In The Tall Grass -

A small, pale handprint pressed into the soil. Child-sized.

“We’re walking in circles,” Becky whispered.

That night—if it was night—Becky gave birth. Not to a child. To a cluster of roots, warm and pulsing, that squirmed from her body and buried themselves in the soil before she could scream. Ross watched with wet, adoring eyes. “The grass thanks you,” he said. “It was hungry for something new.” In The Tall Grass

They followed the sound until they found him—not a boy, not anymore. His name was Ross, and he’d crawled in seven years ago. His skin had the waxy, translucent quality of something grown underground. His teeth were filed to points by chewing grass stalks for moisture. His eyes had the flat, patient hunger of a creature that has learned the grass provides—if you give something back.

The grass grew three feet overnight, every night, forever. A small, pale handprint pressed into the soil

Somewhere in Kansas, a granite stone lists the names of the lost. And if you listen close, past the highway’s hum, you can hear a woman’s voice, patient now, inviting.

She didn’t stay. Because when he was waist-deep, the grass closed over his head like water, and his voice came from twenty feet to the left. Then fifty feet behind her. That night—if it was night—Becky gave birth

She took one step.