Chapter 2. Mouths Need to Feed
The well isn’t a place. Neither. Both. Something Else.
You stood in the middle of your kitchen for what felt like an hour, staring at your phone, weighing the options. Trivia night with beer-bloated locals or a B&E into dusty archives? Neither sat right. Each had its appeal—answers, stories, maybe even a breadcrumb or two—but you couldn’t move.
The house felt like it was watching you. Not just your father this time, slumped silent in his wheelchair by the window —but the walls. The floorboards. The air. Something in the grain of the wood hummed too loud when it should’ve been still.
Eventually, your feet made the decision for you.
Not toward the car.
Not toward the archives.
Not even toward the woods.
You found yourself at the base of the attic ladder. The one your father had padlocked from the inside. The one that creaked at night, even when no one was up there.
You shouted loud enough for the in-home nurse to hear, "Are you going to be okay down here with Pops? I need to find something."
She was sitting next to your father reading a book, probably one of those smutt ones that are so popular nowadays,
You hear her respond, "Of course, I am actually going to get him ready for bed . . ."
Her voice trails off as she continues talking, but you've already stopped listening.
You look down and you’re holding a hammer, but you don’t remember grabbing the hammer. The lock breaks easier than you expected. Rusted. Brittle. Like it’s been waiting to let go.
As if it’s been waiting for you.
The attic air hits you like a cough—thick, dry, and hot. Dust motes swirl in the narrow beam of your phone’s flashlight. You step up, boards groaning beneath you. The space is cramped, cluttered, and smells like old secrets.
At first, it’s just boxes. VHS tapes. A yellowed taxidermy squirrel missing half its face. But then you see it.
In the far corner of the attic, surrounded by a circle of blackened candles, sits a miniature replica of Halden’s Grove, covered in a thick dust.
Not just a model—the town. Accurate to the brick, down to the cracked fountain outside the mayor’s office, including the new coffee shop reavamp. There’s even a tiny version of your childhood home. You lean in closer. Inside, a matchstick-sized wheelchair sits parked at the back window. Your father has been too sick to make any adjustments to the model, so . . .
The town’s lights come on inside of the model.
Your stomach flips.
Right next to the town model, half-buried under a moth-eaten cloth, you find it: a journal. Bound in soft, worn leather. Heavy as sin.
You open it.
Your father’s handwriting. But not the fragile, shaky scribbles of now. This is clean, bold. Dated many, many years ago.
“The Hollowing began before we arrived. The town invited us from inside my dreams. The well is not a place—it’s a mouth. And mouths need to feed.”
You flip further.
“The miniature began moving last summer. Houses shifted. People disappeared from the model—and then, from Halden’s Grove. I think the well is keeping count.”
“I tried to stop it. I failed.”
You hear a sudden creak behind you.
But you’re alone. Right?
You turn off your flashlight. Hold your breath.
Another board snaps. Shadowy movement.
Something else is breathing.
And it knows you’re here.
What do you do next?
Investigate the model—touch it, move a piece, see what happens. If it’s a map, maybe it’s also a key.
Keep reading the journal—there may be instructions hidden inside, or a warning you haven’t uncovered yet.
Get the hell out of the attic, now. Something’s waking up, and you don’t want to be here when it does.
