CHAPTER ONE
Emery
The red lighton my camerablink, blink, blinkslike a tiny, steady heartbeat. I lock it onto the tripod, frame the old covered bridge behind me, step in front of the lens, and switch on my journalist voice.
“Hello, my curious crows. Emery here. For weeks now, my comment section has been begging—no, demanding—I come to Crowsbridge Hollow to investigate its so-called spooky happenings. You asked. I listened.”
I angle the camera toward Main Street.
“And here I am. Just in time for Creepy Christmas Season. This sleepy upstate New York town has absolutely committed to the aesthetic.”
I pause, scanning the street. “The carolers wear fangs, the fog rolls in like it’s a paid actor, and the coffee shop sells something called a Corpse Nog Latte topped with a chocolate skull.”
Phew. That was a mouthful.
A sharp breeze carries the river’s breath across my face. Cold pine. Wet stone. Smoke from a woodstove somewhere down Main Street.
I swing the camera around for B-roll footage. The bridge stretches over the narrow creek, timber ribs dark with age,iron rosettes pitted and scarred. Planters brimming with yellow and rust mums block either end. A stern sign announces, “Pedestrians Only.” Across the planks, a tourist in a black-and-red cape gallops across the planks, a plastic sword raised in triumph. At the mouth of the bridge, someone waits, phone held high as they film and laugh. A pair of crows watch from a railing leading up to the bridge with bright, cynical eyes, as if finding the human performance disappointing.
Between two lampposts, a paper banner droops and flutters.
SEASON’S CREEPINGS—CELEBRATE WHAT HAUNTS THE HOLLOW.
In smaller type, almost an afterthought:
Please respect our bridge.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket to check the screen.
Wren: Filming yet? Don’t forget. Need 20 sec hook for shorts
I thumb back a reply.
Me: got it. Festive and freaky all over. I’ll try not to die of frostbite.
Three dots. Then another text pops up.
Wren: Please actually don’t die. Trend alerts popping bc of missing kid. Remember, keep tone compassionate.
I know. I know. Sheesh. Mason’s name repeats in my head like an uneasy whisper. Sixteen. Vanished after a dare at the cemetery. Police have no clue. Is he just a teenager doing teenage things or is something more sinister happening?
Maybe my opening was too flippant. Should I redo it?
I promised my followers no grief tourism. No filming crying parents for clicks, no turning the living into gossip fodder for views. That’s not journalism, it’s ghoulish. My byline used to run in a real newspaper, and even though the masthead’s gone, thetraining stuck. I still follow the code to be curious and seek the truth. Only difference is now I chase the stories legacy media has ignored—the ones that blur the line between folklore and fact.
I hit record again and step in front of the camera.
“Okay.” My voice remains calm, steady, and professional. “Before we unwrap today’s small-town legend, a serious note. A teenage boy—Mason Baker—disappeared last week. He was last seen near Crowsbridge Cemetery. If you know anything, contact Sheriff Bertram’s office. Links in the description. Remember, we’re curious crows, not cruel clowns. Mason has family who is worried about him, so be kind in the comments.”
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and pivot toward Main Street. Porches strung with quivering ropes of red-and-black garlands. A bakery window stacked with gingerbread skulls, bone-white sugar cookies, and dark chocolate Yule logs. Another shop advertisesKrampus Keepsakes—Naughty List Approved. Everything about this town screams, “empty your wallets, merry little tourists.”
Across from the bridge sits a narrow brick building painted black, the windows tinted dark, the door a slab of wood banded in iron. Gold lettering on the glass window statesHouse of Ink & Iron, with an extra-swirly ampersand. I love a good ampersand. Instantly intrigued, the shop’s name hums in my head like sleigh bells hitting an enticing note.
I slip my camera into its bag, fold my tripod, and tuck it in the outside pocket.
“Note to future me,” I mutter for my audio notes, holding my phone up to my lips. “Interview owner of Ink and Iron. Tattoos can carry more folklore than T-shirts and cupcakes.” Knowing I’ll probably forget to listen to the voice note later, I uncap a blue pen and flip open my notebook. Blue ink smears my fingers. Of course it does. My hands always look like I wrestled a rainbow-farting unicorn and lost. Sighing, I jot a quick note, then tuck the pad and pen away.
Eager to interview some locals, I head toward Main Street. A woman at a folding table sits beneath an awning strung with flickering red bulbs and paper snowflakes shaped like skulls. The sign behind her readsCrowsbridge Artisan Market—Handmade for the Damned and the Divine.
