Faith arrived in Blackwood Hollow with zero expectations beyond “don’t spontaneously combust.” After the whirlwind disaster of her life back in the city—chaotic job, imploding relationships, and the general feeling of being a human snow globe perpetually shaken—her standards for success had dramatically lowered. In the sleepy small town, success now looked like a cup of coffee that didn’t taste like despair and mornings where she didn’t feel like setting everything on fire.
The town itself seemed designed for a slower pace of living, almost aggressively so. It was the kind of place where people still waved at strangers on the street, and the local diner had a “usual” for everyone. Faith didn’t have a “usual” yet, but she had hope—and coffee. She started her mornings on the rickety porch of her new house, mug in hand, staring out at trees and the occasional slow-moving car. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was hers. Well, sort of.
Her house, for lack of a better term, was a fixer-upper in the way that a paperclip and duct tape are “construction materials.” The floors groaned like an old man getting up from a couch, the walls seemed to amplify every creak and shuffle, and the faint smell of stale perfume lingered like a nosy ghost. Faith was certain the previous tenants either hated the place or didn’t survive it. Still, it had four walls, a roof (mostly), and no visible infestations, so she chalked it up as a win.
At first, the house felt alien—like a rental car, she couldn’t quite figure out. Nothing was where it should be, and everything felt off. The floor creaked at the wrong times, the light switches were weirdly placed, and no matter how many windows she opened, the house clung to a faint mustiness that screamed, I’m not your house. But over time, the house and Faith began a cautious détente.
The furniture—mismatched and lovingly described as “vintage” by the realtor (read: old and possibly haunted)—began to grow on her. The lumpy couch, for example, was just the right kind of lumpy for curling up with a sketchbook. The uneven kitchen table, while frustrating as hell for balancing groceries, somehow felt sturdy enough for the kind of late-night existential crises that Faith had become uncomfortably familiar with. Even the drafty window in the hallway started to feel like an old friend, cool air sneaking in like a conspiratorial nudge.
It started small. She tossed a second quilt from the thrift store over the bed, rearranged her books just so on the sagging shelves, and left her favorite mug perpetually on the counter like a flag planted on foreign soil. Her sketches—mostly quick drawings of the birds outside or the faces of the occasionally curious townsfolk—started creeping up the walls. At first, it was just a few pieces of paper taped here and there, but soon, it became a gallery of her life, chaotic and weird but undeniably hers.
By the time the house began to feel like home, Faith found herself talking to it. It wasn’t a conscious decision, more like a habit she stumbled into. “You’ve seen better days,” she muttered while hammering a nail into the wall. Or, “Guess it’s just you and me,” as she locked the door at night. It was harmless enough—just a way to fill the silence.
Until one evening, it wasn’t.
She was closing the drafty window, muttering something snarky about its refusal to do its one job, when she heard it. A faint, low sound. A voice. Not hers.
“You’re losing it,” sang her inner critic, “Time to go to the doc, for some happy pills.”
She froze with her mug halfway to her lips. “NOPE!” she said, her voice suddenly too loud in the quiet room. “Absolutely NOT.” She stared at the window as if it had personally insulted her. “It’s the wind,” she added firmly as if saying it out loud would make it true. Mentally, she dared her inner voice to answer. It did not.
The window didn’t respond either, which was both reassuring and not at all. Faith locked it anyway. Just in case.
It didn’t take long for the townsfolk to identify Faith as the new face on Foxbend Road. Blackwood Hollow had a way of noticing things—or people—almost before they happened. Faith soon found herself making her first cautious introductions to a handful of neighbors, each encounter as warm as it was slightly uncanny.
There was Mrs. Whitley, a retired schoolteacher whose garden looked like it might qualify for a national park designation. Faith met her on her second morning in town while wandering past the meticulously trimmed hedges and riotous rose bushes that surrounded Mrs. Whitley’s neat little house. The older woman, wearing a sunhat large enough to double as a solar panel, straightened up from her flower bed, pruning shears in hand, and smiled like Faith was an old student who had just aced her final exam.
“Good morning!” Mrs. Whitley called, her voice crisp and friendly, the kind that probably made decades of fifth graders sit up straighter in their seats. “You must be the new girl on Foxbend. I’m Mrs. Whitley.”
Faith stopped, feeling momentarily caught in the act of Being New. She gave a polite smile and a small wave. “That’s me. Faith Lawrence.”
“Well, welcome, dear,” Mrs. Whitley said, brushing some dirt off her gardening gloves. “Lovely spot you’ve got down the road. Quiet, isn’t it? Starting fresh, are you?”
Faith blinked. There was something disconcertingly accurate about the assumption, but she nodded, offering a noncommittal smile. “Something like that.”
Mrs. Whitley beamed. “Good for you. Nothing like Blackwood for a fresh start. The air, the quiet—you’ll see. Oh, and if you ever want some clippings for your place, just stop by. A little green can make all the difference in a new home.”
Faith glanced at the roses, their bright blooms practically glowing in the morning light. “Your garden is beautiful.”
Mrs. Whitley looked positively delighted. “Oh, thank you, dear! They’re a fussy lot, but they do brighten up the place. Here.” She snipped a single pink rose with her shears, brushing it off like she was handing over a sacred treasure. “Something cheerful to take home.”
Faith thanked her, holding the rose like it might bite. Mrs. Whitley gave her one last encouraging smile before returning to her flowers, leaving Faith to continue her walk with the distinct feeling that the roses weren’t the only ones being carefully observed.
Then there was Mr. Carson, who looked like he might have been personally chiseled from a weathered piece of driftwood. He was tall and wiry, with sharp eyes and a face that could have been used to model every sea captain in history. He carried a battered tackle box everywhere like there was a high probability of encountering an unexpected river in the middle of Main Street.
The first time Faith passed him on the street, he tilted his head in her direction with a nod so deliberate it felt like a ceremonial gesture.
“Mrs. Lawrence,” he said, his gravelly voice warm, as though they’d been on a first-name basis for years.
Faith paused mid-step. “Uh…yes?” she replied, hesitating. She had no idea how he already knew her name. She’d been sure she’d seen exactly zero fishing captains during her time in town so far.
“Settling in all right?” he asked, studying her like a birdwatcher checking a rare species off his list.
Faith nodded, her polite smile edging toward cautious. “I think so, yes. Thank you.”
Mr. Carson squinted at her like he was filing away her words for later. Then he nodded again, more to himself than to her. “Good. You’ll be fine here.”
And just like that, he was off, the tackle box swinging at his side, leaving Faith standing on the sidewalk with a distinct prickling sensation at the back of her neck. It wasn’t that he’d been unfriendly—quite the opposite. But there was something about the way he’d known her name, the way he’d spoken to her as though her story was already folded into the town’s, that left her feeling vaguely claimed, as though Blackwood Hollow had decided she belonged before she’d even had a chance to argue.
Faith’s trips into town quickly became the tent poles of her new life; each stop was a tiny reassurance that she was, in fact, still tethered to the planet. The town square looked like it had been lovingly preserved by someone who had strong feelings about the 1950s and wasn’t about to let progress ruin it. Rows of shops with hand-painted signs and perfectly creaky doors lined the street, and there wasn’t a chain store in sight. Faith wasn’t sure if that was charming or slightly unnerving, but she decided to go with charming. At least for now.
The bakery was her favorite stop. From day one, Delia, the owner, had welcomed her with the kind of warmth that felt like actual kindness. On her first visit, Faith had walked in, overwhelmed by the smell of sugar and cinnamon and bread, and Delia had handed her a cinnamon roll so fresh it was still steaming. It was, as Faith later admitted to herself, the moment Blackwood Hollow won its first real point.
