False Prophets & Dead Gods

 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...

 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...

 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...

 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...

 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...