Chapter 1. Halden’s Grove Has Secrets
And one just called your name . . .
The well dried up 150 years ago.
At least, that’s what the plaque says on the edge of the forest. It sits crooked and rusted like it's trying to sink back into the dirt, like even the sign knows it shouldn’t be here.
Halden’s Grove moved on, mostly. The town has kept it’s . . . unique charm, but has paved over its memories with small restaurants and creepy culdesacs.
But if you ask around long enough, people start shifting in their seats.
Because everyone in town knows something is wrong. They just don’t agree on what.
Some say the well swallowed a child. Others claim the town used to toss anyone in deliberately. A demon? A curse? Alien witchcraft? Pick your poison. The rumors slither like roots through the town's collective memory, warping every sidewalk crack and foggy trailhead into something vaguely sinister.
But last night, the well whispered your name.
Not in a dream. Not as a metaphor. You were standing in the hallway outside your father’s bedroom, listening to him mutter nonsense in his sleep like usual. Then—clear as if someone stood at your shoulder, their breath whispering in your ear—you heard it: your name, rasped and wet like it crawled up from a throat full of soil.
You turned. Nothing. But something in your gut turned with it.
You’ve only been back in Halden’s Grove a week. Your father’s dementia had gotten worse, according to the home nurse. You feels as if it’s shattering into a million pieces, but you have to duct tape that son-of-a-bitch together for the sake of your father. You’ve witnessed food dribbling out of his mouth and sliding down his face, you can see the anguish in his eyes as well — this wasn’t how he pictured his retirement years either.
You on the other hand, left your city apartment, your job, your halfway-built life, and even your brand new spanking hawt partner to come sort through a house full of junk and memories that feel like they belong to someone else. You're 45, exhausted, and already Googling escape plans when you find it . . .
An old book. Pages warped. Spine cracked. Tucked inside, a note in your father's handwriting:
"The well still speaks. Have you heard it?"
Your fingers go cold. The note is dated sixteen years ago. Long before the dementia.
The next morning, you’re sleep-deprived, and ready to get jacked-up on coffee, thank goodness this town upgraded and got a decent coffee shop. Everything else in this town, old, decrepit, and decaying. You check your phone and scroll your socials, distracting your mind for a few moments. Trying not to think about the way your father's eyes stay fixated on the woods through the window as he sits in his wheel chair.
You decide you need answers. And not just about the well. About everything.
You stop by Halcyon Grounds, the trendy coffee shop that used to be a church. The barista, a guy with a septum ring and "NO GODS, NO MASTERS" tattooed under his collarbone, asks if you’re new in town. You lie and say yes.
He smiles. "Then watch out for trivia night. The locals drink like it’s their job and spill stories they shouldn't."
You take a quick sip of your nitro cold brew coffee, nod and wave good-bye. Today wasn’t the day to engage in the coffee shop, your father was waiting for you.
Once you get home, you stand at the window while your father enjoy his lunch staring at the edge of the forest, resting in your backyard. Fog begins seeping in through the trees like breath. You don’t see the well, it’s too far in the woods.
You feel it. Like it knows you're here. Like it's been waiting.
Suddenly, something begins to itch your brain, you remember something else your father used to say, before the disease hollowed him out:
"What lies below is older than God, and far more patient."
You thought he was quoting something.
But now . . . you’re not so sure.
What do you do next?
Take the septum ring barista up on his advice and go to trivia night at the local brewery and steer conversation toward town legends. People talk more when they're drunk—especially when they’re scared.
Sneak into the town’s historical archives—now locked after hours—and dig into what "The Hollowing" really was.