"The Sacrifice Was Accepted."
That blood-smeared message was found again this morning—scrawled in thick, crimson letters across the wall of a barn.
Right where the Miller family's boy vanished.
No witnesses. No signs of struggle.
Just silence... and that message.
It was the fifth disappearance in a month.
Dustville no longer whispered in the shadows.
Fear had taken root.
Outside, the wind howled through crooked streets.
Fog, like a living creature crept between buildings, devouring everything it touched.
Inside the old town hall, the air was thick and heavy.
Three of Dustville's most powerful men sat around a worn wooden table—the mayor, the sheriff and the banker. Their faces pale in the flickering light of a single lantern.
The banker was the first to speak.
Slamming his fist on the table, he shouted:
"Sheriff, how much longer are you going to sit there? Five people are gone. Five!"
The sheriff clenched his jaw, saying nothing.
Another man leaned forward:
"You're the only law left in this town. People are counting on you. You can't just stand by."
The mayor's voice was cold and gravelly:
"You always said you weren't afraid of anything, Sheriff. Time to prove that wasn't just talk."
Finally, the sheriff spoke. his voice laced with exhaustion and frustration:
"What do you want from me? I've searched every damn inch of this cursed town."
Silence swallowed the room.
Outside, something tapped against the window. A branch, maybe. No one moved.
Dustville used to be a quiet place...
Until the disappearances began.
No bodies. No signs of violence.
Only one thing left behind each time:
"The Sacrifice Was Accepted."
The sheriff slammed both hands on the table:
"I know you're scared. So am I. But don't dump this all on me!"
The banker shot back:
"You're the sheriff! If you can't stop this madness, who can?"
The sheriff stood abruptly, eyes blazing:
"No sane man throws his life away chasing a ghost!"
Just then, a dry, rasping cough broke the silence.
From the shadows, an old, cracked voice emerged:
"Someone will…"
Everyone turned toward the corner of the room.
It was old Mac, the town's eldest, half-forgotten man.sitting near the fire, his hands trembling.
The sheriff squinted at him;
"You're not starting that old bounty hunter story again, are you? That's just a myth. If he ever existed, he's long dead."
Mac didn't even blink.
"He's real. I saw him once. Moved like the wind—silent and fast. His target was dead before they even knew."
One of the men snorted:
"Mac, you're so old you probably dream that stuff while you're awake."
Laughter followed. But Mac didn't move.
Mac:"Put out a bounty," he whispered. "Spread the word. If he's still out there… he'll come."
The sheriff scoffed:
"You seriously expect me to believe in fairy tales?"
Mac looked straight into his eyes.
"You don't have to believe. Just pray Arnold's still out there..."
The sheriff opened his mouth to reply, but the mayor raised a hand: "Wait. What if he's right?"
The room fell quiet again.
The mayor scanned their faces.
"Even if there's the slightest chance this 'Arnold' exists, we need him."
The sheriff stared at the ground for a long moment. Then gave a slow nod.
"Alright. We'll spread the word tomorrow. Let's see if this bounty hunter really exists."
Just then, a sudden gust slammed against the window.
The lantern's flame flickered violently.
The mayor adjusted his collar and muttered under his breath:
"Meeting adjourned."