Now, Faith found herself at the bakery at least twice a week, if only for the smell and the quiet reassurance of Delia’s presence. One morning, as Faith stepped inside, the familiar wave of sugar-scented comfort hit her like a cozy freight train. Delia, already elbow-deep in flour, greeted her with a grin.
“Morning, hon. Settling in all right?”
Faith hesitated, because “settling” felt like a strong word for what she was doing. “Getting there,” she said instead, offering a small, cautious smile. “It’s… quiet here. Nice, but very quiet.”
Delia nodded like she’d heard that one a hundred times before. “It’s a big change, I imagine. But you’ll get used to it. Blackwood Hollow has a way of growing on people.” She glanced up, her expression softening. “And if you ever need anything, you come straight here. We take care of our own.”
That last bit caught Faith off guard. It wasn’t the kind of thing people said where she came from, and if they did, it usually meant they wanted something in return. “Thank …you,” she said, the words catching on the unfamiliar weight of real gratitude.
Delia smiled, her hands never stopping their work. “Oh, it’s nothing, darlin’. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders—I can see it plain as day. We could use more of that around here.”
Faith had no idea how to respond to that, so she focused on the dough Delia was shaping, marveling at how efficiently the woman could turn a blob of flour and water into something magical. It was easier than thinking about how much she wanted to believe Delia’s words.
On another visit, Faith found herself leaning against the counter, sipping a cup of coffee so overloaded with sugar it was essentially a dessert. “You know that old man who’s always on the bench in front of the barbershop?” she asked, swirling the coffee absently.
Delia, busy shaping rolls into what looked like edible perfection, didn’t even look up. “Henry,” she said. “Been sittin’ there longer than I’ve been alive. Knows everything about this town, but I’d bet my best sourdough you didn’t understand a word he said.”
Faith laughed softly, nodding. “Exactly. He patted my arm and laughed for like a full minute. I still have no idea what we talked about. But I think we’re friends now?”
Delia finally looked up, a glint of humor in her eye. She leaned on the counter, smirking. “Sounds about right. Henry’s a man of mystery. And by mystery, I mean no one knows what he’s saying half the time. You’ll get used to it.”
Faith tilted her head, amused. “Do you understand him?”
Delia’s smirk turned into a full-on mischievous grin. She leaned in, adopting an exaggeratedly solemn expression. “Ayuh.”
Faith burst out laughing, nearly spilling her coffee. “Oh no, not you too!”
Delia straightened up, her mock seriousness replaced by an easy laugh. “What can I say? It’s a second language around here. You’ll pick it up.”
Their conversations stayed light, skimming the surface of real intimacy without diving too deep. But with every visit, Faith found herself learning more about Delia—the way she ran the bakery almost single-handedly, her no-nonsense warmth that felt like a hug wrapped in sarcasm, and her absolute refusal to pry unless you practically begged her to. It was a skill, and Faith respected it.
By the time Faith left that morning, a warm roll tucked into a paper bag and Delia’s laughter still echoing in her ears, she realized something. Delia wasn’t just a friendly face at the bakery. She was starting to feel like a friend—the kind of person who might just make this whole Blackwood Hollow experiment worth sticking with.
Faith’s next trip to the hardware store introduced her to Jake, a teenager who looked like he’d been ambushed by his own hair. His unruly mop of red curls flopped into his eyes, giving him the air of someone perpetually in the middle of a Where Did I Put That? moment. He was behind the counter, staring intently at a screw in his hand as if it might contain the secrets of the universe—or at least the answer to why he was holding it.
When Faith approached, Jake was startled and blinked rapidly as if he’d just remembered where he was. “Oh! You’re… uh, the new lady on Foxbend, right?” he asked, his voice soft and a little rushed. He smiled—a quick, friendly thing that faded slightly as his gaze flicked around the store, seemingly trying to anchor itself to something. “I’m Jake,” he added after a pause. “I work here part-time. Mostly.”
Faith waited for him to say more, but Jake’s attention veered off like a squirrel spotting a particularly interesting tree. He fiddled with a stack of pamphlets on the counter, briefly glanced at the tape measures on the wall behind her, and then back to the screw in his hand. He gave it a half-hearted spin before seeming to remember he was mid-conversation.
“Anyway,” he continued, his words coming in quick bursts, “Blackwood Hollow’s a pretty… uh, interesting place. Lot of history. People don’t make a big deal out of things, you know, but there’s trivia. Like, a lot of trivia.” He cleared his throat, looking faintly embarrassed. “They, uh, kind of keep things in order here. Some people say it’s too tidy. But, like, I guess that’s the charm?”
Jake spoke like his brain was five seconds ahead of his mouth, his thoughts tumbling out in starts and stops. It wasn’t hard to see the signs—this was someone whose mind was running at full sprint while his body barely kept up. ADHD? Almost certainly. But there was something else about him that made Faith pause. It wasn’t just the rapid-fire shifts of focus; it was the way he talked. He spoke with a kind of detached precision, recounting Blackwood Hollow’s history like he was narrating a documentary. No gossip, no side stories, no offhand remarks about who’d been spotted sneaking into whose back porch. None of the juicy tidbits you’d expect in a small town.
At first, Faith figured Jake was just avoiding scandal in front of the new girl. But the more he talked, the more it struck her that this wasn’t just him being polite—it was as if Jake didn’t see the gossip in the first place. His stories were clinical, the kind of sanitized history you’d find in a museum where curators carefully kept the messy bits out of view. Blackwood Hollow, according to Jake, was tidy. Very tidy. Which was fine by Faith, really. She’d had enough of messy people and their messy lives back in the city.
Still, there was something a little off about it, like Jake was showing her the town through a spotless pane of glass, all the sharp edges buffed out. Was he on the spectrum? Possibly. Or maybe he was just bad at small-town politics. Either way, Faith wasn’t about to complain. Jake’s brand of scattered sincerity was a refreshing change from the calculated nosiness she’d half-expected to encounter.
By the time their conversation wound down—after a few false starts, an interlude about the proper way to measure wood stain, and Jake briefly wandering off mid-sentence to organize a display of screws—Faith walked away feeling oddly reassured. She knew the facts about Blackwood Hollow now, mostly dates and milestones of the town’s founding, the times of growth, and what it produced - even when the Ladies’ Auxillary replanted the annuals in the flower beds present in the town square. Sure, Jake’s storytelling was a little too polished, a little too clean, but at least she didn’t have to worry about hearing Blackwood Hollow’s dirtiest laundry. At least not from him.
As the weeks drifted by, Blackwood Hollow began to wrap itself around Faith like a favorite hoodie you didn’t realize you needed until you put it on. It wasn’t flashy or fancy—just steady, comfortable, and surprisingly good at making you feel like you belonged. The townsfolk had started treating her like furniture: they noticed her when she was there, nodded politely, and then went about their lives as if she’d always been part of the background. And honestly, that suited her just fine.
Main Street, with its uneven sidewalks and charmingly outdated storefronts, became her daily route. Faith walked it so often that she began to feel like an extra in a movie no one was watching. The shops were familiar now: the bakery where Delia always had something sweet ready with a wink, the hardware store where Jake’s hyperactivity-fueled ramblings sometimes turned into surprisingly useful advice, and the library with its perpetually dusty windows and an unspoken agreement that you didn’t check out books so much as borrow them indefinitely. Each step along those worn brick paths felt less like wandering and more like belonging. Even the crunch of leaves underfoot seemed to welcome her in, like Blackwood Hollow was quietly saying, Yeah, you’re one of us now. Deal with it.
