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 town map.

But this time, something caught my eye. There's a building on the brochure that I don’t recognize. It's like a jolt of electricity, sparking my curiosity.

I unfold the map. Near the center of town, across from the bakery and between the barbershop and the library, is a place labeled:

The Archive.

It's… not real. I know that street. I walk it all the time. There’s just an alley there. A weird alley that smells like ozone and wet pennies, but definitely no building. The discrepancy between what I know and what the map shows is unsettling.

I stare at it for a long time. Something about it itches the inside of my brain.

“Hey, Emily?” I call. “Do you know what The Archive is?”

She doesn’t even look up. “Oh, yeah. It’s always been there.”

“No, it hasn’t.”

She glances at me now, eyes narrowing. “Don’t start that.”

“What?”

“That ‘this place wasn’t here before’ thing,” she says. “That’s how people get… messy.”

“Messy, how?”

She sips her Slushie. “Ever seen spaghetti in a blender?”

That’s not helpful.

I turn the map over. There’s a handwritten note in red ink:

Remember who you were. Before.

The room tilts.

I sit down behind the counter, suddenly lightheaded. My hands are shaking. I don’t know why I’m reacting this strongly. It’s just a map. It’s just paper.

Except it’s not, is it?

I try to think. Try to remember.

I strain my mind, trying to recall the last memory before waking up in Hollow Pines. It's like grasping at smoke, the details slipping through my fingers.

I concentrate hard.

Something flickers in my mind. It's not a full memory, just fragments. A hand gripping mine. A train. The sound of a voice calling my name from a distance.

And then—

Sharp pain lances through my head. My nose starts bleeding.

Greg? appears at my side instantly, like he was waiting.

“Don’t do that,” he says softly.

“Do what?” I manage, pressing a tissue to my nose.

“Try to remember. It pushes back.”

“What does?”

He just stares.

The room swims. The lights pulse. My ears are ringing now like someone cranked the world’s worst emergency alert.

I try to stand, but the floor tilts again, and I collapse. The last thing I hear is Emily shouting something about salt lines before everything goes black.

I wake up on the breakroom couch with a wet paper towel on my forehead and a bowl of dry cereal in my lap.

Greg? is poking at a Ouija board with a spork.

Emily chews on a granola bar and watches me like I might explode.

“You good?” she asks.

I groan. “Define ‘good.’”

“You didn’t scream,” she offers like that’s progress.

Greg? beams. “You leaked a little brain fluid! Very on brand.”

I sit up. “What the hell happened?”

“You remembered too hard,” Emily says. “Hollow Pines doesn’t like that.”

“So what, it just… knocks me out?”

“Sometimes,” Greg? says. “Sometimes it eats you. Or replaces you with a version that smells like a wet dog.”

I blink.

Emily shrugs. “We’re just glad you’re back.”

I look down. The map is on the floor next to me.

The Archive is still there. Still labeled. Still real—at least on paper.

I pick it up carefully. “Do either of you remember going there? Ever?”

Emily frowns. “No. But it’s always been there.”

Greg? claps. “Oooh! A field trip!”

“No,” I say. “No field trips.”

But later, I find myself walking toward that alley after work.

Just to look.

Just to confirm.

It’s still an alley. Trash cans. Brick walls. A cat that might be Chairman Meow’s evil twin stares at me and vanishes into a shadow that shouldn’t exist.

But when I walk away and turn back for one last glance…

There’s a door where the wall used to be.

A heavy iron door with no handle.

Painted across it, in perfect black script, are three words:

DO NOT ENTER.

So naturally, I reach for it.

And the door disappears.

At the gas station, Emily was waiting for me with two Slushies.

“Thought you might need a drink.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking it. “So what is The Archive?”

She stirs her Slushie with a spoon straw. “Some people say it holds every version of Hollow Pines. Every timeline. Every forgotten memory.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And some people?”

She shrugs. “Some say it’s where the town keeps the things we’re not allowed to know.”

“Cool. Super chill.”

Greg? pops up from under the counter, holding the Employee Handbook again. “It says here that employees are discouraged from accessing off-map locations unless properly shadow-cleansed!”

“Greg? Put the handbook down.”

He drops it and salutes. The handbook lands with a thud, flips itself open, and the pages ripple like they’re breathing.

I ignore it for now.

There’s something in this town trying to keep me here.

And I think I just found its front door.