The waitress's hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Mara saw it the moment she slid the coffee across the table. Her fingers trembled, knuckles scraped raw, tips red and pulpy, like she'd clawed at something buried too deep. There was something frantic about the way she moved — her motions sharp and jerky, as though she were afraid of touching anything too solid.
Her gaze flicked down to the counter, avoiding Mara's eyes. She whispered, barely audible, "It's fresh," before retreating behind the counter, disappearing into the pale glow of the overhead light.
The Durn Hill Diner was almost empty. The hiss of the coffee machine and the soft clink of silverware were the only sounds that filled the space. Just Mara, the waitress, and the man sleeping upright in the booth near the window. He wore dark sunglasses, despite it being the middle of the night, and the fog outside had turned the sky an oily violet, thick and heavy.
Mara didn't touch the coffee. She let the cup sit, cooling, the steam rising in lazy curls. Instead, she pulled out Samantha's sketchbook and laid it flat in front of her. The pages were starting to feel familiar, the patterns beginning to emerge — but there was one page that caught her attention this time.
It was different.
A dark figure stood beneath a tree, arms impossibly long, neck bent at an unnatural angle. The limbs twisted wrong, folding in on themselves like a broken doll. There was no face, only a smooth void where one should have been. The thing's shape was wrong in a way that made Mara's stomach churn, her fingers curling into fists at her sides.
The date scrawled beneath the image read TOMORROW.
Mara's breath caught in her chest. She stared at the page for a long moment, the image haunting her, but before she could process it, the door to the diner chimed. A gust of cold air swept in as the door creaked open.
A girl stepped inside, shaking off the dampness of the night, her brown curls matted with leaves, her hoodie torn at the sleeve. One shoe was missing, her feet bare against the dirty floor. She walked with a stiff, deliberate gait, heading straight to the counter.
The waitress froze.
"Mia… I thought…" she began, her voice unsteady.
"I came back," the girl said, her tone flat. She didn't look at the waitress. Didn't even flinch when the woman's voice broke. "But I'm not staying."
Mara stood, her legs stiff. Something in the girl's presence made the hairs on her neck stand up, the stillness of the diner suddenly suffocating.
The girl saw her and flinched, eyes wide, like she'd just noticed Mara for the first time.
"You're the one asking about Samantha," Mia said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Mara nodded. She'd already seen enough to know that the connection between Samantha and this town went deeper than she could have imagined. "Yes. I'm looking for her."
Mia's eyes flickered, a brief flash of something — recognition, fear, maybe both. Then she looked away, her gaze darting around the diner before settling on the booth.
"I did know her," Mia murmured, stepping past the waitress without meeting her eyes. "I need to tell someone before I forget again."
Mara's chest tightened. She motioned to the booth, not knowing what to expect but too curious to turn away. Mia slid into the seat, her knees twitching nervously under the table.
The girl's breath hitched before she began. "My brother went missing last winter. He was hiking the west trail, near Dead Elk Hollow." Her hands twisted together in her lap. "No one looked for him. No one cared."
Mara already knew the pattern. The silence that followed every mention of the missing. The feeling of things being left unsaid, buried beneath the surface, like something festering in the dark. The townspeople had forgotten. It was how things worked here.
But Mia didn't stop. "I went after him. Alone."
Mara leaned forward, her body tense. She had to know more. "What happened?"
Mia didn't answer right away. Instead, she reached into her coat and pulled out something wrapped in paper. She unwrapped it slowly, her hands trembling, and then she slid it across the table. A photograph. Two figures stood in the forest. One, a boy — the other…
Mara stared at it, her breath catching in her throat.
The second figure was tall. Too tall. Its limbs were thin, too thin, and the body itself was a seamless, glossy black, like bark stretched too tightly over bone. The edges of its form split in places, as though the skin was cracking open, revealing nothing beneath. There was no face. Just a void. The kind of emptiness that sucked the air out of your lungs.
Mia's voice broke through Mara's thoughts. "I thought it was a man. At first. But it's not. It's not a person."
Mara's throat tightened, her pulse racing. She wanted to ask what it was, but the answer was already forming in her mind.
"It doesn't think like we do. It doesn't move like we do. It doesn't hunt. It waits. It waits until we forget what we buried."
Mara swallowed hard. Her mind spun, the pieces of the puzzle coming together too quickly, too violently. She thought of the sketches, the roots, the whispers. The thing that Samantha had described — that Grady had feared. The Hollow.
"What happened when you saw it?" Mara's voice was tight, the words heavy on her tongue.
Mia's eyes flickered, distant for a moment. "I ran," she whispered. "It didn't chase me. It didn't have to."
Her voice was low, but Mara could hear the unspoken terror beneath it. "What do you mean, it didn't have to?"