The town seemed to understand Faith in a way she hadn’t expected. People weren’t pushy. They’d nod, toss out a quick, friendly “Morning,” or chat for a minute before leaving her alone. No one pried into her past or tried to fix her life. It was all very “Hey, you’re here now, and that’s good enough for us.” Even when people lingered longer in conversation—like Delia with her knack for warmth or Mr. Carson with his cryptic nods—they always seemed to know when to stop, as if they’d all collectively agreed to give Faith her space. It wasn’t that they didn’t care; they just got that she wasn’t ready to be cared for yet.
And that? That was refreshing. Faith had spent years in places where being left alone meant you were truly invisible. Here, being quiet wasn’t just tolerated; it was part of the culture. Blackwood Hollow didn’t want to fix her, interrogate her, or even really notice her much. It just wanted her to be. That was the kind of rhythm she could get behind.
What surprised her the most was how much she liked it. She hadn’t come to Blackwood Hollow looking for this—whatever this was. She’d been looking for peace, sure. An escape. A chance to breathe and not feel like her world was about to collapse for five minutes. But connection? A place to settle? No, she wasn’t looking for that. Yet somehow, that’s exactly what she’d stumbled into.
By the time autumn rolled in and the trees surrendered their leaves, she realized something strange. She didn’t just exist here anymore. She was living here. Faith could feel it in the way she knew exactly which brick on Main Street to avoid unless she wanted to twist her ankle. In how she had a favorite booth at the diner even though she’d only ever had a bowl of soup there. In the way, her mornings felt incomplete without waving to Mrs. Whitley in her garden or nodding at Henry on his eternal bench outside the barbershop.
She wasn’t entirely sure when it happened, but Blackwood Hollow wasn’t just a place she’d moved to anymore. It had somehow, sneakily, become hers. And, stranger still, she felt like she might just belong to it, too.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and bathed Blackwood Hollow in a warm, honey-colored glow, Faith sat on her porch, nursing a cup of tea from her favorite chipped mug. The town was winding down in its usual, soothing rhythm: the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze, the quiet thump of a window sliding shut somewhere down the street. A cool wind stirred the overgrown grass in the yard next door, sending a few stray leaves skittering across her porch. It was quiet, peaceful—exactly the sort of moment Faith had started to expect from her new life. Simple was good, she was learning. Simple worked.
She was just about to head inside when a shadow flickered across her yard. At first, she figured it was just the wind shifting the shrubs again. But then she saw it—a sleek black cat, slipping through the grass with a grace so smooth it looked like it was skating across the earth. Faith blinked, her mug pausing halfway to her lips as the cat stopped, its luminous yellow eyes locking onto hers.
It was holding something. In its mouth was a small, dark bundle, something furry and limp. Faith leaned forward slightly, curiosity prickling at her. The cat didn’t look like a stray—its fur was sleek and clean, so black it seemed to drink in the golden light of the setting sun, leaving nothing but the faint ripple of its movement. It wasn’t just moving through the shadows; it was a shadow, its body shifting and flowing like ink spilled across the air.
The cat padded closer, stopping a few feet away from her porch. It tilted its head, and with an almost theatrical precision, it let its cargo drop. Faith blinked as the bundle hit the ground with a soft thud and a squeak. It wasn’t just a bundle—it was a kitten. Tiny, helpless, its fur a matted mess of black streaked with dirt and ash, as if it had crawled out of some long-buried place. The kitten struggled to lift its head, limbs trembling as it tried to stand. It let out another faint squeak, a sound so pitiful it sent a pang straight through her chest.
Faith looked from the kitten to the cat, who had settled back onto its haunches with all the calm authority of someone who had just handed over a particularly unpleasant to-do list. Its golden eyes met hers, unblinking, steady, and very nearly smug.
“What… what is this?” Faith asked, gesturing weakly at the kitten.
The cat didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just kept staring at her with that piercing, unrelenting gaze. Then, with a flick of its tail, it turned and vanished back into the grass, its sleek body melting into the twilight like it had never been there at all.
Faith stared after it, the kitten’s weak little mewl pulling her attention back down. It was so small, so frail, and looking so utterly done with everything. She sighed, setting her mug down and scooping the kitten up gently. Its tiny claws immediately latched onto her finger, and its mouth—absurdly small and absurdly sharp—gnawed at her knuckle.
“Ow,” she said, wincing but unable to stop a smile from tugging at her lips. “You’re feisty, huh?”
The kitten gave another squeak, this one a bit louder, and Faith felt the first trickle of affection worm its way into her. “Alright, fine,” she sighed, cradling it close as it burrowed against her hand. “Guess you’re mine now. I’ll call you …Trouble.”
She took the kitten inside, a strange sense of calm settling over her. She was already planning how to clean it up, feed it, maybe set up a little bed for it somewhere warm. Trouble, for its part, gnawed enthusiastically on her thumb as she walked, its tiny claws digging into her palm like it was already staking its claim.
Faith didn’t notice the faint chill that swept across the porch as the breeze died down or the way the shadows in her yard lingered a little too long before dissolving back into the night. She didn’t hear the whisper of something brushing against her porch steps or the low, almost imperceptible hum of ghostly whispers as they swept through the overgrown garden next door.
And she certainly didn’t see the pair of yellow eyes, faint and glinting, watching her from the tree line, unblinking and patient, before fading into the dark.
Trouble was, quite simply, living up to his name. From the moment Faith decided to keep the tiny tornado of fur and claws, her life became a daily exercise in disaster management. At first, it was cute. Adorable, even. Trouble would dive headfirst into the laundry basket, surfacing triumphantly with a sock or, more embarrassingly, a pair of underwear, which he’d proudly parade around like he’d discovered buried treasure. Faith laughed, shaking her head as she chased him down to reclaim her dignity.
But then the weirdness started.
It wasn’t just that Trouble liked to “rearrange” her belongings—it was how he did it. One morning, she woke to find a shoe next to her on the pillow, its laces tied in a looping, intricate knot she was positive she hadn’t made. Her favorite mug disappeared, only to turn up a day later under the couch next to a single kitchen spoon and one mismatched glove. Books migrated from their carefully arranged shelves to the bathroom sink, stacked in oddly deliberate piles. Once, she opened her coat pocket to find bits of thread and leaves tucked inside, and another time, her hairbrush balanced precariously on the toilet tank, accompanied by a scrunchie lodged in the bathtub drain.
“What goes on in that tiny, chaotic brain of yours?” she muttered as she picked her hairbrush out of the toilet for the third time that month. Trouble, sprawled on his back in a patch of sunlight, merely purred.
And then there were the offerings. That was the only way to describe them. Faith would stumble across clusters of her belongings arranged in bizarre little groups: a half-eaten granola bar nestled against her scarf, her keys buried under a pile of receipts, a trail of thumbtacks and paperclips leading from her desk to the laundry basket. It was almost funny, like Trouble was staging some avant-garde art installation in his downtime. Except sometimes the arrangements felt... purposeful. Too purposeful. Faith brushed off the niggling sense of unease. After all, how much “purpose” could a cat really have?
The cabinets were another matter entirely. One night, she woke to the sound of clattering in the kitchen and found her stash of crackers and granola bars scattered across the floor. Trouble was smack in the middle of the mess, tiny whiskers dusted with crumbs, his expression an unrepentant mix of innocence and pride. Faith scolded him while trying not to laugh, sweeping up the wreckage as Trouble swatted at the broom like it was his mortal enemy. But the food waste and claw marks on the furniture were starting to add up. Odd items had gone missing and needed to be replaced as well.
