My phone chirps from the depths of my purse—an obnoxious little bird tweet that I still haven't figured out how to silence. It's new. A forced gift from my mother, who insisted I needed it in case something happened.
Something like getting stranded, or abducted, or—as she loves to say—"God forbid, taken advantage of."
I sigh, digging through my bag. She's probably just checking in, worried that I'm out late again. Ever since I turned eighteen, she's been more anxious, not less. I overheard her on the phone with my grandmother once, whispering about me like I was a runaway risk. She mentioned her concerns about the amount of time I've been spending out of the house and expressed uncertainty about whether my behavior was influenced by "Shelby or a boy." I didn't stick around for the rest. It felt... invasive.
I finally pull out the phone just as another chirp goes off.
Unknown: We need to talk.
Unknown: Please.
Unknown: Meet me at the hollow tree behind your house. 11:15 PM.
My stomach flips.
I stare at the screen, reading the messages again like they might change. I hesitate, thumbs hovering, then type a response.
Me: Who is this?
No answer.
A slow chill creeps up my spine. I glance behind me, even though there's no one there—just shadows, my driveway, and the echo of Shelby's car fading down the street.
The porch light glows softly, casting halos on the overgrown potted plants my mom still insists she'll revive one day. I take a breath and force myself to focus. Maybe it's just a prank. Maybe someone got the wrong number.
However, the existence of the hollow tree behind my house is not exactly common knowledge.
Not exactly public knowledge.
The phone chirps again, sharp and sudden. I flinch, nearly dropping my keys. My pulse is in my throat now.
I should go inside. Lock the door. Crawl into bed and forget this whole thing.
Instead, I look out toward the woods.
The tree's not far.
And I've never been very good at ignoring the unknown.
When I walk through the front door, the scent of lavender hits me, and the TV flickers blue across the walls. Mom's curled up on the couch, watching some weird sci-fi movie where—yep—that alien-looking humanoid is giving birth. I stop mid-step, tilt my head, and make a face.
"Oh god. Is that... slime?" I ask, horrified. "What even is this?"
She glances over at me, completely unfazed, and shuts the TV off with the remote. "Hey, hun. I figured you were out with Shel. If you're hungry, I could whip you up something quick."
"No, that's alright; we ate?" I kick off my shoes and wander toward the kitchen. "But you make me feel so loved, or are you secretly trying to get me fat?"
My mother's face scrunches up. "Angela!"
I keep my voice casual as I tell her about the night, just enough to satisfy the basics. I omit anything Will-related and focus instead on the earrings I picked out for the Winter Ball, which cost way more than I'm proud of.
But Mom knows me too well. She's already in position: eyebrows raised, arms folded, lips pressed together in that you're leaving something out and I will wait all night kind of way.
I cave. Of course I do.
"There was a guy," I say, trying not to sound like I care. "Sort of. He's Evan's cousin. We hung out at the Icehouse for a bit."
"Mmhmm." She starts knitting—slow, rhythmic, nonchalant. But I know better. That yarn is about to get interrogated.
"He's… handsome," I admit. "Not modern handsome. Classic. He exudes a handsomeness reminiscent of a classic black-and-white movie. Tall. Dark hair. The whole 'I could ruin you with a smirk' thing going on; it's mysterious. But not, like, a criminal."
Mom hums like she's heard this song before. "So… what are you going to do about Mr. Mysterious?"
I shrug, flopping onto the arm of the couch. "Nothing. He's gorgeous, yeah, but I'm not trying to get tangled up with anyone right now. I like being single. And sane. Especially with graduation coming."
That answer seems to do the trick, for now. Mostly because she's exhausted.
She sets her knitting down, stands with a groan, and presses a kiss to my temple. "We'll follow up on this in the morning," she says, stretching. "Night, sweetheart."
"Night," I mumble, following her down the hall.
I watch the way she walks—slow, dragging her feet, the weight of the day pulling at her. She never says when she's exhausted, but I can always tell.
I turn off the lights as we go, each one casting the house deeper into shadow. And when my bedroom door closes behind me, I lock it, and I exhale.
I flip on the light as I step into my room, blinking at the sudden brightness. The first thing I notice? My floor—suspiciously visible. The laundry mountain that had claimed an entire corner is gone. Classic Mom. Quietly invading my space in the name of cleanliness.
