Bret Morgan has always known something wasn’t right in Watertown. It’s the kind of knowing that gnaws at you when you wake up at 3 a.m. in a cold sweat, when the wind outside rattles the old windows just a little too hard, a little too long. He’s been tending bar at The Hitchin Post for years, watching the town’s pulse from behind the counter. Listening. It’s what Bret’s good at—he listens while people talk. And when people drink, they talk too much.

Lately, though, there’s been a different kind of talking. Less about weather and taxes, more about shadows in the woods. About things moving in the night that aren’t deer or raccoons. Whispers about Moira Seymour, the town’s saint, getting involved in things she shouldn’t be. Old things. Dangerous things. Bret’s heard it all before—Watertown is the kind of place where history and superstition blur until you can’t tell one from the other. But this time, it’s different. This time, it feels real.

And Friday the 13th is closing in like a storm, dark clouds gathering above the town, the kind that hang so low you can almost touch them. Bret can feel it in his bones, the same way his old man used to feel a storm coming in the bad knee he got in Korea. This Friday’s not just another day. It’s a reckoning.

For weeks, Bret’s been piecing it all together. The disappearances. The strange symbols carved into the trees in Thompson Park. The way Moira Seymour’s been acting—too calm, too certain, like she knows something the rest of them don’t. And now he does too. He’s seen the records, the old ledgers with the Seymour name scrawled in jagged handwriting, detailing rituals that go back over a hundred years. He’s read about the vortex that lives under Watertown, the dark thing that has kept the town together by chewing up anyone unlucky enough to wander too close to the truth.

And now it’s happening again. This Friday, the stars are aligning just right, the blood moon hanging in the sky like an omen. Moira’s planning something big, something final. She’s going to open the vortex wide, feed it one last sacrifice, and unleash whatever’s been sleeping under the ground all these years.

But Bret’s not going to let that happen.

He’s never been a hero, never wanted to be one. But this isn’t about him—it’s about the town. The people. The kids who’ve gone missing, the families who don’t talk about it anymore because it’s just what happens here. He can’t stand by and watch Watertown burn.

So tonight, with the wind howling outside and the cold creeping into his bones, Bret’s getting ready. He’s got a plan. Maybe not a great plan, but it’s something. He’s been talking to Ruth Ellis, the town historian. She knows the old stories, the ones that came before the Seymours, before the town even had a name. She told him about the way to close the vortex for good, to seal it forever, without blood, without sacrifice. It’s dangerous, risky, but if Bret’s learned one thing about living in Watertown, it’s that the town doesn’t give up its secrets easy. You’ve got to dig them out, claw them out if you have to.

Bret’s going to meet Ruth at the old stone circle in Thompson Park, where it all began. He’s got the items she told him to bring—a vial of river water, a handful of stones from the cemetery, and a matchbook from The Hitchin Post. Doesn’t sound like much, but in Watertown, things have power. The right things, in the right place, can change the world. Or save it.

But he knows it’s not going to be that easy. Moira’s going to be there, and she’s not the woman the town thinks she is. She’s something else now, something darker, twisted by generations of Seymour blood and the ancient power beneath the earth. Bret’s seen her eyes lately, that cold, empty stare that tells him she’s too far gone. She’s already made her choice. She’s all in. And when she stands in that circle, in the dead of night with the blood moon glowing overhead, Bret knows it’ll be him against her. One of them’s not coming out of those woods.

He checks the clock. Three hours to go. His heart’s pounding, but his hands are steady. He loads up the truck with what he needs—his old hunting rifle, just in case. It’s not like you can shoot whatever’s in that vortex, but Bret figures it might make him feel a little better to have it in his hands. He grabs his flashlight, his coat, and the stones and water Ruth gave him.

The wind is howling outside when he steps onto his porch, and Bret pauses for a second, breathing in the cold, sharp air. There’s an electricity in the air, the kind you feel before lightning strikes. He can almost hear the vortex stirring, deep beneath the town, hungry and restless. It’s waiting for Friday the 13th. For Moira. For blood.

But Bret Morgan’s not giving it what it wants. Not without a fight.

He drives through the empty streets of Watertown, the headlights cutting through the thickening fog. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like the whole town’s holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. He knows people are scared, and they should be. What’s coming isn’t something you can see or fight. It’s old, older than the town itself, and if Moira unleashes it, there’ll be nothing left.

Bret pulls up to the edge of Thompson Park, where the trees stand tall and dark, their branches tangled like the fingers of something long dead. He kills the engine, steps out of the truck, and slings the rifle over his shoulder. Ruth’s already there, waiting by the gate, her face pale and drawn. She’s clutching an old book, the kind with pages yellowed by time and words written in a language nobody speaks anymore.

“Are you sure about this?” Ruth asks, her voice shaking, not from the cold, but from the weight of what they’re about to do.

Bret doesn’t answer right away. He looks at her, then at the woods, the darkness beyond the gate. “We don’t have a choice,” he says finally. “If we don’t stop her tonight, there won’t be a Watertown left to save.”

They walk in silence through the woods, the path winding deeper into the trees. The air grows colder, heavier, as they get closer to the stone circle. Bret can feel it now, the pull of the vortex, like something tugging at the edges of his mind, whispering to him, calling him closer. He shakes it off, focusing on the task at hand. He’s not here to listen. He’s here to stop it.

When they reach the clearing, Bret stops dead in his tracks. There she is. Moira Seymour, standing in the center of the stone circle, her arms raised to the sky. The blood moon hangs overhead, casting a sickly red glow over everything, and the ground is trembling, vibrating with the power of the vortex beneath.

Moira turns to face them, and for a moment, Bret almost doesn’t recognize her. Her eyes are wild, her face twisted with something that’s not quite human. She smiles—a slow, knowing smile—and Bret’s blood runs cold.

“You’re too late, Bret,” she says, her voice calm, almost gentle. “The ritual has already begun. The vortex is waking, and once it’s open, there’s no stopping it.”

Bret steps forward, his heart pounding in his chest. “We’re stopping it, Moira. You’re not doing this.”

Moira laughs, a low, eerie sound that sends a shiver down his spine. “You don’t understand, Bret. This is bigger than you. Bigger than all of us. The vortex is power, pure and ancient, and once it’s free, Watertown will be unstoppable.”

“No,” Bret says, his voice steady. “Watertown will be gone.”

Moira’s smile fades, and her eyes narrow. “You can’t stop me.”

Bret raises the rifle, aiming it at her, his hands steady. “Wanna bet?”

Friday the 13th is here. It’s do or die. Bret Morgan’s never been a hero, but tonight, he’s the only thing standing between Watertown and the darkness beneath its soil.

Amazon.com: Beneath the Veil: Watertown’s Forgotten Darkness eBook : Night, Desire: Kindle Store

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