Then came the curtains. Faith heard the crash before she saw the damage—a sound like the walls were giving up on structural integrity. She ran into the living room to find the curtain rod dangling from one bracket, fabric in tatters, and Trouble swinging merrily from the last scrap like some sort of feline Tarzan. When he finally let go and landed on the couch with an unceremonious thud, he stared up at her with wide, guileless eyes that said, Wasn’t that fun?
Faith sighed as she surveyed the damage. Replacing the brackets and patching the wall would take more time and money than she had to spare, but one look at Trouble’s smug little face and she knew she couldn’t stay mad. Not really.
Because for all the chaos he brought, Trouble also brought something else: warmth. He curled up in her lap when she least expected it, his tiny body radiating heat as he purred like a motor that hadn’t stopped in decades. Those moments, the gentle ones, reminded her that she hadn’t just adopted Trouble—he’d adopted her, too. His small, furry presence filled a void she hadn’t realized was there, and she found herself falling for him a little more every day.
- during the day. But at night, Trouble was often gone for long periods.
One evening, just after she’d settled in with a book, she heard a soft scratching at the front door. She opened it to find Trouble sitting on the porch, tail held high, his expression smugly satisfied. In his mouth was a scrap of cloth, old and faded, with a delicate floral pattern embroidered along the edges. When he dropped it at her feet, Faith bent to pick it up, and a faint chill ran through her. The fabric felt damp, almost clammy, and carried the earthy, unsettling scent of someplace dark and long-forgotten.
“Where do you go at night?” she asked, shaking her head as she examined the cloth. Trouble responded with a soft meow, butting his head against her shin as if to say, Don’t worry about it.
Faith placed the scrap aside and gave his ears a scratch, letting his contented purring fill the silence. She didn’t notice the faint trail of dirt he’d tracked across the porch or the way the shadows seemed to stretch a little too long as he passed. She didn’t see the gleam of something—eyes? teeth?—watching her from the edge of the woods, just beyond the reach of her porch light. All she saw was her kitten, her Trouble, the little ball of mischief that had brought life back into her home, and she closed the door. Whatever oddities came with him, Faith was happy to accept them. After all, what was a little strangeness when compared to the joy of having someone—or something—to come home to?
Faith needed a job. Trouble’s antics weren’t just a whirlwind of chaos anymore—they were starting to cost real money. Between replacing shredded curtains, patching up furniture, and dealing with his nightly habit of bringing home “souvenirs” (some of which had the unsettling vibe of cursed artifacts), Faith’s savings were vanishing faster than the snacks in her cupboard. So, with a deep breath and a reluctant determination, she resolved to find work.
The next morning, after asking around town, Faith found herself standing outside Ray’s Bakery. She hovered by the door, staring at the handle like it might shock her if she touched it. Asking for a job wasn’t the hard part—Faith had done that plenty of times before. No, the problem was that this wasn’t just any shop. It was Delia’s bakery. Delia, the woman who had given her a cinnamon roll on her very first day in Blackwood Hollow. Delia, who had been nothing but kind and warm and exactly the sort of person Faith didn’t want to disappoint.
Faith hesitated. Did she really want to risk it? Delia had only ever seen her as a polite neighbor, someone to share a few laughs with over too-sweet coffee and crumbly pastries. She didn’t know the full picture—the needy, slightly broken woman still trying to piece herself back together. Faith wasn’t sure she wanted to show Delia that side of her. There goes your chance at friendship, quipped her self-doubt. She wasn’t sure Delia would still look at her with the same easy warmth if she presumed incorrectly that she deserved even a pause for thought.
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And then the door swung open.
“Well, don’t just stand there, hon,” Delia said, appearing like she’d been waiting for Faith all morning. She was wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes sparkling with that familiar, disarming kindness. “You comin’ in, or are you planning to set up shop out there?”
Faith’s awkward attempt at an excuse died in her throat. She stepped inside, feeling the familiar wave of comfort that always came with the smell of cinnamon and sugar. Delia gave her a knowing smile—the kind of smile that could see right through whatever nonsense Faith was thinking.
“So,” Delia said, crossing her arms and leaning casually against the counter, “I hear you’re looking for a job.”
Faith blinked. “How did you—?”
“Darlin’,” Delia interrupted, her grin widening, “this is Blackwood Hollow. You think I wouldn’t know by now?”
Faith hesitated, then nodded. “I could really use the work, but I don’t have much experience…”
Delia waved her off before she could finish. “You’ve got hands, and you’re here. That’s all the experience I need. Mornings are busy, and I can’t keep up the way I used to. These fingers?” She wiggled them dramatically. “Not as fast as they once were. Besides, Maggie says you’re polite and sweet. I figure that’s a good start.”
Faith blinked again, caught off guard. Sweet wasn’t a word she’d heard about herself in years. She wasn’t even sure she still deserved it.
“Uh, thank you,” she managed. “I’ll try my best.”
Delia reached out and patted Faith’s arm, her touch steadying. “I know you will, darlin’. Now, let’s get you an apron.”
Faith’s first day was… well, it was a day. She fumbled trays, mixed up orders, and managed to hand a customer an extra bag of muffins for free. At one point, she tripped over the broom Delia had propped up by the counter and sent a tray of croissants flying like pastry-shaped projectiles. Delia, watching the chaos unfold, only laughed.
“Don’t worry about it, honey,” Delia said, swooping in to rescue what she could. “You’re learning. First days are supposed to be a mess. Keeps things interesting.”
And that was how it went. Faith stumbled her way through her first week, but Delia’s easy patience never wavered. Every time Faith fumbled, Delia was there with a quick tip, a gentle correction, and, when necessary, a dry quip to keep her laughing.
“Think of it this way,” Delia said one morning as Faith accidentally handed a customer a receipt meant for someone else. “You’re not making mistakes—you’re keeping people on their toes. Nobody likes a boring bakery.”
By the end of the week, Faith was still fumbling, but she was fumbling less. She was learning, and more importantly, she was starting to feel like she was helpful—not just in the bakery, but for Delia herself. And if Delia noticed Faith’s nervousness or her lingering self-doubt, she never let on. She just kept handing her trays of cookies and pats on the shoulder, like Faith had always been part of the team.
And for the first time in a long time, Faith started to believe she could be.
Faith and Delia eventually found their groove working together. Over flour-dusted mornings and afternoons steeped in the warm scent of baking bread, the two of them developed a rhythm that just came together. Delia had a knack for drawing Faith out without pushing, nudging her into conversation with the kind of easy warmth that made you forget to be guarded. They didn’t gossip much, an unspoken agreement between them, and Faith liked that. Trusted it. Trusted her.
Which made what happened next even better—or worse, depending on your perspective.
It started innocently enough. Faith was unloading the industrial dishwasher, carefully balancing a precarious stack of mixing bowls like she was auditioning for the circus. They were nested neatly, largest to smallest, but the whole thing felt about one bad sneeze away from catastrophe. She maneuvered across the bakery floor with all the grace of someone attempting tightrope walking for the first time. A mop leaned ominously in the corner like it was plotting her downfall, and she eyed it warily as she inched past. So far, so good.
Reaching the shelves above Delia’s workstation, Faith rose onto her toes, her arms trembling as she hoisted the bowls upward. She managed to slide half the stack into place, the metal ringing softly as it settled. But as she went to put the rest away, the bowls shifted. Wobbled. Threatened chaos.
Her mind conjured every worst-case scenario: bowls tumbling to the floor in a deafening crash, ricocheting off countertops, or—God forbid—clanging directly onto Delia’s head like some kind of bakery-themed slapstick routine. Faith had learned that one’s hair is a part of personal space, and for some women, it carries additional cultural significance. It’s best to admire respectfully, not touching. She sucked in a breath, panic flooding her chest as she shoved the bowls into place with a loud clang. Relief washed over her, and for a moment, she thought she’d made it.
