“Oh, for fuck's sake,” I breathed.
“Nathaniel.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
The woman had the aggressive friendliness that made my skin crawl. She cooed over how “cute” I was, called me “city boy”before I'd said two words, and kept touching my arm like we were old friends.
“You must be so excited to start at our little school,” she gushed, steering us toward the front porch. “Everyone's been talking about the new English teacher's son. We don't get many transfers, you know.”
Great. I was already Hollow Pines' daily entertainment.
“Can't wait,” I said, deadpan enough that she actually paused mid-sentence and looked at me sideways.
“Oh.” She laughed, but it sounded nervous. “He's got a sense of humor, doesn't he?”
Mom jumped in with some bullshit about how I was “adjusting to the move,” but I'd already checked out. Instead, I catalogued details—the way Beth's smile never quite reached her eyes, how the house smelled like fresh paint and something else I couldn't identify, musty and wild. Animal, maybe. The grandfather clock someone had left behind ticked too loud in the empty living room, marking time like a countdown.
To what, I didn't know. But every instinct I had screamed that Hollow Pines was keeping secrets.
While my parents dealt with paperwork and key exchanges, I drifted toward the front window. Outside, the rain had stopped, but mist still clung to everything like the world was holding its breath. A few neighbors lingered on their porches and sidewalks, pretending to go about their business while stealing glances at our house.
At me.
I hated being the center of attention. In Portland, I'd perfected the art of blending into backgrounds, becoming invisible. Here, I might as well have had a neon sign flashing “OUTSIDER” over my head.
Fine. If they wanted to stare, I'd give them something to look at.
I slipped outside while my parents argued with Beth about utility transfers, camera case slung over my shoulder. Cool air hit my face, carrying scents that made my nose twitch—pine and damp earth and that wild smell from inside, stronger now. It reminded me of camping trips with Mom when I was little, sleeping in tents while coyotes howled in the distance.
Except this didn't feel like coyotes.
Main Street stretched in both directions, lined with shops that looked like they'd been frozen in time. Moonbeam Café, with its hand-painted sign and steamed windows. Finley's Florist, where an older woman with silver hair watched me from behind a curtain of hanging ivy. The barbershop, the general store, the library—all of it picture-perfect and faintly menacing.
Because that was the thing about perfection. It always hid something rotten underneath.
I lifted my camera and started shooting. Click—the way shadows pooled between buildings like spilled ink. Click—lamposts that flickered in broad daylight for no reason I could see. Click—the florist woman's face disappearing behind her ivy when she realized I'd spotted her.
Each shot felt like claiming territory. This place wanted to define me, label me, put me in a neat little box marked “City Boy Who Won't Last.” But if I documented it first, if I made it mine through my lens, maybe I could flip the script.
Maybe I could figure out how to belong here before it decided I didn't.
Morning came too soonand too gray, clouds hanging low enough to touch the treetops. Mom fluttered around our new house like an anxious bird, checking and rechecking that weboth had everything for our first day. Dad had already escaped to “set up his home office,” which really meant hiding from Mom's nervous energy.
Smart man.
“Do you have your camera?” she asked for the third time, smoothing down my hair like I was five years old.
“Mom.” I caught her hands, stilling them. “I'm fine. It's just school.”
“I know, I just—” Her smile wobbled at the edges. “I want this to work out for us. For you.”
The weight of her hope pressed against my chest like a physical thing. She'd given up her tenure-track position in Portland for this job, had convinced Dad to leave everything familiar behind because she believed Hollow Pines could save me. Save us.
No pressure there.
“It will,” I lied, because what else could I say?
She kissed my forehead, grabbed her teacher bag, and we walked to school together in comfortable silence. Mom's heels clicked against the sidewalk as she mentally rehearsed her first day lesson plans, while I catalogued potential photo opportunities—the way mist caught in spider webs, how the old streetlights looked like sentries in the gray morning light.
