he road to Dawnhollow wasn't on any GPS.
Eva Stone knew that as soon as her signal dropped twenty miles before the last known checkpoint. Her phone went black at precisely 2:44 p.m.—as if something had cut it off on purpose.
She drove in silence after that.
The forest grew denser with every turn. The trees pressed closer to the road, their limbs bent like they were whispering to one another—listening. The sky never fully opened above her, just stayed overcast and low, like a lid screwed too tight.
Her tires crunched gravel as she passed a faded wooden sign:
WELCOME TO DAWNHOLLOW Population: ~
The number had been scratched out.
And spray-painted beneath it: "Don't stay past 3:33."
Eva tapped the brakes. Something in her chest clenched.
She told herself it was just vandalism. Kids. Superstition. She was a trauma counselor, here to work with survivors after a teacher and three students had been found dead in the woods last week—eyes open, mouths full of dirt, hearts stopped without cause.
No wounds. No footprints.
Just silence.
She pressed on.
—
The village looked like it hadn't aged since 1965. Stone buildings with boarded windows. A general store that hadn't stocked new items in years. A post office with no mailbox. The only movement was a loose banner flapping in the wind above the church gate.
It read: "We Remember Because We Cannot Forget."
The phrase meant nothing to her. Not yet.
She parked outside the inn—if it could be called that. A converted house with four rooms and a chipped black door. She knocked once.
No answer.
Then, from the darkened window beside it, a voice: "You shouldn't be here."
Eva turned. A woman stood behind the glass, pale as smoke, her eyes never blinking.
"I'm here to help,"Eva said. "I'm not afraid."
A pause. Then the latch clicked, and the door opened just wide enough for her to slip in.
—
The air inside smelled like dust and ash. Unused. The innkeeper introduced herself only as Miss Hallow. No last name. No questions.
She handed Eva a brass room key attached to a dry bundle of lavender and murmured, "Keep it under your pillow."
"For what?" Eva asked.
Another pause.
"Tonight's your first night."
Eva didn't sleep.
Not when the walls creaked without wind.
Not when the clock in the hall stopped ticking at 3:33.
Not when, from somewhere beneath the floorboards, she heard a knock… then another… then a slow dragging sound.
And not when she sat up and realized—
The lavender was burning. But there was no flame.
Only smoke.
And a whisper.