---
By evening, the fog had thickened into a dull gray blanket that swallowed the town whole. Greystone Hollow didn't look like a place people could still live in — but somehow, they did. Behind the cracked sidewalks and boarded windows, there were signs of life: laundry hanging on lines, the faint hum of a generator somewhere far off, a flicker of light behind curtains that were always drawn.
I found an old inn still open, just down from the main road. "The Willow Rest," said the faded sign, half covered in moss. Inside, the air smelled of damp wood and old coffee.
The woman behind the counter looked up when I came in. Her hair was gray, her eyes sharp, and when I told her my name, her hands hesitated mid-motion.
"Elara Vale?" she asked, voice low.
"Yes," I said carefully.
She studied me for a long moment, then handed me a key. "Room 6. Upstairs. Try not to stay out too late. Nights here… aren't quiet anymore."
I wanted to ask what she meant, but the look in her eyes stopped me.
Room 6 was small — one bed, one window, one lamp that flickered as though uncertain whether it wanted to stay alive. I sat down, pulling out the photo from my pocket. My fingers trembled slightly.
The man beside my mother — who was he? Why did he have the same pendant? I'd worn this necklace every day since I found it in the ruins when I was twelve, clutched in my father's hand. I thought it was the last thing connecting me to them. But now it felt like something else.
Something that had been waiting.
I turned the picture over. The back was blank — except for faint writing near the bottom corner, half-burned away.
"October 17 — the Hollow Tree."
The Hollow Tree.
The name stirred something in me. I'd heard it before — whispered among the neighborhood kids when I was little. A tree older than the town itself, hollow at its center, used as a hiding place. It stood behind the remains of our house, near the forest line.
I stood and looked out the window. The night pressed against the glass, and beyond the pale reflection of my face, I could just make out the edge of the woods.
The Hollow Tree was still there.
I didn't wait until morning. I grabbed my jacket and flashlight, and left.
---
The air outside was colder than before, heavy with the scent of wet earth and smoke. I followed the dirt path behind my house, my flashlight cutting through the fog. Branches hung low, brushing against my shoulders like fingers.
When I reached the tree line, I saw it — the Hollow Tree. Massive and ancient, its bark blackened, but still standing. Its roots snaked through the ground like veins of coal.
I crouched beside it, sweeping the light across the base. Something metallic glinted faintly.
An old box.
It was rusted shut, buried halfway beneath the soil. My hands were shaking as I dug it out, my heart pounding in my ears. I didn't even realize I was whispering aloud until I heard my voice:
"Please, let there be something. Please."
The lid creaked open, and inside lay a small cassette tape. The label was smudged, but one word was still visible, written in fading ink:
"Elara."
My breath caught. I hadn't heard my mother's voice in ten years, but in that moment, I knew this tape was hers.
I held it to my chest, eyes stinging. I was about to close the box when I noticed something else — a folded piece of paper, fragile as ash.
On it were five words, scrawled in shaky handwriting:
> "They didn't mean to burn."
I read the sentence again and again until the words lost meaning. Who didn't mean to burn? My parents? The house? The town?
Suddenly, I felt the air change — colder, heavier, as if the night itself was holding its breath. I looked up.
A shape stood by the edge of the trees.
At first, I thought it was a trick of the fog — a darker patch within the gray. But then it moved.
Tall. Still. Watching.
My flashlight trembled in my hand as I raised it. The light hit empty space. No one was there.
But the ground where the figure had stood was marked — a single footprint pressed deep into the mud.
I stepped back slowly, clutching the tape.
Somewhere behind me, the wind shifted, carrying a faint whisper that brushed past my ear.
> "Play it… before they do."
---
I ran back to the inn. I don't even remember unlocking the door, only the sound of my breathing — sharp, uneven, desperate. I sat on the floor beside the bed, hands shaking as I dug through my suitcase for my old cassette player.
It still worked. Barely.
I slid the tape in and pressed play.
Static. Then a soft click.
And then…
My mother's voice.
> "Elara… if you're hearing this, it means they found out. It wasn't an accident. The fire wasn't—"
A loud crackle cut her off.
> "Don't trust anyone from the Hollow. Not even the ones who remember you."
Then silence.
The tape whirred softly as it ended.
I stared at the player, heart pounding, my reflection staring back in the dark plastic screen.
Someone had been watching me. Someone still knew who I was.
And my mother — she'd known this would happen.
I pressed my palms against my face, trying to stop the shaking.
Outside, the wind rose again, carrying faint voices with it. Not words. Just whispers.
But I understood them.
They were coming.
---