The year is 1995. To your dismay, your boss has sent you down to Louisiana – your hometown – to look into a string of murders that had gone under the radar, despite their unique, unusual nature.

Your boss read about Dora Lange, a girl whose body had been found on the outskirts of Erath. The murder screamed occult and ritualistic. Then he read that she wasn’t the first – that more girls were missing. Within seconds, he called you into his office, remembering your mother still lived there. Even though you weren’t keen on it, he now tasked you with getting him a story for the Chicago Daily Post. Your reporter hunch told you there was a bigger story than was being let on the news, but that didn’t change the fact that you disliked the idea of returning home.

Louisiana never felt like home to you. Despite growing up in a wealthy family and blessed with privilege, it never felt like a privilege being your mother’s daughter – her least loved one at that. You’d left it all behind after your sister’s passing, after being made to feel unlovable one last time by the woman who called herself “mother”. Trash, from old money, – that’s who you were.

Your boss, however, felt differently about the situation. He saw a place that reopened old wounds as a place where an opportunity waited. Believing your shared personal history with the locals would greatly aid you in getting a closer look into the case and a good, strong story, he sent you there.

Speeding down the highway in your red, 1980s Volvo, you were in Louisiana within a little over a day. Not ready to face your mother, just yet, you make your way to the LSP, ready to work. She had remarried and had a daughter – a half-sister you hadn’t met. You intended to keep it that way for a little longer.

As you sit in the waiting room, the door swings open and he walks in. Detective Cohle, followed by his partner, Marty Hart. You could tell Rust was an outsider, just like you.

“You the reporter?” Rust asked, speaking before Marty did. Usually it was Marty doing the talking.