My shoulders tense automatically. “Wonderful news” in this town feels awfully ambitious.
I stop at the front desk and paste on an attentive smile. “What’s that?”
“They found the boy who was missing.”
“Mason?” I search my brain for his last name. How could I forget about him? “Baker, right?”
She nods quickly. “The Bakers are such a nice family. So lucky to have him back safe and sound.”
I open my mouth to ask where he was, but it seems inappropriate. “That’s great. What a relief.”
“Yes.” Her gaze strays to the front door. “Not every family is so lucky.”
Given what I learned at the library, that seems like an understatement.
She lowers her voice and leans forward. “Can you believe it? Supposedly he met a girl online and took a bus down to Virginia to meet her.”
“That’s bold,” I say carefully. Didn’t his parents ever teach him about stranger danger? “He’s lucky it didn’t end…um, badly.”
She tilts her head, studying my face. I can’t be the only one who’s ever watchedTo Catch a Predator, can I?
“Well,” she says, straightening, “her parents saw the reports about him being missing and called.”
“I don’t blame them.” I shift my bag higher on my shoulder. “Well, I’m glad he’s home.”
“Headed out to explore again?” she asks, voice lilting with curiosity.
“Library first, then who knows. I’ve got some local folklore to chase down.”
“Well, don’t go chasing it too far,” she says with a wink. “The Hollow has a way of keeping visitors longer than they plan to stay.”
Her words burrow deep. I actuallylikeit here. What would it be like to stick around? Or maybe it’s not the town. Am I just infatuated with Declan?
Outside, Main Street smells faintly of rain and woodsmoke. The fog thins to lazy wisps that cling to the trees on the hill. A picturesque peace has enveloped the town, making it hard to believe it’s the kind of place where anything bad could possibly happen.
Still full from my plate of waffles and fatty meats, I walk at a brisk pace through the streets, admiring the architecture and stopping to read any plaques with historical information. The Creepy Christmas theme seems to be spreading throughout town. More black-and-red garlands coil around signs and railings. A Victorian storefront window displays a Christmas village, except the little ceramic carolers have red, glowing eyes and too-wide painted smiles on their deranged little faces. A Christmas tree on the courthouse lawn is decorated with bone-white ornaments that I hope aren’t real bones, tiny keys, locks, and itty-bitty black coffins. A large black crow perches on top as the tree topper. I pause to frame it and snap a few pictures.
Eventually, I end up at the library. A sign on the front door lists dates and times for various Creepy Christmas events, yet another reminder of the town’s unique quirkiness. Inside, the noise of the town drops away. It’s quiet except for the occasional squeak of the old radiator.
I spend hours combing through brittle newspaper archives and local histories. Half the articles mention the Rider in one form or another—always as a shadow, myth, or a cautionary tale. Never as something that actually exists.
The mark on my wrist disagrees.
My notes pile up in fragments and messy bullet points.
Recurring motifs: iron, bridges, bargains, bloodlines.
Earliest account: mid-1800s, Sterling family mentioned.
Possible connection: harvest festivals and “The Offering Ride.”
Somewhere between folklore and tragedy.
When I check my phone again, I’ve got three new messages from Wren.
Wren: you alive? Did you hear they found the kid?
Wren: why aren’t you posting stories??
