*Chapter 2: Hollow Creek*

The drive to Hollow Creek took three hours, and every mile made Evelyn more certain she was making a mistake.

The highway thinned out into a two-lane road lined with bare trees and fields that looked dead even in October. Fog rolled in around 4 PM, thick enough that her headlights barely cut through it. Her phone lost signal twenty minutes outside the city, and the GPS kept rerouting her in circles.

“Great,” she muttered, gripping the steering wheel. “Missing, presumed dead. That’ll look good on my obituary.”

Her car was old. A 2012 Honda with 180,000 miles and a heater that only worked if she hit the dashboard just right. She’d saved for six months to afford this trip. Gas, one night at the Hollow Creek Inn, and back. If the lawyer said the inheritance was a joke, she’d be back in her apartment by tomorrow night, jobless and still broke.

The sign for Hollow Creek appeared suddenly, half-hidden by ivy.

_Welcome to Hollow Creek. Population 1,184. Est. 1892._

The town was small and quiet in a way that felt wrong. No one was on the streets. The shops on Main Street had faded signs and dusty windows. A diner called “Mabel’s” had a neon sign that flickered. An old church sat on a hill, its steeple pointing at a sky that never seemed to clear.

Evelyn found the Hollow Creek Inn on the edge of town. It was a three-story building with peeling paint and a porch that creaked when she walked on it. The owner, an older woman named Mrs. Doyle, eyed her like she was trying to decide if Evelyn was trouble.

“You’re here for the Blackwood thing, aren’t you?” Mrs. Doyle said as she handed over the key. Room 12. No elevator.

Evelyn paused. “How’d you know?”

Mrs. Doyle smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Everyone in Hollow Creek knows when someone goes to Blackwood Manor. It only happens every ten years or so. And it never ends well.”

“Reassuring,” Evelyn said.

“Don’t go out after dark,” Mrs. Doyle added, dropping her voice. “And don’t trust Elias Blackwood. He’s his father’s son.”

She didn’t explain what that meant. She just turned and walked away, leaving Evelyn with a room that smelled faintly of mildew and a key that felt too heavy.

Room 12 was small. One bed, one chair, one window that looked out toward the hills. Beyond the trees, she could see the silhouette of Blackwood Manor. Even from here, it was massive. Dark stone, broken towers, windows like empty eyes.

Evelyn set her bag down and pulled out the locket.

She’d never opened it before. It was stuck, the clasp corroded with age. She worked at it with her thumbnail until it clicked open with a soft pop.

Inside was a photo. Two men, young, standing in front of Blackwood Manor. One was her grandfather, Thomas Hart. The other was Alistair Blackwood. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing.

On the back, written in her grandfather’s handwriting: _“For my daughter’s daughter. Keep the truth safe.”_

Evelyn’s hands shook.

Truth about what?

She looked up at the manor in the distance. The fog had thickened, swallowing the lower half of the building. It looked like it was floating.

Her phone buzzed. Signal was back, for once. A text from Chloe: _Don’t do anything stupid. Call me when you get there._

Evelyn didn’t reply.

She was too busy staring at the manor, and feeling the strange pull in her chest that said: _You belong here. Even if you don’t know why._

Tomorrow was October 15th.

Tomorrow, she’d walk through those gates.

And whatever Alistair Blackwood left her, she’d face it.

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