The next morning arrived shrouded in thick fog, as if the village itself wished to remain hidden from the light. The church bell rang out the hour—seven sharp—though few were awake to hear it. Hallowbridge had taken on a sullen quiet, broken only by the occasional clatter of a shop shutter or the rustle of a coat against bramble.
Arthur walked the village square with measured steps, his hands buried in the deep pockets of his coat, his hat pulled low. Already, the eyes had begun to follow him.
From behind curtains and cracked doorways, the villagers watched. Not openly. Not with curiosity. But with suspicion, and something more primal: fear.
A boy of no more than ten peeked around the corner of the bakery, his face pale and drawn. When Arthur met his gaze, the child vanished like a leaf on the wind.
The square itself was almost abandoned. The butcher's shop sat closed, a sign in the window that read "Out for Supplies." The grocer, an elderly woman named Martha Greaves, was sweeping her front step with unnecessary vigor. When Arthur passed her, she paused.
"You shouldn't be here," she said without looking up.
Arthur stopped. "Excuse me?"
"You stir things that should stay sleeping." She looked up now, eyes hard and rheumy. "You think the dead care about your detective work?"
"I'm not here to stir anything," Arthur replied calmly. "Only to find the truth."
Martha shook her head. "That's the problem, Mr. Stoker. Truth's more dangerous than lies in a place like this."
He was about to respond when Doyle emerged from the alley beside the tavern, waving him over.
"Thought I'd find you out here," Doyle said. "You're making friends already, I see."
"They're afraid," Arthur replied.
"Of you."
"No," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "Of what they've tried to forget."
Doyle nodded. "Come on. There's someone I want you to meet."
⸻
The old chapel stood just beyond the cemetery's edge. It had long since stopped being a place of worship and now served as a community hall, though no one in the village used that term. The interior smelled of cedar and damp linen. Inside, an older man with a bent spine and a stare like a sharpened knife was organizing a row of chairs.
"Arthur Stoker," Doyle said by way of introduction. "This is Reverend Elric Ashcombe."
Ashcombe did not offer his hand. "So the prodigal returns," he said flatly.
"I don't recall needing your blessing to come home," Arthur replied.
Ashcombe's lip twitched. "You lost that right when you brought her here. Helen."
Arthur took a slow breath. "Say what you mean, Reverend."
"I mean she asked questions. Poked at things best left buried. And you—" he leaned in slightly, "—you were the one who handed her the spade."
Arthur stepped forward, lowering his voice. "Are you suggesting what happened to her was my fault?"
"I'm saying Hallowbridge does not take kindly to outsiders. It never has. And those who dig tend not to leave."
The words hung in the air like a noose. Doyle cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"We didn't come here to argue theology," he said. "We came to ask about the symbol. The spiral with the eye. You've seen it before?"
Ashcombe looked at them both for a long moment, then sighed. He walked to a cabinet at the far wall and pulled out a bundle of aged papers, yellowed and stiff with age. He spread one across the table. The symbol was there—etched with crude ink, nearly identical to the one carved into the body.
"We call it the Eye of the Hollow," Ashcombe muttered. "An old sigil. Pre-Christian, they say. Legend goes it's a mark of passage. A sign that something has crossed over."
"Crossed over?" Arthur asked.
"From the Hollow."
Arthur frowned. "You mean the forest?"
"No. The Hollow," Ashcombe said firmly. "Older than the trees. Deeper than the soil. A space between things. A crack where light doesn't go. Some say it was sealed centuries ago. Others say it never was."
Doyle shifted. "You really believe this?"
Ashcombe looked him dead in the eye. "I believe what I see. And I've seen enough to know when the Hollow stirs, something always follows."
Arthur turned to leave. "Legends don't kill people," he said over his shoulder.
Ashcombe's voice followed him like a curse: "Don't they?"
⸻
Outside, the sky had grown darker, though it was barely noon. Clouds coiled like smoke above the village. The air was dense and cloying, as if the earth was holding its breath.
As they walked back toward the square, Arthur slowed, sensing movement ahead.
Three villagers stood clustered near the well. Two men and a woman. Stout, broad-shouldered. Eyes full of heat. When Arthur and Doyle approached, they didn't move aside.
"You don't belong here, Stoker," one of the men said. His name was Harris Kent. Arthur recognized him from the old days—he ran the mill before it burned down under mysterious circumstances. "Bad enough what happened with Helen. Now this."
"I'm not here to cause trouble."
"You brought it with you."
The woman, Maureen Hales, stepped forward. "We don't want your kind here. You ask questions, dig up ghosts. That's how things start."
Doyle placed a hand on his badge. "That's enough."
"No, it ain't," Harris said. "He needs to go."
Arthur met their eyes, one by one, his voice low and cold. "If I go, people will keep dying. Is that what you want?"
Silence.
Then Maureen spat near his boots. "People been dying long before you came. The difference is, now they don't stay dead."
She turned and left. The others followed.
⸻
That night, Arthur stood once again at the bridge.
The river was nearly still, its surface reflecting the stars like a shattered mirror. He leaned against the old stone railing, staring into the dark water below. Somewhere beneath it lay a truth no one wanted spoken.
He took Helen's journal from his coat and read her final entry again.
"I've seen it. In the woods. In dreams. It has no face—only eyes. And even when you wake, you still feel them. Watching.
They tried to warn me. Said the Hollow feeds on memory.
But I have to know what's on the other side."
Arthur closed the journal, the chill crawling into his fingertips. He stared across the water.
The other side.
⸻
Back at the vicarage, he peeled off his coat, lit a single candle, and stared at the wall.
A sound.
He turned quickly. Nothing.
Another sound—closer. Like something scraping across wood.
He moved to the window, peering into the darkness outside.
There—just at the edge of the woods—a figure.
Still.
Watching.
Arthur's breath caught. The figure didn't move, didn't flinch. But somehow, he knew… it saw him.
A flash of pain seared behind his eyes.
He blinked—and the figure was gone.
He stepped back, heart hammering.
Outside, the wind whispered.
Inside, the candle guttered.
And somewhere in the trees, something opened its eyes.