The air tasted of pine resin and damp earth as Mara stepped off the rusted bus, her boots crunching over gravel. The town of Black Hollow lay sprawled below, its rooftops bleached by sun and time, windows staring like empty eyes. She hadn’t returned in fifteen years, not since the fire that burned her father’s barn to ash and left the sheriff’s badge tarnished with lies. Now the letter had arrived—scrawled in a hand she recognized, though the words were a question: *Did you know?*
The diner smelled of burnt coffee and grease. Mara slid into a booth, her fingers tracing the chipped vinyl. Across from her, old Mr. Hayes leaned forward, his eyes sharp beneath bushy brows. “You’re back,” he said, not a question.
“Just passing through,” she lied.
He snorted, stirring creamer into his cup. “Passing through? You’d have to drive north for three hours to get anywhere else.”
The silence between them stretched, thick as the smoke from the grill. Mara studied the cracked menu, the faded photos of townsfolk on the wall—faces frozen in smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.
“You ever hear about the Hollow Man?” Hayes asked, voice low. “They say he walks the pines at midnight, looking for lost souls.”
“A story,” Mara said. “Like the one about your son?”
Hayes’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Stories are all we’ve got here.”
The bell jingled as the door swung open. A man entered, tall and broad-shouldered, his boots leaving wet prints on the floor. Mara recognized him—Eli Cross, the sheriff’s son, who’d left town after the fire. His gaze flicked to her, then away.
“You’re back,” he said, not a question.
“Just passing through,” she echoed.
He hesitated, then slid into the booth across from Hayes. “You two still gossiping about dead men?”
Hayes grunted. “Mara’s here to find answers.”
“Answers to what?” Eli asked, but Mara didn’t answer. She watched the way his fingers tapped the table, a rhythm that matched the ticking clock above the counter.
Later, she stood at the edge of the woods, the trees whispering in a language she almost understood. The path was overgrown, roots snaking through the dirt like veins. She remembered her father’s voice, warning her never to venture this far. *The pines don’t let go,* he’d said. *They take what they want.*
A branch snapped behind her. She spun, heart hammering. Nothing but shadows.
“Mara?” A voice called, low and familiar.
She turned. Eli stood at the tree line, his face half in shadow. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Why not?”
He stepped closer, the moonlight catching the scar on his cheek. “Because they’re watching. The ones who don’t want you here.”
“Who?”
“The Hollow Man.”
She laughed, but it came out brittle. “You believe that?”
“I saw him,” he said. “The night the fire started. He was there, in the barn. Watching.”
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of smoke and something older, something metallic. Mara’s pulse thrummed in her ears. “What did he look like?”
Eli didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a photo—yellowed, edges frayed. It showed a man in a dark coat, standing at the edge of the barn, his face obscured by shadow.
“That’s him,” Eli said. “But I don’t think he’s a man at all.”
Mara stared at the image, her throat tight. The fire had taken her father, left her mother a ghost of herself. But this—this was something else. Something older.
“We need to find him,” she said. “Before he takes someone else.”
Eli nodded, but his eyes were on the trees, as if waiting for something to emerge from the dark. “He’s already here.”
The next morning, Mara stood at the edge of the barn ruins, the sun casting long shadows across the scorched earth. The air was thick with the scent of charred wood and wet soil. She ran her fingers over the broken beams, feeling the heat that still lingered in the wood.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” a voice said.
She turned. The sheriff stood at the edge of the clearing, his badge dull in the light. “This is private property.”
“I’m not here for the property,” she said. “I’m here for the truth.”
The sheriff’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know my father died in that fire,” she said. “And I know it wasn’t an accident.”
The man’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shifted. “You should leave, Mara. Some things are better left buried.”
“Not this,” she said. “Not after what happened to my father.”
The sheriff studied her, then turned on his heel and walked away, his boots crunching over the gravel.
That night, Mara returned to the woods, the moon a pale scar in the sky. The trees loomed around her, their branches twisting like skeletal fingers. She followed the path until she reached the clearing where the barn had stood.
A figure stood in the center, motionless. Mara’s breath caught. The man from the photo—same dark coat, same shadowed face.
“You found me,” the figure said, his voice a whisper that curled around her ears.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her chest.
“I am what remains,” he said. “What was taken.”
Mara took a step forward. “You killed my father.”
The figure tilted his head. “I gave him what he deserved.”
“He was a good man,” she said. “You don’t get to decide that.”
The wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the scent of smoke and something older, something metallic. The figure took a step closer, and Mara saw the flicker of fire in his eyes.
“You think you can stop me?” he asked. “You are only a shadow of what I was.”
“Then I’ll be the one to end you,” she said.
The figure laughed, a sound that echoed through the clearing. “You cannot kill what is already dead.”
Mara’s hand went to the knife in her pocket, its edge still sharp from the shop where she’d bought it. “I’ll try,” she said.
The figure lunged, and the world exploded into motion. Mara twisted, the blade flashing in the moonlight. The strike landed, and the figure let out a sound that was more animal than human.
He staggered back, his coat torn, revealing a chest covered in scars. “You think this ends here?” he snarled. “I will return.”
“Then I’ll be waiting,” she said.
The figure vanished into the trees, leaving Mara standing in the clearing, her breath ragged, the knife still in her hand. The wind had died, leaving only the sound of her own heartbeat.
She didn’t know if she’d truly ended him or if he’d return, but for the first time in fifteen years, she felt something close to peace. The pines whispered around her, their voices a promise that the story wasn’t over—but she was ready to face whatever came next.
