In The Tall Grass -

Becky clutched her belly and waded in. Time doesn’t pass in the tall grass. It loops.

She woke later—or earlier—to find Cal gone. Just a Cal-shaped hollow in the grass, and the doll he’d braided, now the size of a man, its button eyes staring. In The Tall Grass

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. Becky clutched her belly and waded in

“I found a path!” he called, but his voice scraped—dry, wrong. She woke later—or earlier—to find Cal gone

“The rock moves,” Ross whispered, stroking the granite marker. “It follows you. It knows your name before you do. It already has your baby’s name, lady.”

The first thing you notice is the sound. Not the hum of the highway you left behind, not the distant cry of a crow. It’s a whisper, dry and rhythmic—a billion grass blades rubbing together, stitching the world shut behind you.