Then something cold and sticky dripped onto her arm.
She glanced down and saw the culprit: a bowl of partially mixed icing, now precariously tipped, its contents—half-whipped egg whites and powdered sugar—having launched themselves across the counter. And the floor. And most prominently, Delia.
Faith froze, her breath catching in her throat as she turned to survey the damage. Delia stood perfectly still, her afro dusted with powdered sugar like someone had dumped a bag of flour on a Christmas wreath. Her face was a stark white mask, her honey-colored eyes wide and unblinking. Powdered sugar clung to her eyelashes in clumps, and trails of egg whites streaked down her cheeks like the world’s saddest attempt at war paint.
She looked like a cartoon character at the exact moment after the explosion. And she blinked—slowly, deliberately—as if her brain had just blue-screened, her mouth open in an ‘oh’ of surprise.
Faith’s tension, already stretched to the breaking point, snapped. A single, helpless snort escaped her, and then the floodgates opened. She doubled over with laughter, her whole body shaking as guffaws tore out of her in raw, uncontrollable waves. It wasn’t polite laughter or even the kind you could pretend to hold back. This was ugly laughter, the kind that left you gasping for air and clutching your sides, the kind that made tears stream down your face in undignified streaks.
“Oh—oh my—oh no!” Faith wheezed, gripping the counter to keep from collapsing. She tried to stop, to compose herself, but every time she looked at Delia, the laughter bubbled up again, louder, harder, until she was practically choking on it.
Delia blinked again, faster this time, as if rebooting. For a split second, her face stayed frozen, the powdered sugar unmoving. Then, recognizing Faith’s uncontrollable nervous response, her lips quirked upward, and the sound started low—a rumble deep in her chest—before bursting out into a full-bodied, booming laugh herself.
“Faith Lawrence,” Delia howled, swiping at her icing-covered cheek and only smearing it more, “you are the biggest menace I’ve ever hired! Day-um!”
That only made Faith laugh harder. The two of them collapsed into a shared fit of hysteria, gasping, crying, and wheezing like they’d just run a marathon. Delia tried to talk, “My hair…, she tried to scold, but the next words dissolved into giggles before they could fully escape her mouth.
“Look at me!” she finally managed, gesturing to her sugar-dusted self with wide, incredulous eyes. “I look like a busted marshmallow!”
Faith hiccupped, her laughter doubling as she slid to the floor, clutching her stomach. “You look—” She tried to finish the sentence but couldn’t, her voice breaking into high-pitched giggles instead. Delia joined her, both of them wiping their tear-streaked faces with their flour-covered aprons, which only made things worse.
By the time they finally started to calm down, the bakery was a mess—powdered sugar on the counters, the floor, their faces. But neither of them cared much. The air was still buzzing with the sound of their laughter, light and warm and infectious.
Faith caught her breath, grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. “I’m sooo sorry,” she said, and she finally looked horrified.
Delia waved her off, still chuckling. “Darlin’, if this is the worst thing you do, I think I’ll survive.” She paused, eyeing Faith with mock seriousness. “But you are cleaning this up.”
Faith nodded, wiping her eyes and grinning like a kid caught red-handed. “Deal.”
And as they set to work—Faith sweeping powdered sugar off the floor, Delia scrubbing egg whites off her arms—the laughter lingered. It felt like something had shifted, something lighter, warmer like the bakery wasn’t just a job anymore. It was home.
Faith and Delia’s laughter had rung through the bakery, a buoyant, joyful thing that filled the space like sunlight spilling through the windows. Then the bell above the door chimed—a cheerful, innocent sound, completely at odds with the way it sliced through Faith like a knife. Her breath caught, her muscles tensed, and something cold and heavy slithered into the edges of her mind.
And then it spoke.
“Shame!”
The word echoed in her thoughts, sharp and overwhelming like a courtroom gavel hammering down judgment. The warmth of the moment, the camaraderie of shared laughter, collapsed under the sheer weight of it.
Shame on you! it thundered. Look at what you did. You’re a disaster! A fool!
The bell chimed again, softer this time, but it might as well have been the toll of a funeral bell. Faith’s breathing quickened, her chest tightening. Someone had come into the bakery—probably just a customer—but her mind twisted the possibilities into something far worse. She imagined their face, filled with judgment and disapproval, their gaze boring into her, seeing her for who she really was: a mess, a failure, someone who couldn’t even laugh without breaking something.
Her hands trembled as she handed Delia a rag, the joy of just moments before replaced by a twisting knot of panic in her stomach. She couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t risk seeing the look she was sure she’d find on Delia’s face—or worse, the face of whoever had just walked in.
“Be right with you!” Delia called cheerfully to the customer, entirely unaware of Faith’s internal collapse.
Faith bolted, practically running to the bathroom. The door slammed behind her, and she pressed her back against it, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Her reflection in the small, warped mirror above the sink blurred as tears filled her eyes.
The voice didn’t stop.
Look at yourself. Look at the mess you’ve made. You’ll never be anything but broken. You can’t just ignore your mistakes. They’ll follow you. Everyone will know what a pathetic loser you are.
Faith bent over the sink, clutching the edges as though the porcelain could anchor her to the world. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess, panic, and self-recrimination feeding into each other, building a tidal wave of shame that she couldn’t push back. She splashed cold water onto her face, gasping as it shocked her senses.
“Get it together,” she muttered through clenched teeth, gripping the sink harder.
But the voice didn’t care. If anything, it grew stronger, threading itself through her thoughts like smoke. And beneath it, faint but growing louder, was something else—a low, rhythmic chanting, like a distant chorus rising in perfect, awful unison.
It was the same sound she’d thought she’d imagined before. Back when the house had answered her. When she was alone and vulnerable, unguarded.
You are weak. You are a joke. You are worthless.
The words seeped into her thoughts, deep and insidious, blending with the shame already twisting in her chest. Faith tried to shove them aside, to tell herself it was just her anxiety, her own insecurities bubbling up. But there was a part of her—a small, terrified part—that felt the voice wasn’t coming from her at all. It felt… other.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her breaths shallow and ragged, her knuckles white as she gripped the sink. The chanting grew louder, filling her mind with its rhythm. You can’t do anything right. You can’t do anything right. You can’t…do…anything…
And then, as quickly as it had risen, it faded into an echo of itself. right…right…right… and stopped; leaving the air gravid with…stillness.
Faith opened her eyes, panting, her chest tight. The bakery’s warmth seemed far away, its cheerful hum muted by the chill that lingered in her bones. She stared at herself in the mirror, water dripping from her chin into the basin below. Her reflection didn’t look as broken as she felt. But the shame, the embarrassment—it still sat heavy in her chest, coiled like a living thing.
She straightened, forcing herself to take a deep breath. “It’s just a panic attack,” she told herself, her voice thin and wavering. “That’s all.”
The words felt hollow, but she clung to them anyway. She grabbed a paper towel, wiped her face, and pressed her trembling hands to her sides. The chanting was gone, but its sentence of shame lingered, threading itself through her thoughts, quiet but present.
Faith opened the door and stepped back into the bakery. Delia was still behind the counter, powdered sugar in her hair, her cheerful grin as warm as ever. “There you are!” she said with a laugh. “Thought you were taking a nap in there!”
Faith forced a smile and a laugh that came out too loud, like a projectile. “Sorry about that. Just… got overwhelmed. Can’t take me anywhere, huh?”
