The rain pattered steadily against the windows of my office, a sombre accompaniment to the muffled sounds outside. My name is Elizabeth Shelly, though most call me Ellie. I work as a private investigator in New Hollow, Oregon. Business isn't exactly booming, as the authorities in this town like to run a tight ship. Most of my cases involve adultery investigations—nothing too glamorous. As I stared at my old, battered desk, listening to the rain, I was reminded of the day I first arrived in New Hollow, about five years ago.

I stepped off the bus at the edge of New Hollow, my coat heavy with rain and my hair plastered to my neck. I stuck my arm out for a cab, which luckily stopped. I climbed in and told the driver, "3/15 Wending Crook Ave, please." He nodded, the scent of fresh tobacco lingering in the car.

As we drove through the city, the true face of New Hollow unfolded before me—an eerie blend of gothic charm and modernity. Wrought-iron balconies mixed with sleek facades, creating a striking contrast that seemed to capture both time and decay.

My brief moment of peace was shattered by a hesitant knock at my office door. A woman stepped in, and her presence instantly filled the room with tension. In her early thirties, her face was etched with worry, adding years beyond her age. Her blonde bouffant, once neat, now had a disheveled look, and her red and teal outfit clashed sharply with the muted tones of my office. Despite the vibrant colors, her pallor and deep-set anxiety were unmistakable. She glanced around the room with a frantic, searching look before finally focusing on me.

"Ms. Shelly," she began, her voice trembling, "I'm sorry for coming so late. My name is Sarah Haverstead."

I motioned for her to sit, my concern sharpening at the sight of her distress. "Call me Ellie. Late nights are pretty normal around here," I said, though the truth was I rarely had visitors. "What's going on?"

Sarah sank into the chair, clutching her hands tightly. "It's my husband, Richard. He's been missing for three days." Her voice cracked, and the weight of her words was palpable.

"Three days?" I leaned forward, my urgency evident. "Have you contacted the police?"

"I did," she said, her eyes dropping. "But with the Hollow's Fall festival coming up, they're overwhelmed. They told me it could be a while before they can really start looking. I can't just wait. I need someone who can focus on finding Richard now."

The festival was a major event, and the police would be swamped, but the delay was unsettling. "I understand. What makes you think I can help when the police can't?"

Sarah's fingers fumbled with her wedding ring; her anxiety evident. "I've heard you're... perceptive. Richard wasn't just missing—he was obsessed with something before he disappeared. A book he found in the ruins of Hollow Town. I'm terrified that whatever he was after has something to do with his disappearance. The police might not get that, but I think you will."

Her desperation was clear. This wasn't an ordinary missing person case. There was something more—something that needed my full attention.

"I'll take the case," I said firmly, meeting her eyes. "We'll find Richard."

Sarah quickly pulled an old, weathered book from her bag and placed it on my desk. "This is the book he was obsessed with."

I glanced at the cover—The Day the Sheep Learnt Trust by Agdin Janeway. "Tell me more about Richard. What drew him to this book?"

Sarah collected her thoughts, her voice trembling. "Richard's an archaeologist with a passion for Hollow Town's history. Recently, his interest turned into obsession. He found this book in the ruins, and at first, it seemed like a children's story, but it changed him. He started muttering about witches and the Hollow Town Witch trials. He became withdrawn, like he was losing himself."

The mention of witches struck a chord. Hollow Town's witch trials were infamous, and Richard's obsession was troubling. "Witches? Did he say anything else?"

"Not much," Sarah admitted, her fear palpable. "But he was convinced there was something unresolved about the trials, something nobody else had discovered."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

I leaned back, considering the implications. Richard's obsession, the book, and his disappearance pointed to something deeply troubling. "Where can I find his research notes?"

"At our home, in his study," Sarah replied. "You can come by tomorrow if that works."

I nodded, already planning my approach. "I'll visit tomorrow to go through his study. I'll need some time to prepare."

