The morning light crept through the thin motel curtains, slicing through the haze of restless dreams and lingering exhaustion. Roland and Trench emerged one by one from their shared motel room, each clutching a cup of bitter coffee brewed from the small machine on the counter, and met Lewis. The faint hum of the Rusty Anchor's jukebox still echoed in their heads from the night before. They were still bitter that the man in the bar was just one of the local drunks, providing them with bad intel.
"First stop?" Lewis asked, yawning as she adjusted her jacket against the chill.
"The sheriff gave us two leads: the parents of one of the victims, and WCLV-TV 58," Roland said, checking his watch. "We start with the parents. Trench, get their address. Lewis, bring the folder. Let's tread lightly."
They climbed into the car, the tires crunching over the frost-covered gravel as they pulled away from the motel. The victim's family lived in an old house on the outskirts of town, its paint peeling and yard overrun with weeds. A wind chime made of rusted spoons clinked softly in the breeze.
Roland knocked on the door, his fist landing softly against the wood. Moments later, it opened to reveal a woman in her forties, her eyes sunken and ringed with exhaustion.
"Mrs. Cutter?" Roland began, his voice gentle. "We're with the Federal Bureau of Control. May we come in?"
The woman hesitated but nodded, stepping aside to let them enter. The house was quiet, save for the ticking of an old clock on the mantel. A single framed photo sat on the coffee table—a blonde boy, smiling brightly.
"You're here about Carl," she said, her voice trembling.
"Yes," Roland said. "We're trying to understand what happened to him and the others. Sheriff Dawson mentioned something about a… television show."
Mrs. Cutter flinched, her hands clenching into fists. "That… thing wasn't a show. It was evil." She pointed to a small TV in the corner, its screen dark. "Carl would sit there for hours, staring at nothing. We couldn't see anything, but he swore he was watching Candle Cove."
Lewis exchanged a glance with Roland, then asked, "Did he ever tell you what the show was about?"
Mrs. Cutter nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. "Pirates. Skeletons. A ship that laughed like it was alive. And this… creature called Jawbone. He said Jawbone was always watching him, even when the TV was off. And there was one particular episode Carl mentioned, where the puppets just stood there, screaming in terror. I thought he was just… imagining things."
Trench, standing by the window, noticed something unusual in the yard. "Ma'am," he said, gesturing outside. "Do you mind if I take a look?"
Mrs. Cutter nodded, following him out. The others joined, their curiosity piqued. In the middle of the overgrown yard stood a crude effigy—a skeletal figure fashioned from sticks and old rags, its face painted in what looked like dried blood.
"Carl made that," Mrs. Carter whispered, her voice breaking. "He said Jawbone told him to. That if he didn't, something bad would happen to us."
Roland knelt by the effigy, examining it closely. "This doesn't look like something a child would do alone. The detail…" He glanced at Mrs. Cutter. "Did he have help?"
"No," she said firmly. "But sometimes… I'd hear voices. Whispering. Laughing. I thought I was losing my mind."
The team exchanged uneasy glances. Lewis took out her phone and snapped a photo of the effigy, her hands trembling slightly.
"Mrs. Cutter," Roland said, standing. "Thank you for your time. We'll do everything we can to get to the bottom of this."
As they returned to the car, Trench broke the silence. "That thing out there? It's not just a kid's game. There's something darker at play."
"Next stop," Roland said grimly, "WCLV-TV 58."