Doe Eyes

The car smelled like damp wool and old heat.

Southern Appalachia in winter didn’t freeze so much as cling. The chill had weight—wet, stubborn. Frost powdered bare branches, and a dusting of snow softened the road’s cracks. The kind that made the world too quiet.

Cora adjusted the heat again. The fan stuttered, then hissed to life, breathing out stale warmth. It reeked faintly. Not engine burn, not antifreeze. Something warmer. Sour, like wet fur left too long in the dark.

She turned it off, rolled the window open a sliver. The cold bit her skin, but she preferred that to whatever stench had crawled into the vents.

She’d been driving nearly two hours—off the highway, through thinning pine, where the road narrowed into a strip the county barely remembered to salt. No reception. No music. Just the hum of tires and the tick of the engine when she slowed.

Then the shape came.

She didn’t see it. Only felt the rhythm stutter. A pale blur skimmed the edge of her high beams. A whip of movement.

Then, the sound. A hard, ugly thud. The car jolted. Her seatbelt caught her neck, and the tires chewed gravel before the vehicle skidded to a halt.

Silence.

Her breath fogged the glass. Her knuckles were bloodless on the wheel.

Then—something.

A noise.

Low. Wet. Drawn out like it hurt to exist. A moan, too soft to be a scream, too full of breath to be anything else.

Cora popped the door and stepped out.

Steam hissed from beneath the hood. Her boots crunched ice-laced gravel as she rounded the bumper.

The thing lay crumpled in the road, flanks jerking. A deer. Young. Chest rising in sharp spasms. Legs twitching. Eyes glassy.

Cora’s heart thudded. She didn’t want to move closer—but she couldn’t let it suffer.

She turned away, made for the trunk.

Joe kept the tools, a tire iron and emergency kit inside. She fumbled in the dark, fingers closing around cold metal. Slammed the lid.

The iron felt heavier than it should.

Back at the deer, she shut her eyes and just swung.

Once.

Again.

Until it stopped moving.

She didn’t need to see more.

Gripping a hind leg, she braced herself and pulled. The body resisted—dense with muscle, slack with death. Her boots slid on the gravel. Bit by bit, she dragged it off the road, breath ragged, arms shaking. Into the brush, out of the headlights.

When she was done, she wiped her hands on her jeans—already streaked red—then stood by the crumpled hood.

One headlight gone. Blood on the bumper.

It looked worse now. Worse than it should.

She climbed back inside.

Heat poured from the vents, thick and reeking. The smell hit harder now. Sick warmth, curling deep—like something rotten had made itself at home.

She shut it off fast. Rolled the window open again. Reached behind her for a cardigan and tugged it on—not only for warmth, but to hide the stains.

Then she cried.

Not much—just enough to blur the edges of the dash, to smear across the cuff of her coat as she wiped her face.

Her hands trembled when she reached for the ignition.

The engine caught.

She didn’t look back.

She drove home, headlights tunneling through the cold.

By the time she pulled into the driveway, the cardigan clung to her arms, stiff with drying blood.

The porch light flicked on before she cut the engine. Joe. He must’ve heard her coming down the gravel. The smell inside had dulled, or she’d gotten used to it. Still, she opened the door and let the cold rush in.

Joe met her at the steps, rubbing his arms against the chill. He wore that same expression he always wore when something broke—half concern, half trying not to sound like he was blaming her.

"You okay?"

She nodded, still gripping the keys. "I hit a deer."

"Jesus."

"It came out of nowhere." She stepped past him.

"Is the car—"

"I’ll call insurance in the morning." Her voice was flat. She caught herself and added, "I’m fine. Just… rattled."

He didn’t press. Just followed her inside, switching off the porch light.

The house was warm, lived-in. A place where shadows fell soft and nothing stayed broken long. A TV buzzed low. Somewhere, the dishwasher hummed.

From the hallway, small feet padded across the wood.

"Momma?"

Emmy’s voice sounded like she stayed up later than she could bear.

"I’m back, sweetie." Cora forced warmth into her voice. "You should be in bed."

“Was the deer okay?”

Cora blinked. Her mouth opened, then shut. She glanced toward Joe.

He frowned. “How would she know that?”

"I don’t think so," Cora said softly. "Go on now. Daddy’ll tuck you in."

Emmy nodded, rubbing her eye. Just a bundle of flannel and wild hair.

Cora watched her disappear down the hall. Then turned. Climbed the stairs.

Into the bathroom.

Light on. Door shut.

She peeled off her clothes with clinical efficiency. The blood had dried into stiff, flaked patches. The smell, more metallic than rotten, rose as fabric hit the floor.

She stepped into the shower and cranked the heat until steam curled around her cheeks.

She stayed too long.

When she finally stepped out, the mirror was blank with fog. She wiped it clean with her palm.

For a split second, she didn’t see herself.

She saw trees. Tall, crowding. And a looming shadow behind them.

Then she blinked, and it was gone.

Just steam and glass. Just her.

Later that night, the smell returned.

Not strong. Just a presence, curling under doors and through vents. Cora paused at the bedroom threshold, nose wrinkling. The scent trailed faint and warm, like something sweet left to spoil.

Joe was already asleep, one arm across his chest, mouth slack with breath.

She lingered. Head tilted. Eyes half-lidded.

Rot.

Not fresh. Older. Thick with heat.

She slid into bed without a word and stared at the ceiling. Didn’t sleep.

The next morning, the sound began.

It started while she rinsed a mug. A low, hollow thump. Muffled but rhythmic. At first, she thought it was the water heater.

But when she turned off the tap, it came again—steady, distant.

Not plumbing.

She stepped into the mudroom and cracked the garage door.

Nothing.