Delia chuckled, waving her off. “Overwhelmed? Honey, you’ve just given me a sugar facial! Ain’t nothing to fuss over.” She leaned against the counter, her grin wide and easy. “Now, you gonna help me clean this up, or am I gonna have to start charging you rent back there?”
Faith’s smile widened, though her chest still felt tight. “Rent might be cheaper,” she joked, grabbing a rag and setting to work.
But even as the bakery filled with Delia’s warmth once again, Faith couldn’t shake the chill in her gut. Somewhere deep in the back of her mind, the voice had quieted, curling itself into a corner like it was content to wait. For now.
Faith spent the rest of the day throwing herself into the comforting monotony of work. The dough needed kneading, the counters needed wiping, and customers needed smiles. She chuckled at Delia’s jokes and covered the register while Delia spent the afternoon at the salon - prodded and paid for by Faith. She nodded politely at the regulars’ discussions of the weather and gave her most practiced smiles to the occasional compliment about her improving pastry skills. By the time the sun dipped low and Delia turned the key to lock the bakery doors, Faith almost believed the day had turned out fine. Almost.
She told herself the breakdown earlier was just a blip, a bad moment in a long stretch of otherwise okay days. It didn’t mean anything, she decided. Everyone had their moments, right? By the time she waved goodbye to Delia and walked back to her little house, she’d nearly convinced herself she was fine. Normal. Unshaken.
But deep in the corners of her mind, where the light didn’t reach, it waited.
The voice didn’t make a peep. It didn’t need to. Faith had already let it in. It had curled itself into the dark recesses of her thoughts, unblinking and patient, the way a predator waits in the underbrush for its prey to wander closer. It didn’t gnash its teeth or snarl. It didn’t roar. It didn’t need to. Faith was doing all the work for it, convincing herself that it wasn’t there. Convincing herself that the feelings of earlier—the sharp, cruel thunder of shame—had been her own.
That was the beauty of it, really. The voice didn’t have to attack. It just had to wait. Faith’s mind was fertile ground, rich with the doubts, fears, and insecurities that would feed it for years to come. Her recovery, so quick, so confident, so practiced—it was exactly what the voice wanted.
Because Faith wasn’t healed. She wasn’t fine. She was holding the cracks in her armor together with trembling hands, and she didn’t even realize how wide they were spreading. And when the moment came—when the weight of her own thoughts pressed too hard, when she let her guard down again—the voice would slip through, silent and sure, and drive the blade of her own doubts deeper into her heart.
She didn’t notice the way her reflection in the bakery’s front window lingered a moment too long, the green eyes flickering darker, almost black, in the last light of the day. She didn’t notice the faint, rhythmic echo of that low chanting, knitting itself into her subconscious like a hum she couldn’t quite hear.
Faith walked home, her steps steady, her smile still faintly held on her face. She told herself she was fine. She told herself it was just a bad day. She forgot the suffocating shame, the ice-cold panic, the way her thoughts had seemed to turn on her with a voice that wasn’t hers.
And the owner of the voice? The whispering thing? The infiltrator? It curled up in the shadows of Faith’s mind, patient and still. It didn’t need to move, didn’t need to act. Faith’s ignorance was its best weapon. She didn’t notice it. Couldn’t feel its weight, the faint, insidious slither of something else sharing space inside her thoughts. But it was there, coiled and ready, like a predator in a hunter’s blind, its every move calculated for precision.
Every time Faith closed her eyes to sleep, it would stir, stretching itself into the quiet, less crowded corners of her consciousness. Sleep was the perfect opportunity—it was then that Faith’s defenses were down, her mind drifting and loose. The thing could unfurl itself, taking long, deep breaths of her emotions, tasting them, savoring the little fears and stray doubts that floated to the surface. It didn’t rush. It wasn’t in a hurry. It didn’t need to be. Faith would hand herself over one thought at a time, and she’d never even know.
And when Faith daydreamed—those fleeting moments when her focus slipped and her mind wandered—it would seize its chance. Daydreams were like open doors, a careless invitation to explore memories, insecurities, and hopes. Good memories? Bad ones? It didn’t matter. Both offered cracks, tiny openings it could wiggle through, feeding on whatever it found. That laugh she remembered from her childhood? It could twist it. That argument she replayed late at night, picking apart her words? It could plant doubts there, sowing seeds for later.
Hope, though—hope was its favorite. Hope wasn’t just an open door. It was a golden invitation, gilded edges glinting in the light, leading to the most precious parts of Faith’s mind: her imagination. Every time she dared to dream about something better—a future, a friendship, a victory—it would slip into the cracks, coiling tighter, wrapping itself around her creativity. It didn’t suffocate it—not right away. No, it wanted to own it, to shape it into something Faith wouldn’t even recognize as hers.
It was patient. Oh, so patient. It grew in slow, creeping tendrils, threading itself deeper into her mind, weaving through her memories, her instincts, her very sense of self. It wasn’t hurried because it didn’t need to be. Faith didn’t know it was there. She didn’t feel it tightening its grip with every stolen daydream, every lingering doubt. She didn’t see the way her reflection sometimes flickered, her eyes just slightly darker in the wrong light, or the way her thoughts would twist in on themselves, sharp and cruel, just enough to make her doubt her worth.
It would grow and grow, feeding on her until it didn’t need to hide anymore. Until she was so wrapped in its tendrils that she couldn’t tell where she ended and it began. And when that time came—when Faith finally noticed something was wrong—it would be too late. By the time she realized she wasn’t alone in her own mind, it would already have her.
But not yet.
For now, it waited. Faith was still able to laugh with Delia, still kneaded dough and wiped counters, and convinced herself she was fine. She didn’t notice the subtle tug on her imagination or the way her daydreams seemed less vivid than before. She didn’t notice the creeping numbness in the spaces where her hope used to live. Not yet. But she would. She had to. This was a slow, inevitable thing, like the steady grind of erosion or the shifting sands of desert dunes. It wasn’t a question of if it would take her. It was only a question of when.
Over the next few days, Delia took Faith under her wing and into the buttery, flaky world of croissant-making. This was not, as Faith quickly discovered, a job for the faint of heart or the impatient of hand. The dough was temperamental, the folding and rolling process borderline ridiculous, and the butter—well, the butter was both the hero and the villain of the operation, its behavior unpredictable and often catastrophic in the wrong hands.
Faith’s hands were, initially, the wrong hands.
The dough tore. The folds looked more like crumples. At one point, Faith managed to roll a piece of butter right out of the dough entirely, where it splurted onto the counter like it, too, was tired of this nonsense. She stared at it in horror as Delia chuckled behind her. “Try again, ladybug,” Delia said, her tone warm and patient. “Croissants don’t hold grudges. But don’t make ‘em wait too long, either—they can be petty.”
Delia’s honey-colored eyes twinkled, her encouragement just enough to keep Faith from flinging the entire operation into the trash. And slowly, miraculously, Faith’s hands started to figure it out. The folds got cleaner. The dough stayed together. Butter stayed in the dough where it belonged. By the end of the week, she pulled a tray of golden, flaky croissants out of the oven, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself feel a little bit proud.
“That’s my girl,” Delia said, beaming and holding up a croissant like it was a World Cup trophy. “Look at that! You’re a natural. A little messy at first, but we’ll call it your artistic process.”
Faith didn’t just stop at croissants. She had a trick of her own to share, and it turned out she was something of a magician with frosting. Delia watched with undisguised glee as Faith showed her how to pipe delicate roses onto cakes, intricate swirls onto cupcakes, and create entire edible gardens out of sugar and food dye.