Stripping down, I toss my clothes into the now-empty hamper like a half-hearted free throw, then head into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Routine. Comfort. Something normal in a night that's been anything but.
Back at my desk, I sit in my bra and underwear and flip open my laptop, checking for any passive-aggressive love notes from my professors. Just one new homework assignment. Nothing urgent.
Good.
I pull on a pair of worn, ripped jeans—the ones that are basically molded to my body by now—and a vintage Ninja Turtles tee that makes me feel invincible. Over that, I throw on my black cardigan, aka my grandma sweater, as Shelby so lovingly calls it. Whatever. It's cozy, and it has deep pockets. Deep pockets = emotional security.
At the mirror, I gather my hair into a messy bun, tugging a few strands loose for that I woke up like this aesthetic. I turn sideways, checking myself once.
Not bad.
I look like a girl who's not sneaking out at night to meet someone she probably shouldn't.
Which, of course, means I'm absolutely about to do just that.
I glance at the clock.
10:55 PM.
There's still time to back out. Crawl into bed. Pretend none of these incidents ever happened. Normal people do not sneak out of their houses to meet mysterious men under hollow trees in dark forests. That's not romantic—it's how true crime podcasts start.
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at my sneakers like they might have the answers.
Don't do it, says the logical side of my brain. You work tomorrow. And also, a sense of self-preservation.
Yeah, but… what if he's standing there right now? Waiting? Looking all dark and mythic and slightly broody under the moonlight?
Nope. No. You don't even know his last name. Also me: But what if he whispers something ancient and sexy again? Yeah. Right before he buries you under the hollow tree. Okay, fair.
I flop backwards on the bed, groaning into my pillow. This is how horror movies begin. I'm the girl who heard a strange noise and went toward it.
But there's a flutter in my chest I can't ignore.
Curiosity.
Or maybe madness.
Probably both.
"I'm not doing this," I whisper out loud, already tying my sneakers. "This is me… not doing this."
I grab my phone, shove it in my pocket, and head quietly for the window.
Because, of course, I'm doing this.
The lattice outside my window has been here since 1958, wrapped thick with ivy and held together by a stubborn history and hope. It's strong enough—probably. I'm not worried about breaking my neck. I'm more concerned it's going to squeal under my weight and wake the entire house.
As I climb onto the windowsill, a memory blindsides me: the last time this window was part of someone's grand escape.
My sister used to sneak out through it to meet with whatever older guy she was dating that week. One night, she came back late, tossing pebbles at the glass, not realizing I'd been up all night throwing up with a fever. Dad was sleeping in the rocking chair beside my bed, keeping an eye on me. Needless to say, her Romeo mission didn't end well.
The next morning, our parents switched our rooms with the efficiency of a military operation. I got the window. She got a lecture. The lecture. The one about cows and giving away milk for free.
I still cringe.
I told Shelby that story once during a sleepover when we were fourteen. We had no idea what it meant. We Googled it and ended up crying with laughter. I think that was the same night we made a pact to only settle for boys who appreciated us and metaphors that didn't compare us to livestock.
Now here I am. Climbing out the same window like it's some sacred rite of passage. But unlike my sister, I'm not sneaking out to meet a boyfriend. I'm not even dating whoever sent that text.
Unknown: Meet me at the hollow tree. 11:15 PM.
Right. Super normal. It was absolutely not a murderous act.
I never would've done this for James. That relationship was a slow-moving train wreck, and this incident adds another damning checkmark to the list. I never felt spontaneous with him—just stuck.
Now I find myself here, dressed in ripped jeans and a cardigan, contemplating whether I should carry a weapon.
Do I even own a weapon?
Oh. Right. I still have my old softball bat in my possession. Barely used. I played for one season and suffered two concussions. The pitcher had it out for me.
I mentally picture myself charging into the woods with a bat and a messy bun. Yeah, no. If the situation turns into a horror movie, I'm going to be the girl who trips.
Gripping the frame, I straddle the sill and slide one foot into the lattice. My sneaker finds a crossbeam, and I begin to climb down, slowly, like some amateur rock climber who didn't sign the waiver.
Every creak of wood makes my heart jolt.
Halfway down, I pause, clinging to the vines like they're going to whisper encouragement.
This is so dumb.
The front door exists. The front door.
Note to self: use it next time.
Next time?
Oh no. Am I already planning a sequel to this idiotic adventure?
What is wrong with me?