’t listen?”

His father leaned back, his eyes assessing—measuring not just the question, but the boy asking it. “Then you make sure they wish they had.”

The radio continued to hiss softly in the background.

His father picked up his fork, resuming his meal as if nothing had interrupted. “Finish your dinner.” he said.

The apartment was too quiet once the TV went off.

Mr. Hargreaves stood in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, cord curling downwards, staring at the sink where a single plate sat unwashed. The overhead light flickered once, then steadied.

“I said I’d pick him up Sunday,” he said. “After the trip.”

A pause. He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“No, that’s not what I said.” His grip tightened on the counter. “Don’t twist it.”

The voice on the other end kept going. He didn’t interrupt this time, just listened, jaw tightening, eyes drifting to the fridge.

A drawing was stuck there with a magnet. Crayon. Crooked lines. A stick figure with arms too long.

Dad.

He looked away.

“I’m not missing it on purpose,” he said, quieter now. “I told you—this trip’s mandatory.”

A beat of silence. Longer this time.

His shoulders stiffened. “No, you don’t get to decide that on your own.”

The overhead light flickered again. Mr. Hargreaves didn’t notice.

“I show up,” he said. “That’s what I do.”

He stood there in silence, listening to the voice on the other end of the phone.

“Yeah? That’s funny. Because last time I checked, I was the one sitting in the hospital while you—”

He stopped himself. Ran a hand over his face.

Silence on the line now, but not the easy kind.

“I’ll call him tomorrow morning,” he said finally. “Before we leave.”

He listened to her breathing on the line.

“No, I won’t forget.”

His eyes drifted back to the drawing.

“I said I won’t forget,” he repeated, though it sounded more like a warning than a promise.

The line went dead.

He stood there a moment longer, phone still in his ear, like he hadn’t quite caught up to the silence yet.

Then he lowered it slowly.

He turned off the kitchen light and stood in the dark for a second, listening to nothing.

 

People always ask if being married changes me.

The truthful answer is yes.

The answer I usually give at church is no.

It’s easier that way.

When you’re dating someone, you can leave. You can go home. You can think of the perfect thing to say three hours later.

When you’re married, your husband eventually sees you in the kitchen at two in the morning eating shredded cheese straight out of the bag because you’re too tired to make a sandwich.

That, to me, is real intimacy.

At least that’s what I tell Emma.

She laughs.

It’s the first real laugh I’ve heard from her all afternoon, and it moves through me like relief I didn’t realize I was holding.

“I don’t think that’s what they teach in For the Strength of Youth.”

“I hope not,” I say. “Otherwise I’ve been lied to my entire life.”

The waitress arrives before Emma can answer.

The diner isn’t busy for a Wednesday. A few retirees sit near the window. A mother tries and fails to keep her toddler seated. Someone has chosen a country song on the jukebox that sounds like every other country song ever made.

Everything feels ordinary in a way that feels deliberate.

“What can I get you two ladies?”

Emma scans the menu.

“Has anything been cooked with alcohol?”

“Um—no, I don’t think so.”

“Two sodas, please,” I say.

Emma waits until the waitress leaves.

“Can I ask you something?”

Her face already regrets it.

“That’s usually how questions work.”

“No, I mean—can I ask something embarrassing?”

I smile.

“Absolutely.”

She takes off her glasses, wipes them, puts them back on.

“Was your wedding night terrible?”

Before I can answer, the waitress returns with our sodas. Ice clicks against glass.

Emma immediately looks at the menu.

“Cheese and bacon burger,” she says too brightly.

The waitress leaves again.

Emma looks at me and turns bright red.

“Oh gosh. Forget I asked anything.”

I laugh.

“Too late.”

“I can’t believe I said that.”

“Neither can I.”

She groans and covers her face.

“To be honest, it’s not the strangest question a missionary has ever asked me.”

Emma peeks through her fingers.

“What was?”

I take a sip of soda.

“An old woman once asked me, ‘How do you know the voice you call God isn’t something else pretending to be Him?’”

Emma blinks.

“What did you say?”

“That I remembered another appointment and needed to leave.”

We laugh.

But it isn’t the kind of question that leaves once it arrives.

For a moment Emma looks nineteen again.

