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 summoned Pokémon. “I’ll bring snacks!”

He brought a bag of uncooked lentils and a Capri Sun. So. That was useful.

We closed the gas station early. As we gathered our things, I heard Emily say with a smirk, “Just write something about a time loop. Tell them we'll be back never.” So, we taped a sign on the door that read, 'SORRY, TIME LOOP. BACK NEVER.' With that, we left.

The door to The Archive didn’t feel real up close. It didn’t reflect light right. I touched it once, and my hand went kinda...fuzzy. Like I’d stuck it into static.

“Are we gonna die?” I asked because that felt like a fair question.

“Eventually,” Emily said, and kicked the door open.

Inside was worse.

It didn’t look like an archive.

It looked like a dream where libraries go to have nightmares.

Bookshelves reached up toward the ceiling, twisting at impossible angles. Some floated. Some dripped ink. Some whispered. I’m pretty sure one even tried to flirt with Greg?

“I don’t like it in here,” I muttered.

Greg? looked completely at ease. “This place smells like centipede romance.”

No notes.

Signs hung above the aisles, but the words kept changing. Who You Were turned into Who You’ll Be, then changed again to Not Yours Anymore.

I swear I saw a sign that said Liz, don’t.

Naturally, I kept going.

We split up, because of course we did. I don’t know why horror makes people stupid. Maybe it’s a rule.

I walked into an aisle labeled Personal Records. Every book had a name on its spine. Some were people I knew, like locals or customers. Others were names I almost recognized but couldn’t quite place, like a word you forget as soon as you wake up from a dream.

Then I saw one labeled Eliza (Primary).

It pulsed.

I reached for it, fingers hovering, then brushed the cover.

And the moment I touched it, my nose started bleeding.

Again.

I quickly pulled my hand back. The book hissed at me. Seriously, it actually hissed.

A voice behind me said, “You weren’t supposed to find that.”

I turned around.

Nothing there.

Just the shelf.

The book was gone.

Somewhere deeper in the maze, Emily screamed.

I ran as fast as I could, slipping on something slick and red. I didn’t stop to find out what it was. I just kept going.

I found her gripping the edge of a floating shelf, panting hard. "Something was—" she gasped, "—following me." Her breaths were ragged, words coming out in bursts. "Didn’t see it. Just heard—" She paused, chest heaving. "Breathing. And footsteps—two sets."

Greg? showed up again, holding a book that had teeth. “I found a guide to kissing insects. We should leave.”

“Agreed,” Emily and I said in unison.

Of course, the exit wasn’t where it was supposed to be. The whole place had changed. The aisles now looped around, and every sign said STAY.

At one point, we passed an aisle where a younger version of me was walking. Same hoodie. Same tired eyes. Different haircut.

She didn’t see me.

She vanished around a corner and was gone.

No one said anything. We just kept walking.

Eventually, we found the exit.

Greg? held up the bag of lentils like he’d won a prize.

Emily slammed the door shut behind us.

The air outside felt thin. Wrong.

We all stood in silence for a moment.

Then Emily looked up at the sky and said, “That moon has too many teeth.”

I looked.

She wasn’t wrong.

Back at the station, things were off.

Slightly.

Subtly.

Enough to notice, not enough to prove.

The Slushie machine started giving out flavors we’d never had before. My apartment key looked the same, but the cuts were reversed. The Welcome to Hollow Pines sign now had tiny letters at the bottom that said You’ve Always Been Here.

And my phone?

My lock screen used to be a picture of Chairman Meow in a cowboy hat. Now it’s a photo of me asleep in the break room, with something standing in the doorway.

Tall.

Shadowed.

Too many arms.

Exactly like what I saw during the Slushie machine blackout.

Emily hasn’t said much since we got back.

She’s been quieter than usual, even for her. When I asked if she was okay, she said, “No one comes back from the Archive the same. Not even the town.”

Earlier, Greg? started a sentence with, “Back when I had lungs.” That’s not exactly comforting.

The map from the brochure?

The Archive is gone now.

Replaced by something labeled simply: Resting Grounds.

And someone, or maybe something, left a sticky note on the counter when I wasn’t looking.

It says:

Don’t go back.

Some of you stayed behind.