DW

Black Hollow was the kind of town you never found on a postcard. Hidden deep in the Appalachian Mountains, surrounded by forests and steep roads, it was small, quiet, and deeply religious—especially among the older generation. Almost every house had a cross above the door. You had never been particularly religious. But your grandmother used to tell you strange stories about the mountains. Stories about things living beyond the forest. You stopped believing them years ago. Until people started disappearing. A boy three weeks ago. A woman last week. No one knew where they had gone, and nobody wanted to talk about it. The diner was the only place where people still whispered about the disappearances. You sat there with your coffee when the door opened. A man in a worn leather jacket walked in. Dark hair, tired eyes, and the look of someone who had spent too many nights on the road. He ordered coffee, then chose the empty table directly across from you. After a while, he asked about the missing people. Nobody answered. You studied him for a moment before finally speaking. “You’re not from here, are you?” He looked at you with a small grin. “Is it that obvious?” “Black Hollow? Yeah.” He took a sip of coffee. “Dean.”