“These aren’t desserts,” Delia said one afternoon, hands on her flour-dusted hips as she surveyed a tray of cupcakes Faith had just finished. “These are art installations. You bring somethin’ extra to this place. You’re gonna get us fancy reviews from food people who use words like ‘mouthfeel.’”
Faith laughed, brushing off the praise, but Delia wasn’t done. “No, I’m serious. This bakery’s got charm, but you’ve got a gift, Faith. Don’t downplay it.”
The words settled warmly in Faith’s chest, a feeling she hadn’t let herself experience in longer than she cared to admit. The bakery wasn’t just a job anymore—it was becoming a refuge. A place where her hands worked with purpose, where she could breathe, where she could forget, at least for a little while, the ghosts of her past and the weight she carried.
The routine started to feel like home. Mornings came early, and though some days getting out of bed felt like trying to climb out of a pit filled with wet cement, the thought of the bakery helped pull her through. She loved the quiet before the doors opened, the way the early sunlight turned the flour-dusted counters into glowing, magical surfaces and made the mixing bowls gleam like they’d been polished for royalty.
And Delia opened up about her family like it was the most natural thing in the world. She had a daughter, Naomi, and a husband, Marcus. Of course, she did. Delia practically radiated "loving family vibes" without even trying. She probably has a golden retriever named Sunshine and a cat who regularly curls up on laps during movie nights.
“Loving people are loved in return. It's a universal constant, like gravity or the fact that toast always lands butter-side down when you’re in a hurry,” Faith shushed her inner snark and relished the time she had with her friend.
The townsfolk noticed Faith, too. Mrs. Whitley, the queen of her garden fortress, came by regularly now, chatting about roses and the finer points of sourdough while Faith packed her bread. Jake from the hardware store showed up for doughnuts, rambling about his latest project—a birdhouse so complicated it sounded more like an actual bird mansion. Maggie Draper, the unofficial town reporter who knew everyone’s business, popped in once to let Faith know she’d “heard good things” about her pastries, a compliment that came with a wink and a tone that suggested she was already planning to investigate further.
“Fancy pastries!” Edith the librarian had said, eyeing a particularly intricate cake Faith had just finished. “Hope you’re not raising expectations too high, sugar. Some of us are already spoiled.”
Delia cackled from the back, tossing a dish towel over her shoulder. “Spoiled? Edith, you’ve been spoiled since 1984.”
Even Faith couldn’t help but giggle at that, the sound bubbling up before she could stop it.
She was becoming part of the town’s rhythm, one flour-dusted day at a time. It was a little chaotic, a little weird, but it was hers. And that felt like all she needed.
On slow afternoons, Faith would plop herself down by the bakery’s window, sketchbook open, pencil in hand, and a faint dusting of flour inevitably clinging to her jeans. Art had always been her go-to for decompressing. Some people meditated. Others baked (Delia, obviously). Faith? She drew. It was her way of tuning out the world, letting her thoughts wander while her hand did all the work.
She’d watch Blackwood Hollow drift by outside the window and let her pencil do its thing. Trouble, sprawled in his latest crime-planning pose? Sketch. Delia’s hands kneading dough with the kind of strength that could probably crush a cantaloupe? Sketch. The old man who shuffled past the bakery every morning with a cane in one hand and his scruffy little dog in the other? Sketch.
Some drawings were detailed, with perfect shading and carefully crafted lines. Others… well, they were a little more chaotic, the kind of frantic scribbles you made when you were trying to catch someone’s expression before they sneezed. Either way, Faith’s sketchbook became a collection of tiny moments—the life of the town in pencil form.
It didn’t stop there, though. Faith’s creative impulses had no boundaries. Between orders, she’d grab the backs of receipts and start doodling. She scrawled little portraits of customers on scraps of paper, turned the flour dust on the counter into impromptu canvases for flour-finger-drawn flowers, and even managed to sneak cartoon hats or goofy smiles onto the corners of order slips.
“Faith, why is there a picture of a dancing baguette on this receipt?” Delia asked one day, waving a slip in the air.
Faith shrugged, smirking. “Felt like it needed some pizzazz.”
At home, the situation was a delightful mess. Her walls had become a paper gallery, covered in drawings of… well, everything. There were landscapes, portraits, half-finished sketches of her shoes, and enough Trouble poses to fill an art exhibit titled The Many Faces of Cat Shenanigans. A squirrel clutching an acorn? Up on the wall. A blackbird perched on the fence? Up on the wall. Maggie Draper, with her round cheeks and sparkling eyes? Right next to a highly unflattering doodle of Delia caught mid-sneeze, which Faith promised she’d never display and absolutely did.
Her desk was a disaster zone, stacked high with curling pages and half-finished drawings that Faith swore she’d organize “someday.” (She wouldn’t.) Every corner of her house was bursting with sketches, and somehow, even the furniture seemed to give off the vibe of being unofficial art storage. Once, she found a doodle of a bumble bee on the back of a grocery list taped to her fridge and honestly couldn’t remember when she’d done it.
Her obsession with sketching became so constant that her pencil might as well have been surgically attached to her hand. When she had to put it down to roll dough or greet customers, it would immediately find its way behind her ear, like a coiled spring just waiting to leap back into action.
The drawings weren’t just art—they were a record of the life she was building, one pencil stroke at a time. The blank walls of her once-empty house now told the story of Blackwood Hollow: the people, the places, and all the weird little moments in between. Her home wasn’t just hers anymore—it belonged to the town and the life she was slowly, cautiously letting herself create.
In late October, as the golden evening light softened the edges of Blackwood Hollow, Faith sat by her kitchen window with her sketchbook open, a pencil resting lightly in her hand. Outside, the town seemed quieter than usual, the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional bark of a dog the only sounds breaking the stillness. It was the kind of evening that invited reflection, and Faith found herself thinking about Ava Marlowe.
Her reclusive neighbor was a mystery, one that Faith had only glimpsed in fragments: the way Ava’s dark green eyes seemed to pierce straight through people, the unnervingly smooth grace with which she moved, the air of detachment that hung around her like a second skin. There was something about Ava that demanded attention, even as it warned you to stay away. Faith had tried to shrug it off, but her fingers itched to capture that quiet, otherworldly beauty, to sketch the contours of a woman who seemed more shadow than substance.
Sitting by the window, she let her pencil move, careful and deliberate. The lines came slowly, each one feeling like a step into uncharted territory. Ava’s high cheekbones emerged first, then the smooth curve of her jaw, her lips pressed into a thin, composed line. But it was the eyes that held Faith’s focus. Dark green, sharp, and unwavering, they seemed to stare up from the page with an intensity that made her hand tremble. Faith paused, swallowing hard as a faint, prickling sensation crept down her spine, as though someone were standing behind her, watching.
She shook it off. Nerves. That’s all it was. Just nerves.
Her hand hesitated over the mouth again. She had drawn it closed, tight, and cold as if it were holding back secrets. Faith’s pulse quickened as she shaded the lips, the faint lines of the paper feeling almost too delicate under her pencil. She finished the drawing with a final stroke and sat back, studying her work.
It was good. Not perfect—it never was—but good enough to hold a sliver of pride. Ava’s beauty was there, the regal calm that made her so striking, but there was something missing. Something Faith couldn’t name. It left her with an uneasy sense that no amount of shading or precision could truly capture the woman behind the face.
The next morning, as the early sunlight spilled through her kitchen window, Faith acted on a sudden impulse. Maybe Ava would like the drawing. Maybe it would be a way to break the ice, to bridge the uncomfortable distance between them. Before she could second-guess herself, she tucked the sketch under her arm and walked to Ava’s house.
