Clara stepped off the creaking bus, her boots crunching on gravel as the wind clawed at her coat. The town of Blackmoor lay ahead, a silhouette of sagging roofs and smokestacks against the bruised sky. She hadn’t set foot here in fifteen years, but the air still tasted like pine resin and something sharper—something metallic, like old blood. Her father’s letter had been brief: *Find the lantern. Burn it.* The words had haunted her since the day she’d found them, tucked inside a moth-eaten journal he’d left behind. Now, standing at the edge of the woods that bordered the town, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. The trees whispered, their branches scraping against the sky like skeletal fingers. She adjusted her grip on the duffel bag, its contents a rusted key and a map scrawled in her father’s jagged handwriting. A crow cawed, and she froze. The sound echoed off the hills, too loud, too close. She turned, but the path behind her was empty. Only the wind answered. The town’s diner loomed ahead, its neon sign flickering like a dying heartbeat. Inside, the smell of burnt coffee and grease hung thick in the air. The waitress, a woman with sunken cheeks and eyes like polished obsidian, didn’t look up as Clara approached. “Black coffee,” Clara said, her voice flat. The woman nodded, her movements slow, deliberate. Clara studied the walls—peeling posters of long-forgotten bands, a faded photograph of the town’s founding families. Her father’s face stared back at her, younger, sharper, his hand resting on the shoulder of a man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. The scarred man’s name had been Darnell Voss. A local legend, or so the townsfolk claimed. Clara’s fingers curled around the map. She needed answers. The waitress placed the coffee in front of her, steam curling into the air. “You’re not from around here,” the woman said, her voice a rasp. Clara met her gaze. “No.” The woman’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’ll want to leave before dusk.” Clara frowned. “Why?” The woman didn’t answer. She turned, her back to the counter, and vanished into the kitchen. Clara sipped the coffee, bitter and black, and stared at the map. The key fit a lock she’d never seen, but the map’s markings pointed to a place called the Hollow. She left the diner without looking back, her boots crunching again on the gravel. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the road. A car passed, its tires screeching as it veered off the highway. Clara watched it disappear into the trees, her pulse quickening. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of smoke. She followed the path, her breath visible in the cooling air. The woods thickened, branches brushing her shoulders as if trying to pull her back. Then she saw it—a clearing, and in the center, a structure of weathered stone. A lantern sat on a pedestal, its glass cracked but still glowing faintly. Clara approached, her hand trembling as she reached for it. The moment her fingers touched the metal, a sound echoed through the trees—deep, guttural, like a growl. She spun around, heart pounding. Nothing. Just the wind. She lifted the lantern, its weight solid in her hands, and turned back toward town. The sun had vanished, leaving the sky a bruised purple. The path was darker now, the trees taller, their trunks twisted like ancient sentinels. A figure moved at the edge of her vision. She stopped, breath shallow. “Who’s there?” Her voice echoed, unanswered. The wind howled, and she ran. The lantern’s glow flickered as she sprinted, her boots slapping against the earth. The town’s lights appeared ahead, a patchwork of yellow and red. She burst through the threshold, gasping for air. The streets were empty. No cars, no people. Just the hum of distant electricity. The lantern felt heavier now, its glow dimming. Clara clutched it to her chest, her mind racing. What had she uncovered? What had she awakened? The answer lay in the Hollow, but the path was closing behind her. She had to find it before the darkness caught up.