She has looked older for weeks, as though grief has pulled something tight inside her. When she laughs, I can almost believe there’s still a way back.

“To answer your question,” I say, “no. It wasn’t terrible.”

Emma lowers her hands.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“So it wasn’t awkward?”

“It was incredibly awkward.”

Emma laughs.

“But awkward isn’t the same as terrible. It takes time to learn the rhythm.”

The conversation drifts after that.

Marriage.

Children.

Future plans.

The sort of things that feel safe because they haven’t happened yet.

Without thinking, I rest a hand on my stomach.

The habit is new.

Still early enough that hope feels like permission, not certainty.

Emma notices.

“You do that a lot.”

I glance down.

“Oh. I know.”

“It’s cute.”

“Noah says the same thing.”

The waitress returns and sets Emma’s food down.

That’s when I notice it.

For a moment Emma glances at the empty chair beside her.

Then away.

A few minutes later she does it again.

Sister Barnes had been Emma’s companion.

Fourteen days earlier they had been crossing a road with their bikes.

One of them got up.

One of them didn’t.

Since then I’d been assigned to stay with Emma until the mission found a permanent replacement.

The church offered counseling.

The mission president offered time off.

Her parents offered to bring her home to Utah.

Emma accepted none of it.

I watch her glance at the chair again.

This time she notices me noticing.

The smile leaves her face.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay,” I say.

The diner feels louder.

“I’m fine,” she says too quickly.

I try to find something like Sister Carpenter’s voice in my memory—the way she spoke after my father died.

I can’t quite hold onto it.

The words we use for grief always sound solid at church.

They sound thinner here.

Emma eats in silence.

I sip my soda.

When the waitress brings the bill, Emma hesitates.

Then turns toward her.

“Hey—sorry. Can I ask you something?”

The waitress pauses.

“Yeah, sure.”

Emma straightens slightly.

The familiar missionary voice returns.

“I’m a missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

The waitress nods politely.

Already preparing to leave.

Emma notices.

It makes her more nervous.

“I was wondering if you’ve ever thought about faith,” she says. “Or what you believe about God.”

A fork clinks somewhere behind us.

“I was raised Catholic,” the waitress says.

“Oh.”

The sentence goes nowhere.

“Do you still practice?”

“Not really.”

Emma nods too quickly.

“Right.”

Silence settles between them.

Emma reaches for a pass-along card.

Stops halfway.

Then places it gently on the table.

“If you ever want to talk,” she says, “we can always come back.”

“Thanks.”

It isn’t warm. It isn’t rude. It’s just finished.

After she leaves, Emma stares at the table.

“I always make it weird.”

“You didn’t.”

She shrugs.

Like comfort is a language she no longer trusts.

Outside, the light shifts.

Late afternoon flattens everything into something almost unreal.

For a second there is someone in the glass who isn’t me.

A woman.

White fabric hanging from her shoulders.

Dark hair obscuring most of her face.

Something dark staining the front of her dress.

I turn too fast.

My chair scrapes.

Nothing.

Only the window. Only reflection. Only a red car passing outside.

“Sarah?”

Emma’s voice sounds far away.

I realize I’m gripping the edge of the table.

“What?”

She looks toward the window.

Then back at me.

“You went still.”

For a second she hesitates.

“I thought you saw someone.”

I force a breath into my lungs. “No. Just dizzy.”

The truth is I don’t know what I saw.

Or what I almost did.

When we get outside, I check my phone.

*Him: How are you?*

*Me: Good. Emma’s managing.*

*Him: Someone requested a visit. Are you up for it?*

*Me: Yes. Send details. I’ll go with Emma.*

*Him: It’s across town. Sister Lee can take her. You’ve done enough.*

*Me: I should stay with her. She needs consistency.*

*Him: Are you sure?*

I wait a moment before replying.

*Me: I’m fine.*

I lock the phone before I can read his response.

Since getting pregnant, everyone treats me like I might break. Staying with Emma is the only thing that still feels solid.

I look at her as she unchains the bikes.

“So, we have one more stop. Are you up for it?”

Emma looks up. For a moment her eyes drift just past me. The color drains from her face and then she blinks.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Sorry. I thought there was someone behind you.”