Chapter 1: Arrival at Black Hollow
Chapter 1: Arrival at Black Hollow
The road to Black Hollow was a winding snake of cracked asphalt, bordered by dark pines that stretched like skeletal arms toward the gray sky. The town didn’t appear on most maps, and that was exactly what Clara needed—someplace forgotten. A place where no one knew her name, or the mistakes that clung to it like a second skin.
Her car rumbled over the uneven road, the radio silent except for the low hum of static. Even the stations seemed to avoid this place. As she crested a hill, the village came into view—quaint, shrouded in morning mist, and nestled in the hollow like a secret best kept.
A hand-painted sign welcomed her:
Welcome to Black Hollow – Est. 1792
Population: 614
Clara’s stomach twisted. Let’s hope it stays that way, she thought, half-heartedly.
She parked in front of the boarding house—an old Victorian with peeling white paint and a sagging porch. A woman in her sixties stood on the steps, hands on hips, watching Clara like a hawk might observe a rabbit.
“You Clara?” the woman asked before Clara had even turned off the engine.
“Yes,” Clara replied, stepping out, brushing road dust from her jeans.
“Good. I’m Mrs. Whitlow. I don’t like loud music or loud people. You pay rent on the first. No men after ten.”
Clara blinked. “Got it.”
Mrs. Whitlow led her inside. The house smelled of lemon polish and old wood. The walls were lined with sepia-toned portraits of stern-looking ancestors, and a cuckoo clock ticked somewhere in the distance. Clara’s room was small but clean. A lace curtain fluttered in the breeze from a cracked window, and a faded quilt covered the narrow bed.
“Quiet here,” Mrs. Whitlow said as she handed over a brass key. “We keep it that way.”
Clara nodded, offering a polite smile. She knew better than to ask too many questions on her first day.
By mid-afternoon, Clara was walking through town. Black Hollow had one diner, one gas station, a grocery store no bigger than a 7-Eleven, and a post office that looked like it hadn’t been used in decades. People stared. Not overtly—but long enough for her to notice. She was an outsider. Small towns always noticed outsiders.
At the diner, she sat at the counter and ordered coffee. The waitress, a young woman with tired eyes and chipped red polish, poured it without a word.
“Passing through?” she finally asked, glancing sideways.
“No. I’m staying,” Clara said. “Just needed a change.”
The waitress raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Clara sipped the bitter brew and stared out the window. The woods beyond the town seemed to stretch on forever, dense and dark.
“You new in town?”
Clara turned. A man had taken the stool next to hers. He looked to be in his late twenties, with shaggy dark hair and a scar across his cheekbone. Something about him was both rugged and cautious, like a man who’d learned to watch the shadows.
“I am,” she replied. “Clara.”
“Liam,” he said, extending a hand. His grip was warm and steady. “Not a lot of new folks come to Black Hollow.”
“I gathered that,” Clara said, glancing at the other patrons who were very pointedly not eavesdropping.
“Where you staying?”
“Boarding house. With Mrs. Whitlow.”
He winced. “Watch your step around her. She’s got ears like a fox and a temper like a bear.”
Clara smiled faintly. “Thanks for the tip.”
He studied her for a moment, then said, “You should be careful during the full moon.”
Her smile faltered. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged. “Town’s got old stories. About the woods. People say it’s just folklore, but… people also tend to lock their doors tight this time of the month.”
Clara glanced outside. The moon wouldn’t be full for another few days.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, though she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be unsettled.
That night, Clara couldn’t sleep.
She sat by the window, watching the trees sway in the wind. Every so often, she thought she heard something—scraping, or a howl far in the distance—but she chalked it up to nerves. Or maybe just the wind playing tricks.
At one point, she opened her suitcase and pulled out a small framed photo. It was of her and her sister, Marlene, on a beach long ago. Before everything went wrong. Before the fire. Before the guilt Clara couldn’t shake no matter how far she drove.
She traced the glass with her finger, then placed it on the nightstand. Her past was behind her now. She was here for a new start.
But something about the town gnawed at her already. The way Liam had looked at her. The warning in his voice. The way people moved through the streets as if something unseen was always just behind them.
She shut off the lamp.
In the darkness, the wind whispered through the trees, and somewhere in the deep woods, something howled.
Not a dog. Not a coyote.
Something… bigger.