Page 5 of Firefly Effect

The fright in my chest was no match for what I saw in Foster’s reaction. All color left his face as his eyes flared wide, and the way he took off into a sprint could have rivaled an Olympic athlete.

I had no choice but to follow him—follow Carley’s scream. Because while I had only known the Pruitts for the week, I realized that voice belonged to my new friend. Foster recognized it, too, and by the look on his face, he was about to pummel Gabe one hundred times harder than I already had.

When Foster slowed, his head swiveling left then right like he was lost, I said, “That way.” I pointed. “It came from near the water.”

Foster’s head snapped to me, his eyes narrowed into a glare I knew came directly from stress. “How do you know?”

I couldn’t explain it—I just knew. And we had no time for a leisurely chat. So I darted past him, toward the phantom echoes of Carley’s scream, running faster than the wind. Weeds cut across my legs, branches whipped against my cheeks, and marsh water soaked the lower half of my body, but I didn’t care. I didn’t stop until we entered the clearing that led to the lake.

That was when I saw it—a jar with a metal lid, lying on the ground, a dozen fireflies escaping from where the glass was cracked.

And then I saw her.

Carley Pruitt, my new friend.

Unmoving at the water’s edge.

Wearing Foster’s black sweatshirt.

Blood soaking the back of her head.

Campfire tale becomes reality in a string of Appalachian serial murders.

Published May 21, 2024

In June 2010, at Deep Creek Campground in Bryson City, North Carolina, Carley Pruitt, a fifteen-year-old female, became the first victim in a string of murders that have since been linked to a single unidentified suspect some claim to be the Firefly Man.

The Firefly Man got his infamous nickname from the campfire story of the same name. As the story goes, the Firefly Man hunts those who cause harm to fireflies during their mating rituals. Pruitt was found near a broken mason jar filled with several dead fireflies.

Despite the nickname, there has been no evidence found to suggest the killer is male or female. All eleven victims were found alone at various campgrounds in the Great Smoky Mountains and died from blunt force trauma to the skull. Thus far, Pruitt is the only female victim connected to the killings.

CHAPTER

ONE

EVELYN

Swirling red-and-blue lights accompany the brief, steady yelps of a police cruiser, forcing a little red sports car to pull over against the Main Street curb. I set an empty beer mug beneath the tap before pausing to take in the action through the long rectangular window framed with alphabetized books directly across the dimly lit bar.

My curiosity gets the best of me. Another Firefly Man murder was discovered last month, this one several towns away. Before that, it had been two years. But it doesn’t truly matter when they happen, or where. The small town of Bryson City becomes anxious in waiting, praying that this is the time the killer will finally get caught. That time never seems to come.

I watch as Gabe steps out of his cruiser and begins an agonizingly slow and steady walk toward the sports car. He wears an overly confident expression on his perfectly clean-shaven face, one that gives way to the truth of the matter—this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to him in weeks.

Downtown Bryson City has its perks, quiet streets being one. Events like these are few and far between—especially from where I’m standing. One would think the most popular bar in town would invite the most action on an early Friday evening, but the opposite is true. Regulars come here for the quiet ambiance, made possible by the low lighting, the wall-to-wall shelves holding used books organized by genre, and the indie soul music streaming from the speakers.

“Looks like Gabe is having some fun tonight,” Uncle Patrick mutters with a grin as he walks from his office to the long bar to stand across from me.

Tearing my eyes from the scene outside the window, I shrug and flip the nozzle to the beer tap. “Seems a bit anticlimactic to me.” I’m careful to tilt the glass to prevent getting too much foam. “A car chase, a drug bust… Anything would be more thrilling than the same old traffic stop.”

Uncle Patrick gives me his famous I-don’t-believe-you side-eye. “That why it didn’t work out between you and Gabe? He wasn’t thrilling enough?” When I don’t immediately respond, he chuckles. “The guy’s a cop, Evie. Following the rules is the man’s job.”

My entire body cringes at my uncle’s teasing words. He means no harm, but I can’t give him an explanation that will make him understand that Gabe isn’t the problem—nor is any other man I’ve attempted a relationship with. According to my therapist, it’s me. I’m the problem. And until I’m ready to move past being starved of love by my parents while growing up, I may never experience it at all.

“Gabe’s a great guy,” I say while sliding the full beer glass to him. “He’s just not for me.” Grabbing hold of the tie on the back of my apron, I tug it loose and whip it over to where his waiting hands catch it. “If you think he’s so great, maybe you should date him.” I wink.

My uncle glares, and I manage to dodge his playful nudge as I walk by him. “He’s a little young for me, smart ass. Hey,” he calls out behind me, holding the beer. “Where is this going?”

Without looking back, I point to a woman sitting cozily on a couch in the corner of the room. “She just started a tab.” After a quick wave, I push through the green double doors and say over my shoulder, “I’ll be back in a couple hours to close.”

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