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Hollow Pines Gas & Market (Part 4)

 I don’t know why I do the things I do. Actually, I do know. It’s because Emily said, “You won’t,” and I have a disease called spite. That’s how I ended up at The Archive’s door at 3:04 AM, with a crowbar in one hand and a Slushie in the other, while my gut told me this was a terrible idea. Spoiler: it was. Let me back up. Earlier, while I was restocking the jerky wall (don’t ask) and trying not to think about the blood-on-the-map memory wipe from the other night, I noticed something new on the security monitors. The alley behind the bakery, which is supposed to lead nowhere, now had a door. Again. Same place I’d seen it before. Same heavy iron slab. Same words etched across it: DO NOT ENTER. Only this time? It was open. Just a crack. Just wide enough to see flickering light inside. Not fire. Not electricity. Just...light. The kind that doesn’t cast shadows. I showed the footage to Emily. She immediately grabbed her hoodie and said, “Let’s go.” Greg? appeared beside us like a summo...
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Hollow Pines Gas & Market (Part 3)

 There are exactly three places in Hollow Pines to get a brochure: 1. The welcome kiosk by the post office that smells like bees for some reason. 2. The town hall lobby, which is open 24/7 but never has any staff. 3. And then there's our gas station, with a brochure rack that defies explanation. It's a rotating metal contraption that always seems to restock itself, a phenomenon I've never understood. Tonight, the brochures are different. It’s 1:07 AM. Emily is deep in her usual shift rituals—Slushie in hand, headphones in, softly mouthing the lyrics to some band that sounds like a haunted typewriter. Greg? is doing yoga in aisle 4. (“Stretching the exoskeleton,” he called it. I didn’t ask follow-up questions.) I’m organizing the counter when I notice one of the brochures is sticking out slightly. It’s printed on thick cream-colored paper and titled Hollow Pines: A Community of Timeless Charm. I’ve seen these before. They usually include fun facts, bad stock photos, and a to...
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Soft as Teeth

 I didn’t plan it. Not really. I told myself I had, stuffed granola bars and an old hoodie into my school bag like I was preparing for some noble quest. But all it took was one fight—just one more screaming match with my mom—and I was out the door before she could even finish cursing me out. It was getting dark when I reached the edge of the woods behind the old quarry. I knew the trails well enough in daylight. I knew where the kids went to sneak cigarettes, where the creek split into two, and where the trees got so thick you could pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. But that was daytime. Now, everything looked wrong. Bigger. Quieter. Like the trees were holding their breath. I didn’t stop walking. I couldn’t. If I stopped, I’d start thinking about how my phone was dead, how I didn’t even have a flashlight, how I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I wasn’t scared, though. Not really. Not yet. I was angry. Angry enough to sleep in the dirt if it meant I didn’t have to hear he...
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The Three Crosses (Part 2)

 After the basement, I didn’t sleep for two days. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the name pressing behind them—trying to get in. Or trying to get out. I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t even remember it. But I knew it had teeth. The name lived in the dark, in the mold along the basement walls, in the dirt clinging to the soles of my boots. It whispered through the radiators, the wind, and the creak of old bones in the walls. I started hearing things. Not voices, not exactly. Just... repetitions. Footsteps upstairs when I was downstairs. A knock at the door, but no one outside. A scratching sound in the ceiling, like a mouse—except the pipes bent toward it. Like they were listening. Something was changing. On the third night, I blacked out. I was in the kitchen, making coffee, when the world skipped like a scratched record. One second I was pouring water into the machine. The next—I was standing on Cross Hill. Barefoot. Middle of the night. No phone. No coat. Just me and the crosses a...
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False Rapture

 I woke to the sound of trumpets. Not music, exactly—something lower, older. Like a brass section buried beneath centuries of Earth, playing through waterlogged lungs. It wasn’t a song so much as a summons, and every dog in the county howled at once, a shrill chorus rising with the dawn mist. I sat up in bed, bare feet touching cold floorboards, and listened. The sound vibrated through the walls, not loud but deep like it was stitched into the wood and the bones beneath it. I could also hear the church bell ringing, but it sounded distant, almost polite compared to the thunder just beyond the sky. They said the Rapture would come like a thief in the night, but… this was a parade. By the time I made it out onto the porch, half the town was already gathered in the street, dressed in their Sunday best, even though it was Thursday. Old Pastor Elijah stood before the chapel, arms spread wide, head tilted to the clouds. His white robe fluttered around him like it had a mind of its own, c...
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The Wishing Field

 They say the field behind St. Agnes listens. I used to laugh at that when I was young, like everyone else who left town and never returned. Thought it was just the kind of tale old women wove into their quilting bees and Wednesday prayer circles. But standing here now—knees in the cracked dirt, the air heavy with heat, and whispering corn stalks—I can’t quite remember why I ever stopped believing. It hasn’t changed. Same rusted fence. Same wooden sign, burned with the words “Speak True.” Same scarecrow with a burlap face and stitched-on smile, arms out like it’s begging for a hug or a crucifixion. I lower my head and whisper. “I want her back,” I say. “Please.” The corn doesn’t rustle. The wind doesn’t blow. But I feel it—like the field inhales. And something deep in the earth… agrees. --- Her name was Anna. My wife. Dead seven months this week. Cancer got her fast—like the good ones always go. I tried to bargain with God then, too. Promised Him everything. Sobriety. Church. The s...
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Hollow Pines Gas & Market (Part 2)

 I don’t remember moving to Hollow Pines. No cross-country drive, no half-empty moving boxes, no new job excitement or nervous breakdowns over IKEA furniture assembly. Just one day, I was here—with a job, an apartment, a few friends, and a very judgmental cat named Chairman Meow. Everyone acts like I’ve always lived here. Emily waves at me from across the street like we’ve been besties since third grade. The guy at the bakery gives me “my usual” every morning, even though I’ve never actually ordered anything. And Greg?—well, Greg? once brought in a Tupperware full of something that may or may not have been live crickets and called it “an old family recipe,” so I try not to ask too many questions there. I’ve got a key to my apartment. My name’s on the lease. There’s even a photo on the fridge of me and a group of strangers posing in front of the Hollow Pines town sign like we just survived summer camp together. I don’t remember any of their names. Or taking the photo. But I look hap...
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