Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
She tilts her head, studying my face. I can’t be the only one who’s ever watched To 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 actually like it 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??
Wren: omg did you actually find a ghost or just cute locals?
I smile despite myself and type back:
Me: I’m fine. Small town, of course I heard about Mason coming home.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. Should I tell her about the glowing green mark? The curse? Declan?
No. She’ll panic, demand I FaceTime her, and order me to come home.
Me: Just researching. I’ll send pics later.
I shove the phone back into my bag and close my notebook. The longer I sit here, the harder it is to ignore the ache under my skin—the restless pull to see Declan again. To make sure he’s okay. To prove last night wasn’t a fantasy sewn out of fog and bad decisions.
By the time I leave the library, the clouds have burned off enough to paint the storefronts in watery sunlight. The shop door to Chocolate Enchantments is propped open, and the scent of sugar wafts out like a siren song.
Inside, the girl behind the counter looks up and grins. “Back so soon?”
“For research purposes,” I tell her solemnly, pointing at the display. “Maple walnut, Rocky Road, and…surprise me—just nothing with mint.”
She laughs. “Rough day?”
“Let’s call it complicated.”
“You got it.”
A few minutes later, I step back onto Main Street clutching a paper bag heavy with a box of fudge. Should I go back to the inn?
Maybe Declan’s done for the day? I turn left toward House of Ink & Iron. If he’s still working, maybe he won’t mind me watching?
The closer I get, the faster my heart pounds. The shop’s tinted windows make it nearly impossible to see inside without pressing my nose to the glass.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and push open the door. The bell jingles overhead.
The scent of cleaner and coffee hits my nose first. Then silence. No machines buzzing at the moment. No one grunting through the pain of getting inked.
Feminine laughter curls around the corner. My heart stops. I cock my head, listening. Is Declan with a client who’s ticklish?
That’s the best-case scenario.
Laughter trills again, luring me further into the shop.
It’s probably just a client. Nothing to get worked up over.
Why didn’t it ever occur to me that Declan probably sees women half naked all the time? He touches them. Plans art for their bodies. Finds the perfect placement on their skin.