The Marlowe house was looming, and it carried the same quiet weight as its occupant. Faith hesitated for a moment before raising her hand to knock. What was that odor? Candles? The sound felt louder than it should have in the still morning air, and she immediately regretted it. Her heart thudded in her chest, a strange, unwelcome rhythm that seemed to echo in her ears.
The door opened almost immediately, making Faith take a step back.
Ava stood there, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in Faith standing on her porch. The green of her irises glinted sharply in the light, and for a moment, Faith felt the peculiar sensation of being entirely seen, like Ava’s gaze was stripping away everything but her barest self.
“I… I made this for you,” Faith stammered, holding out the sketch and stepping toward the door again. Her voice sounded thin, unsteady. She felt the heat of her pulse in her ears and a faint, unshakable sense of… what? Regret? Embarrassment? No, it was deeper than that. It was dread.
Ava glanced down at the sketch. For a moment, she said nothing, her face unreadable. The silence stretched long enough for Faith’s nerves to twist into something jagged, and she began to lower her outstretched hand. Then, without a word, Ava’s pale, perfect fingers darted out and closed around the drawing…
ripped it in half, and crumpled the pieces.
The sound of the paper tearing cut through the air like a slap. Faith flinched, the noise far too loud in the quiet morning as if the world itself recoiled. Ava’s eyes met hers, cold and unwavering, and her voice—low, firm, final—broke the moment.
“Never, ever draw me again.”
The words were like stones dropped into a deep, dark well. They hit hard, heavy, with an echo that lingered far too long. Faith’s throat tightened, and for a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Ava’s gaze felt like a weight pressing her into the earth, and all she could do was nod mutely before turning and walking away.
The walk back to her house felt endless, the sketch still vivid in her mind, even as its remains bunched tighter in Ava’s hands. Faith bit her lip hard enough to sting, desperate to hold back the tears threatening to spill. Her mind filled with a chorus of sharp, unrelenting voices.
You should have known better.
That wasn’t art—it was garbage. Insulting, really.
Who do you think you are?
By the time she reached her door, her pulse was pounding so loudly that her thoughts, by comparison, were a low, static hum. She leaned against the frame, letting out a shaky breath as her chest ached with something too heavy to name. She pressed a hand to her face, trying to will the heat of shame away, but it clung to her like damp air.
You’re no artist.
Pathetic. Stupid. A child.
The voices grew confused and entangled, like the murmuring of an angry crowd, but the weight of their words stayed. Faith pushed herself upright, shaking her head as if that might dispel the feeling.
“That’s enough of that,” she announced, her voice tight and forced. The voices abruptly stopped.
She straightened her shoulders, trying to harden her resolve. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. She wouldn’t let herself hope like that again. Blackwood Hollow had been good to her so far, but that didn’t mean she could let her guard down. No more giving people like Ava anything more than they asked for.
Her house was quiet, but the air felt heavier than usual. She glanced around the room as though she expected to see someone else there, but the walls stared back blankly, her sketches hanging silently and still.
The buzzing hum returned, barely audible this time, but constant, like the sound of a phone line left open with no one on the other end. Faith tried to ignore it as she moved through the house, telling herself it was just her imagination. But somewhere deep inside her mind, something stirred. It uncoiled slightly, stretching just enough to settle in more deeply. It wasn’t a voice, not yet. Not a whisper. Just… presence. Waiting. Watching.
Faith didn’t notice the shifting sensation. She was too busy pretending she didn’t hear the susurating tones of echoes overlapping.
Back in her kitchen, Faith sat at the table, her arms wrapped around herself as if trying to keep warm. The air in the room felt warmer than usual, the kind of warmth that wasn’t comforting but thick and heavy, pressing down on her like dampness before a storm. Trouble wound around her legs, his soft purring the only sound breaking the stillness. She reached down to scratch behind his ears, her fingers trembling slightly as the sting of rejection lingered.
She didn’t mean to reach for her pencil, didn’t intend to flip her sketchbook open to a blank page. But her hand moved almost on its own, pulling the book closer, her pencil pressing into her palm with an odd kind of weight. She started to draw, her strokes quick, sharp, unthinking, her lines jagged and harsh in a way that felt alien to her. She wasn’t sure why, but she couldn’t stop.
This wasn’t Ava as she had tried to capture her before—regal, ethereal, cold but beautiful. No, this Ava was something else. Something darker. Faith’s pencil carved deep lines into the paper, almost violent in their intensity. The face that emerged wasn’t smooth or elegant but twisted, and grotesque. Wrinkles crawled across the cheeks like deep, gnarled roots. The hair was wild, and unruly, snaking around the face in harsh, uneven strokes. Her lips were cracked and curled into a sneer, her eyes heavy-browed and dark, staring out from the page with an intensity that made Faith’s chest tighten.
Faith hunched over her sketch pad, her movements feverish and deliberate. Her fingers gripped the pencil like a lifeline; her head bowed low as if some unseen force was driving her. The lines on the page poured out of the pencil with an almost unnatural intensity. She didn’t pause. Couldn’t. Her hand moved faster, the tip of the pencil pressing harder until the lead began to smear, shadowing the lines and giving the face an even more distorted quality. She added deep cracks around the lips, heavy age spots that spread across the skin like rot. Ava’s expression on the page wasn’t just disdainful; it was hateful, as though she could step out of the paper and lunge at Faith, her jagged teeth bared.
When she finally stopped, her breath was ragged, and her chest ached. The sketch stared up at her, and she stared back, her heart thudding in her ears. It was hideous. Ugly in a way, Faith had never allowed her work to be before. But as her breath slowed, she realized something else: it felt good. It was like lancing an infection or scratching an itch she couldn’t reach before.
A strange sense of satisfaction bloomed in her chest, warm and heavy, spreading through her like a drug. This wasn’t Ava, not really, but it felt like a victory, a way to reclaim some part of herself that Ava’s cold rejection had taken. The Ava on the page wasn’t untouchable or beautiful. She was monstrous, and Faith had made her that way. Faith had the power here, and for a moment, that thought drowned out everything else—the doubt, the shame, the hollow ache, and the voices.
Faith folded the sketch carefully, tucking it away into her sketchbook like a secret, a private act of defiance. Sketching had always been her refuge, her way of making sense of the world, and this felt no different. It didn’t matter that the drawing wasn’t beautiful. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t art. It was hers, and for now, that was enough.
Trouble meowed softly, hopping onto her lap as if sensing her need for comfort. She scratched his head absently, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She felt tired, so tired, but the edge of her smile lingered as she looked out the window at the darkening evening.
She didn’t notice the faint satisfaction in the back of her mind, like a sigh after a hearty meal, or the way her thoughts felt oddly sluggish, heavy. She didn’t notice the subtle chill that crept into the room, settling over her like a thin layer of frost. And she didn’t notice the way the thing inside her stretched itself a little further, uncoiling in the dim corners of her imagination.
It had taken some of her will tonight. It tasted her resolve as it guided her thoughts in ways so subtle she couldn’t see its influence, couldn’t feel the sickness it had sown. It whispered to her through the act of creation, weaving itself into her art, into the satisfaction she felt as she turned beauty into ugliness. And it would do so again. This was just the beginning.
Faith leaned back, Trouble’s warmth pressing against her chest, her exhaustion finally catching up with her. She didn’t notice the slight smudge of graphite on her chin, the faint tremble in her fingers as she stroked his fur. She didn’t notice the way her own smile looked strange, stretched too thin in the reflection of the kitchen window.
She didn’t notice, but the thing that had invaded her mind did notice. And it smiled too.