Mia didn't answer immediately. She stared at her hands, her fingers curled in on themselves. Then, slowly, she pulled up the sleeve of her hoodie.
Mara's eyes went to her arm, and her stomach clenched. A spiral mark was etched into Mia's skin, burned into her flesh like something between a tattoo and a scar. The pattern twisted in on itself, a series of circles and lines. It didn't look like a normal wound. It was something older, deeper. Something that shouldn't have been there.
"It knows what you regret," Mia whispered, her voice cracking. "And it wears it."
Mara's heart stuttered. She thought of the recorder, the voices, the things buried in the ground. "What do you mean?" she asked, but the question felt pointless now.
"It wears your regrets," Mia repeated, her voice hollow. "It wears your guilt, your fear. It becomes what you wish you could forget. And once it knows your past, it becomes your past."
Mara couldn't speak for a moment. The weight of it pressed on her chest, and she felt like she couldn't breathe. Her mind raced back to the sketchbook. Samantha's voice. The tree. The thing beneath it.
"Where did you find that photo?" Mara asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "That one of the creature…?"
Mia's lips twisted in a small, hollow smile. "It was in my phone. But I never took it."
She reached into her coat pocket again, this time pulling out her phone. The screen was shattered, the glass spider-webbed across the display. But when Mia pressed a button, the screen flickered to life.
There it was.
A photo.
Mara. At the table. Sitting across from Mia.
And behind her — standing just inches away, tall, impossibly thin, its body contorted in the way that only it could move. Its face was a void. There was no one there, but the figure loomed over her like a shadow. It felt like it had been waiting, just outside the edges of Mara's awareness.
Mara's pulse quickened. She jerked around, spinning in her seat, but the diner was empty. No one was standing behind her. But the air had grown colder. The smell of decay, like wet earth, filled her nose.
Mia's voice barely registered. "It only shows up when you remember what you shouldn't."
The air felt thick with it now. The heaviness, the watching presence.
Mara stood, her legs unsteady. "Where do you live?"
Mia didn't hesitate. "Come on."
They stepped out into the cold night, the fog thickening around them like a living thing. Mia led her through the streets of Durn Hill, the houses falling apart, neglected, forgotten by time. They reached the edge of town, where a rusted trailer sat perched on the dirt. The windows were covered in tin foil. Deer skulls hung from the porch like wind chimes.
"You should leave," Mia said, stopping at the steps. Her voice was too calm, too resigned. "While you still can."
Mara opened her mouth to reply, but the words caught in her throat. "I've tried. The roads loop back. There's no exit."
Mia's lips curled into something that might have been a smile, but there was no warmth in it. "Yeah. It wants you now."
Before Mara could respond, a knocking sound echoed from inside the trailer.
Not at the door. Not the walls.
Beneath the floorboards.
Mia's face drained of color, her eyes wide with something too close to terror. "It found me again."
Mara stepped forward, pulling Mia behind her, but as they entered the trailer, something shifted in the air. The smell of mildew and pine tar suffocated her, and the feeling of being watched was unbearable.
The furniture was overturned. Drawers pulled open, spilling their contents onto the floor. On the wall, scrawled in charcoal, were the words:
"YOUR BODY REMEMBERS WHAT YOU DON'T."
The knocking came again. Louder now.
Mara stepped forward, her pulse drumming in her ears. She followed the sound down the hallway, to a trapdoor she hadn't noticed before.
"No," Mia whispered, her voice small, tremulous. "Don't open it."
Mara hesitated.
The door creaked slightly on its own.
The whisper came again.
"You let her drown."
Mara's blood ran cold.
The voice wasn't Mia's.
It wasn't Samantha's.
It was hers.
Her sister's.
A name Mara hadn't spoken aloud in ten years.
The whisper echoed through her skull, too familiar, too painful. It was a memory she had buried so deep she almost forgot it had ever happened. The memory of watching her sister slip beneath the surface of a dark lake, drowning — and doing nothing.
"You watched. Did nothing."
Her knees buckled, and she gripped the edge of the trapdoor to steady herself. The whisper crawled beneath her skin, settling deep in her bones.
Mia was sobbing now, her face turned to the wall, her body shaking.
"It's not a person," she whispered again, her voice muffled by her own tears. "It's a mirror."
Mara turned, pulling Mia away from the door, her heart thudding in her chest. She slammed the door shut and locked it.
The knocking stopped.
But inside her mind, the words continued to echo.
Her sister's voice.
The guilt.
The root growing in the dark.
Later that night, Mara couldn't sleep.
The mirror in her motel room's bathroom had begun to warp. Not broken — but breathing. She stood before it for over an hour, watching her reflection. Watching the way her face shifted, the way her eyes seemed to grow darker with each passing minute.
Then it smiled.
But she didn't.