The wind howled through the skeletal trees as Mara stepped off the bus, her boots crunching on gravel. The town of Black Hollow lay ahead, its crooked rooftops silhouetted against a bruised sky. She hadn’t set foot here in fifteen years, but the air still tasted like pine resin and decay. The bus driver didn’t look back as he pulled away, leaving her alone with the creak of the old wooden sign that read: BLACK HOLLOW – POP. 2,147.
The first thing she noticed was the silence. No birdsong, no distant hum of machinery. Just the whisper of wind through the pines, a sound that clung to her like a second skin. She tightened her coat, fingers brushing the silver locket at her throat—a gift from her mother, now cold and unyielding.
The main street was a graveyard of storefronts, their windows fogged with dust. A faded banner flapped in the breeze, its letters barely legible: “Welcome to Black Hollow – Where Memories Live.” Mara frowned. That wasn’t there before.
A figure emerged from the shadows of a boarded-up diner, a man in his fifties with a face like weathered leather. “You lost?” His voice was a gravelly rasp, eyes narrowing as they landed on the locket.
“I’m here to see the archives,” she said, keeping her tone neutral. The town’s historical society had promised answers, though she wasn’t sure what they’d find. Her mother’s disappearance had left more questions than closure, and this town was the only thread left.
The man studied her, then nodded toward a rusted gate at the edge of town. “Past the cemetery. Don’t linger after dark.”
The archives were housed in a brick building that reeked of mildew and old paper. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ink and decay. Mara ran her fingers over the spines of brittle books, searching for anything about her mother. A name leapt out: Clara Voss. The same last name as her own.
She pulled a folder from the shelf, its contents yellowed and fragile. Photos of a woman with her mother’s face, but younger, smiling. Notes scrawled in a shaky hand: “Clara vanished on the night of the storm. No body found. The pines took her.”
A sound behind her—a footstep, too heavy for the empty room. Mara turned, heart pounding. The archive keeper stood in the doorway, his face obscured by shadow. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“I need to know what happened to my mother,” she shot back.
His laugh was a dry rustle. “Some secrets don’t want to be unearthed.”
That night, Mara found the cellar beneath the old Voss house, its entrance hidden behind a tangle of ivy. The air was colder here, thick with the smell of damp earth and something sweeter—like blood. She switched on her flashlight, its beam slicing through the darkness to reveal a wall etched with names. Her mother’s was there, along with dozens more.
A voice echoed from the depths. “You shouldn’t have come back.”
Mara froze. The flashlight flickered, casting jagged shadows on the walls. She could feel the weight of the past pressing in, a chorus of whispers that seemed to rise from the very stones.
The next morning, the town was different. The streets were cleaner, the air sharper, as if the storm had scrubbed it raw. Mara stood at the edge of the cemetery, her hands trembling. The locket felt heavier now, its cold metal a reminder of what she’d uncovered.
She didn’t know if she’d ever leave Black Hollow again.
