The bus wheezed and groaned to a stop, its brakes shrieking like a wounded animal. Jack Riley stepped down onto the cracked asphalt. The heat of the late afternoon clung to him like a second skin. The town of Carver’s Hollow spread out before him in muted shades of grey and brown. Crooked streets wound their way through uneven rows of weather-beaten buildings. Their facades faded and chipped, like old photographs bleached by decades of sun and dust.

Jack adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and took a slow breath. The air smelled of damp earth and pine, tinged with something metallic, as though the town itself was rusting from the inside out. He surveyed the quiet streets. He noted the shadows that pooled in corners where the sun didn’t quite reach. The hollow murmur of a river nearby was the only sound besides the low rumble of the departing bus.  

The town had the feel of a place that had been forgotten—not abandoned, but left behind by progress and ambition. Even the people seemed to belong to another time. Jack could see a woman standing in the doorway of a general store, wiping her hands on a faded apron as she eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and caution. Across the street, an older man leaned against a lamppost. His posture was loose but his gaze was sharp. Jack could feel their eyes on him, their curiosity palpable, but no one made a move to approach.  

He walked toward the small diner he’d seen in his research, a place called Millie’s, which doubled as a community hub. The chipped sign swung gently in the faint breeze, its peeling paint revealing an older name beneath. Jack’s boots crunched against the gravel as he moved, and with every step, he felt the weight of the town pressing in on him, as though it were a living thing that resented his presence.  

The streets were unnervingly quiet. No cars drove past, no laughter or chatter echoed from the houses. Even the birds seemed subdued, their songs distant and muted. Jack was used to small towns, but there was something different about Carver’s Hollow—something uneasy, like the feeling of being watched in a room you thought was empty.  

Inside Millie’s, the bell above the door jangled softly as Jack entered, the sound carrying into the stillness of the diner. The place was nearly empty, save for a man hunched over a cup of coffee at the counter and an older woman wiping down the far end of the counter with slow, methodical movements.  

The air was thick with the scent of fried food and stale coffee. A single ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, doing little to combat the stifling heat. The linoleum floor was worn and scuffed, the tables scratched with the marks of decades of use. Jack slid into a booth by the window, setting his bag beside him as he pulled out his notebook.  

The woman behind the counter—Millie, he assumed—glanced up, her sharp eyes narrowing as she took him in. She didn’t stop wiping the counter but called out, “Coffee?”  

Jack nodded. “Please.”  

Millie poured a cup and brought it over, setting it on the table with a practiced ease. She was stout, her graying hair pulled back into a neat bun, and her face bore the lines of someone who’d seen too much but talked too little.  

“Not often we get visitors,” she said, her tone neither welcoming nor unfriendly, just factual. “You lost?”  

“Not lost,” Jack said, offering a small smile. “Just here for work.”  

She didn’t return the smile. Instead, she leaned a hip against the edge of the table and crossed her arms, her gaze steady. “What kind of work?”  

“I’m a journalist,” he replied, taking a careful sip of the coffee. It was bitter and strong, but he needed it after the long bus ride. “I’m working on a story.”  

That got her attention. Her eyes narrowed further, and she tilted her head slightly. “What kind of story?”  

Jack hesitated, knowing he was stepping into dangerous territory. “I’m here to learn more about Evelyn Hale.”  

At the mention of the name, Millie’s face darkened, and the diner seemed to grow quieter, though Jack hadn’t thought that was possible. The man at the counter shifted slightly, glancing over his shoulder before returning his attention to his coffee.  

“Evelyn Hale,” Millie repeated, her voice low. “What business do you have with her?”  

“I just want to understand what happened,” Jack said. “People have questions about her, about her brother. I want to give her a chance to tell her side of the story.”  

Millie snorted softly, shaking her head. “Her side of the story. That’s rich.” She straightened, her hand gripping the edge of the table for a moment before she turned back toward the counter. “You’d best tread lightly, mister. This town doesn’t like outsiders stirring up trouble.”  

Jack watched her go, her warning hanging heavy in the air. He scribbled a few notes in his book, but his thoughts were already racing. The mention of Evelyn’s name had changed the entire mood of the diner, and he couldn’t ignore the way the man at the counter was now pretending not to listen, his shoulders hunched and his movements deliberate.  

Jack waited a moment before standing and approaching the counter. The man glanced up, his expression guarded.  

“Excuse me,” Jack said, keeping his tone casual. “Do you know Evelyn Hale?”  

The man frowned, his eyes flicking to Millie, who was now studiously ignoring both of them. “Why do you want to know?”  

“I’m trying to understand what happened,” Jack said, meeting the man’s gaze. “The truth about her and her brother. I think it’s a story people need to hear.”  

The man hesitated, then shook his head. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, friend. Best to leave it alone.”  

“Why?” Jack pressed.  

The man set his coffee cup down with a clatter and leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Because some things are better left buried.”  

When Jack stepped out of the diner, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the street. He felt the weight of the town’s silence more keenly now, a sense of something unseen pressing against him. The townsfolk who had watched him earlier were gone, their windows dark and their doors firmly shut.  

As Jack made his way toward the small inn where he’d booked a room, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a curtain drawn back, a figure silhouetted in the window of a house down the street. But when he turned to look, the curtain fell back into place, leaving only the faint impression of someone standing just beyond his reach.  

Jack quickened his pace, his mind racing. Carver’s Hollow was a town full of secrets, and Evelyn Hale was at the heart of it. Whatever had happened here—whatever truths lay buried beneath the surface—he was determined to uncover them.  

Even if it meant stirring ghosts that the town wanted to keep buried.