Jack Mercer didn't sleep. The motel room's ceiling fan groaned like a dying thing, and every creak of the floorboards made his pulse race. He kept the recorder clutched in his hand, with its plastic casing digging into his palm. The voice on the tape— mine —echoed in his skull.
At dawn, he drove to Millhaven's only diner to eat breakfast. The sign read Betty's Bites, but the B in Bites was upside down. The smell of burnt coffee and grease clung to the air. A handful of locals hunched over chipped mugs, their conversations dying down when Jack walked in.
The waitress, a woman with tired eyes and a name tag reading Darla, slid a menu toward him. "You're that radio fella, ain'tcha?"
Jack forced a grin. "Guilty. Jack Mercer. Heard of me?"
"Heard you're poking around the old hall." Her voice flattened. "Bad idea."
"Why? Rats? Ghosts?" He leaned in and lowered his voice. "Or something… hungrier?"
Darla's knuckles whitened as she gripped her notepad. "Coffee's free. Advice? Don't ask questions." She walked away.
Jack scowled. Real helpful. He pulled the child's drawing from his pocket. The shadowy figure grinned with jagged teeth. Don't let it hear you.
The town library was a cramped, mouldy building between a shuttered post office and a pawn shop. A bell jingled as Jack pushed it inside. Dust motes swam in the weak sunlight.
Behind the desk sat an old man with a patchy beard and a tweed jacket, frayed at the elbows. His nameplate read Walter Hodge, Librarian. He did not look up from his crossword.
"Need help?" Walter's voice rasped like sandpaper.
"Yeah. Looking for records at the town hall. Or… disappearances."
Walter's pen froze. "You one of them ghost hunters?"
"Journalist."
"Same thing here." Walter snorted. "Try the Millhaven Herald archives. Back corner. Don't touch the '80s—mice got into 'em."
The archives were stacked in the form of leaning towers. Jack flipped through brittle newspapers. Most of these were farm reports or obituaries. Then he found it—a headline from October 31, 1983,:
LOCAL GIRL VANISHES DURING HARVEST FESTIVAL
The article was brief. Emily Carter, 12, was last seen near the town hall. Search parties found no traces. A photo showed a gap-toothed girl holding a kitten.
Jack's chest tightened. He turned the page. Another article, 1993: Teager Boy Missing After Bonfire. 2003: An elderly couple disappears on an evening walk.
Every ten years. Just like Evelyn's journal said.
A cold breath prickled the back of Jack's neck.
"Find what you're looking for?"
Jack jerked around. Walter stood inches away, holding a lantern in the daylight.
"You knew about these, didn't you?" Jack held up the articles.
Walter's eyes narrowed. "Leave it alone, son, she said. Some stories ain't meant to be told."
"Why? Because the Revenant might get me?"
Walter flinched. "That word's poison here." He grabbed Jack's arm, his grip surprisingly strong. "Listen. My grandfather helped build this town. He said that the first settlers made a deal—blood for peace. But deals with devils don't last."
"What kind of blood?"
"The kind that screams." Walter released him. "Go home, Mr. Mercer. While you still can."
Jack didn't go home. He drove to the Millhaven Cemetery. The iron gates sagged under their weight. Gravestones tilted like crooked teeth, with names worn smooth by time.
He finds Emily Carter's grave. A small, weathered stone. No dates. Just: Gone, Not Forgotten.
"What happened to you?" Jack whispered.
The wind hissed through the pines. Then—laughter. It was high and thin, like a child's.
Jack spun. The cemetery was empty.
"Hello?"
The laughter came again, this time behind him, near the woods.
His phone flashlight pierced through the gloom. The trees clawed at the sky, and the roots snaked over the ground. Something glinted in the dirt: a rusted locket. He pried it open. Inside was a faded photo of Emily and her kitten.
A static crackled in his pocket. His recorder was on, although he had sworn that he had turned it off.
…help me…
A girl's voice. Emily's?
Jack's breath fogged. The temperature plummeted. Shadows pooled at his feet, thickening and twisting.
He ran. Branches lash his face. A sharp and hungry laughter followed.
Back at the motel, he had slammed the door. The locket burned his hand. He threw it into a sink.
However, when he looked again, it was gone.
That night, Jack dreamt of the town hall.
The Revenant stood at the microphone, its shadowy form flickering like a corrupted movie. The air reeked of copper and decay.
you will feed us; it hissed, the voice splintering into a dozen tongues like the others.
Jack woke choking, his throat raw.
The radio in the motel blared static.
He ripped the cord off the wall. Silence.
Then, from the hallway, a scratch. Long, slow. Like claws on wood.
Jack pressed his ear to the door.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
"Who's there?"
No answer.
He yanked the door wide open.
The hallway was empty. However, three jagged lines were gouged into the carpet.
And a single word scrawled in mud:
SOON.