WHERE THE SOIL TASTES LIKE IRON

The old pickup truck died exactly three miles past the "No Trespassing" sign. Elias Thorne stepped out into the stifling heat of Blackwood Creek, his boots sinking into earth that looked less like dirt and more like rusted filings. He spit to clear the dust from his throat, but the taste remained: thick, metallic, and unmistakably like blood. His father had spent thirty years running from this farm, only to die in the center of its barren north field. Now, Elias was the last Thorne left to claim the inheritance. As he walked toward the sagging farmhouse, the silence was absolute—no birds sang, and the wind didn't rustle the skeletal cornstalks. On the porch stood Aunt Mara, her skin the color of cured leather. She didn't offer a hug; she offered a glass of grey water. "The land knows you're back, Elias," she whispered, her eyes tracking a strange, leaf-shaped bruise on his neck that hadn't been there that morning. "It's been hungry since your father stopped feeding it." Elias took a sip of the water. It tasted of deep earth and old nails. He looked down at his shadow and realized with a jolt of terror that it wasn't mimicking his movements—it was reaching for the cellar door.