The car sat parked, trunk catching light from the window. Tools hung in their places. Joe’s workbench dustless.

No movement. No noise.

Still, Cora stared.

Then she shut the door. Turned the lock.

At dinner, Emmy was quieter than usual.

She scraped her fork across the plate, not eating. Just making patterns in the mashed potatoes.

Cora caught it first.

"What’s wrong, sweetie?"

Emmy shrugged. "I don’t like when you go."

Joe didn’t look up. "She’s not going anywhere this week."

"Sometimes you do."

"You mean when I go check on Aunt Ida?"

Emmy nodded.

"It’s just one night, Em. Daddy’s here."

"But I don’t like it," she said. "The house sounds weird when it’s just us."

"Weird how?" Joe asked.

"I don’t know," Emmy said, voice low. "Like creaking... or like something’s scratching the walls and making these little whines."

Cora looked at her plate. "You’re just hearing the heater."

"I know what the heater sounds like."

That hung in the air.

Then Joe laughed—quick, too loud. "Maybe you’re having bad dreams again."

Emmy didn’t laugh.

She looked down, nodded, and stirred her food again.

The thump came again—so faint Cora almost missed it. A hollow knock, like something bumping against sheet metal from the inside. Not urgent. Just… steady.

Joe didn’t seem to hear.

Cora’s spoon scraped her plate. The sound shot up her spine.

She stood, gathering dishes.

"Just going to rinse these."

Joe looked up but said nothing.

In the kitchen, the window over the sink fogged with steam. The faucet water hit her hands too hot. She didn’t flinch.

That smell was here, too.

She stared at the drain.

Then the kitchen fell away.

She was running.

Not here—not in the kitchen. Somewhere colder... outside. Pines rushed past her face, and the sky above was a flat gray lid. Her arms pumped hard, lungs burning, legs aching. She didn’t know if she was chasing or being chased. But there was something close—moving, shapeless—and the smell of rot in the air like something exhumed.

Then she blinked, and she was back in the kitchen.

The thump came again, closer now.

Not the pipes.

Not the house.

She turned off the water. Dried her hands.

The knock came again just past midnight.

Cora sat up in bed like a puppet on a pulled string. The room was still—Joe’s steady breath, the soft whir of the furnace. Nothing else.

But she knew.

She rose without turning on the light. Stepped softly, like she might still wake up and find none of this real.

Down the stairs. Through the kitchen. Across the mudroom. To the garage.

She opened the door.

The air inside wasn’t cold anymore. It wasn’t warm either. It was stale. Dead. The kind of air that made her teeth throb—sharp, metallic, wrong. It slid into her mouth and settled there, waiting.

Her car hadn’t moved. Parked square between Joe’s workbench and the trash bins.

The smell hadn’t left. If anything, it had learned how to wait for her.

She moved forward, half in a daze. The smell got louder than the silence.

Her hand found the trunk latch.

Click.

The lid opened with a hush, like even the air didn’t want to wake what was inside.

Inside: a girl. Maybe twenty. Bent backward at the waist, her spine bowed like a snapped branch. Her face was slack, one eye gone, the other still open—still wet.

Cora blinked.

She remembered the deer. The body twitching. The warm weight of the tire iron in her hand.

She’d swung once.

Then again.

Then—

God, she’d done it like she knew how.

She backed away, hand to her mouth, heart in her throat.

Behind her, the mudroom door creaked.

"Cora?"

Joe’s voice. Quiet. Unsure.

And then: lights.

Red and blue, flashing through the small garage window. Tires crunching frost. Doors opening. Voices calling out—measured, practiced.

A knock came at the front of the house.

Cora didn’t answer.

She stood motionless, one hand still raised like she might close the trunk, as if closing it could undo what was inside.

The girl’s body didn’t move.

And the smell clung to her clothing like it had always belonged there.

No sound came again—not from the trunk, not from Cora.

Cora didn’t resist.

The officers spoke low, like men reading off a sheet.

Joe stood barefoot on the porch, arms crossed tight. His eyes bounced from face to face, then back to her.

“Cora,” he said. Just her name. Like saying it might bring her back into herself.

No one answered him.

A detective stepped forward, coat still buttoned, voice unreadable.

“We didn’t come with a warrant,” he said. “Only questions. But sometimes the questions know where to go.”

Joe blinked, confused. “I don’t—what does that mean?”

Another voice—lower, from one of the officers near the garage: “There’s a case. Tennessee. Last year. A young couple found off the highway—never made it home.”

A pause. Frost cracking beneath boots.

“Blood turned up during a cleaning. Didn’t mean much. Not until the VIN history circled back here.”

Joe looked toward the car. Then to Cora.

“But she said—she hit a deer.”

No one responded.

Another officer emerged from the garage. His face was different now—stripped of formality. He looked like someone who’d just seen something that shouldn’t be seen.

“We’ve got a body,” he said quietly. “Young woman. In the trunk.”

Joe shook his head like he hadn’t heard right. “What the hell is going on, Cora?”

But the answer was already in the air, heavy as the smell.

Cora hadn’t moved.

The detective touched her elbow—firm, impersonal—then guided her toward the cruiser. The cuffs were already on. She didn’t speak.

From the window, behind a sagging curtain, Emmy stood watching—small and silent, one hand pressed to the glass.

The cruiser door shut behind Cora, and with it, whatever was left of the life she built.

She didn’t cry. She’d done that already.

As the car pulled away, frost scattering in the headlights, she kept her gaze forward.

She didn’t ask for forgiveness.

Didn’t ask for her daughter.

She just let the dark close in.

And when the taillights disappeared around the bend, she whispered—so faint it barely reached the front seat:

“But... I only hit a deer.”