Alabama, 1925. Chicago enforcer Jack Carmelo just put five men in the ground with a fire axe. When Capone ships him south to manage a moonshiner and let the heat die down, the job looks manageable. Jericho Springs is not manageable. People are vanishing from a dying forest. The ones they find are barely recognizable — flesh split open in patterns that shouldn't exist, eyes emptied of everything human. The locals whisper about witches. About a rot spreading through the soil that no season can cleanse. Jack doesn't believe in witches. He believes in guns, leverage, and the cold math of violence. He believes the problem has a name: Henry Dunn — a Klan psychopath running fake Prohibition raids and leaving bodies in his wake. He's half right. Three sisters are returning to the Alabama dark — beings older than anything that has a name. They don't want power. They don't want worship. They want the world to end in blood and screaming. They have been waiting a long time. For fans of Laird Barron's backwoods dread and Christopher Buehlman's Those Across the River.