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 happy.

That’s the part that really messes with me. I look… content. Like I belong here.

Anyway.

Tonight’s weird started early.

Emily’s perched on the counter, sipping an unnaturally red Slushie and reading a possibly cursed comic. I know it’s cursed because it whispered when she turned a page. We both heard it, but neither of us acknowledged it.

She’s wearing a hoodie that says, “Die Mad About It,” and hasn’t spoken in 45 minutes, which is a personal best.

Greg is rearranging the energy drink fridge according to color and vibration frequency. When I asked him how he knew the frequency at which a can vibrated, he looked at me and said, “You can hear the thirst.” I'm too afraid to ask what that means.

I don’t know what that means. I’m too afraid to find out.

That’s when I hear him say, from the back room: “Oh. That probably shouldn’t be here.”

Words you never want to hear in a gas station.

I peek into the back room and see Greg standing over a box in bold black marker, "EMPLOYEE MATERIALS—DO NOT OPEN." Naturally, it’s open.

“Where did you find that?” I ask.

Greg? blinks his too-shiny eyes. “It was behind the wall.”

“Behind… what wall?”

“The one that wasn’t there yesterday.”

Right.

He pulls out a thick binder that looks older than time itself. The cover is cracked faux leather and says, “Hollow Pines Gas & Market—Employee Handbook, 1st Edition.”

He opens it.

The lights flicker.

Emily looks up from her comic. “Hey, uh… maybe don’t read from the cursed book?”

Greg? beams. “Oh, but it has a Mission Statement!”

“Dude,” I say. “Put it down.”

Too late.

He clears his throat and reads aloud:

“In the event of temporal displacement or uninvited interdimensional entities, employees are advised to maintain eye contact, speak only in palindromes, and offer a complimentary corn dog.”

The room shifts.

The air itself bends for half a second. The slushie machine makes a noise that sounds like a scream trapped inside a kazoo. Greg? drops the book.

Behind us, a resounding thud echoes from the ceiling.

We all freeze.

Emily slowly slides off the counter. “What was that?”

“Ceiling gremlins?” I offer.

There was another thud, a drag, and a scratching sound, like something huge with too many legs was moving across the roof.

Greg? perks up. “I think it’s coming inside.”

“Why would it do that?”

“Maybe it wants a corn dog,” he says innocently.

Emily shoves the binder into a trash bag, duct-tapes it shut, and stuffs it in the mop closet. The noise stops immediately.

We all just… stand there for a second.

Then Greg? says, “Well, that was fun.”

Later in the shift, I take a break outside. The night is cold, still, and heavy. There’s a mist that clings to the pavement like it has opinions. I light a cigarette even though I don’t remember being a smoker.

Across the parking lot, the Hollow Pines town sign glows faintly under the streetlight. I walk over. I don’t know why.

I run my fingers along the edge of the sign, and I feel something carved into the metal. On the back, in small, shaky letters, someone has scratched:

YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO STAY.

Cool. Totally normal.

I step back, my heart pounding just a little faster.

As I head back toward the store, something catches my eye—a flyer taped to the side of the ice machine.

It’s a Missing Persons poster.

And it’s me.

Same face. Same hair. Same tired expression.

It says I’ve been missing for six months.

I stare at it, unable to breathe.

There’s no phone number. Just a single line:

If found, return to Hollow Pines.

I rip it down and shove it in my pocket.

Back inside, Emily’s sitting cross-legged on the counter again. Greg? is alphabetizing the gum by syllable.

I slide behind the register, trying not to look like I’m on the verge of a complete existential collapse.

Emily eyes me. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Missing persons poster,” I say, voice low.

She doesn’t blink. “You or someone else?”

“Me.”

She nods like that’s normal. “That explains the static.”

“What static?”

She gestures vaguely at me. “You’ve got this… hum. Like you’re not fully tuned in. I assumed it was trauma. Or maybe ghosts. Could still be ghosts.”

Greg? looks up. “Did you read your own entry in the handbook yet?”

“I’m in the handbook?”

He shrugs. “Everything’s in the handbook. I think the handbook writes itself.”

Great.

Wonderful.

Just what I needed.

I lean against the counter and stare at the dark, misty road leading out of town.

Except… it doesn’t. I realize now that I’ve never seen anyone actually leave Hollow Pines. Cars come in. People show up. But no one ever leaves.

I swallow hard. “Do either of you remember how I got here?”

Emily doesn’t even hesitate. “You’ve always been here.”

Greg? nods enthusiastically. “Like the gum under the counter.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“I didn’t say it should.”

There’s a long silence.

Then, the radio changes.

Not the song. The station.

Static fills the air for a second, and then a voice comes through—precise, mechanical, genderless:

“Liz, please wake up. This isn’t real. You need to wake up.”

All three of us freeze.

The lights flicker.

Greg? drops a can of Monster.

Emily's slushie machine shuts off with a mechanical wheeze.

The voice repeats—just once.

“Liz. Please. Wake up.”

Then the radio clicks back to Tally Hall like nothing happened.

The lights stop flickering.

The moment passes.

I look at Emily.

She looks at me.

Then she says, “Want me to make you a corn dog?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. That sounds great.”