After giving me the address to their home, Sarah left. I turned my attention to the book on my desk, I couldn't shake the feeling that it held something far more sinister within its pages.

After Sarah gave me the address to their home and left, I was left alone in my office, the book she'd placed on my desk exuding a faintly eerie presence. The Day the Sheep Learnt Trust by Agdin Janeway. The title alone seemed harmless, almost quaint, but there was something about the cover—its worn edges and the strange energy that seemed to pulse from it—that unsettled me.

I sat down and carefully opened the book, the pages crackling with age. The initial illustrations were simple and charming sheep in a green meadow, their woolly bodies blending with the soft hills. The story began innocently enough, following a young sheep with wide, fearful eyes. The narrative was straightforward: this young sheep was convinced that some of the other sheep in the flock were wolves in disguise. The more it looked, the more it believed that every sheep around it was a threat. The illustrations reflected this paranoia, with shadows growing long and menacing.

As I flipped through the pages, the story detailed the young sheep's isolation. It wouldn't graze with the flock, refused to sleep with them, and avoided moving to greener pastures. Its fear led it to distance itself, making it vulnerable not just to the imagined wolves, but to real danger. The book depicted how its isolation only worsened its plight.

But then, the narrative shifted. The other sheep, noticing the young one's distress, approached it with kindness. They showed that they, too, were vulnerable and that their strength lay in unity. By the end, the young sheep learned to trust its flock, its fears proven unfounded. The illustrations softened, shadows fading, and the book closed with the warmth of a setting sun.

As I finished reading, a sense of anticlimax washed over me. This was it? A simple children's story about trust and the dangers of isolation? There was nothing inherently sinister—if anything, it was a wholesome lesson about the value of community. It was hard to reconcile how something so innocuous could have such a profound impact on Richard.

I stared at the book, struggling to bridge the gap between its benign nature and the obsession it inspired. Why would a tale about trusting others drive someone to such extremes? Was there something more to this book that I was missing? The disconnect between the book's surface simplicity and the depth of Richard's fixation was both perplexing and unsettling. I knew I needed to dig deeper, but for now, all I had was this innocent-looking book with its disturbing undercurrent.

I leaned back in my chair, the book resting on my lap as I stared at the ceiling, trying to piece it all together. There was something I was missing—something that Richard had seen or understood that I hadn't yet grasped.

The book's simplicity didn't fit with the dark turn Richard's life had taken. It felt like there was a layer beneath the surface, something that wasn't immediately apparent. Perhaps the story itself wasn't what had captured Richard's mind, but rather, the context in which it had been found—the ruins of Hollow Town, the site of the witch trials, the history that had been buried and forgotten.

It was late in the evening, but the unanswered questions gnawed at me. I couldn't shake the feeling that the key to understanding Richard's obsession lay in the history of Hollow Town, a history that had been overshadowed by the more famous Salem witch trials.

I pulled out a well-worn volume, "The Forgotten Hysteria: Witch Trials of Hollow Town," and began flipping through its pages. Hollow Town was built along the rugged terrain of the Klamath Mountains, a place where the wilderness itself seemed to guard secrets. By the late 1600s, it had grown into a thriving settlement, its people carving out a life in the dense forests of Oregon. But in 1692, the same year the Salem witch trials began, something dark crept into Hollow Town.

Unlike Salem, where the trials ended after a year, the witch hunts in Hollow Town dragged on for five long years, ending in July 1697. The town was consumed by a hysteria that far surpassed that of Salem. Entire families were torn apart, neighbours turned against each other, and in the end, the town fell into ruin. The survivors, what few there were, abandoned it completely, leaving behind a ghost town.

As I read on, I couldn't help but notice the strange disconnect between Hollow Town and Salem. The two places were separated by vast distances, and in 1692, news didn't travel fast. It was improbable that the hysteria in Salem had directly influenced Hollow Town. There had to be another cause, something that ignited the fear and madness that swept through the town like wildfire.

My fingers brushed the brittle pages of an old map, showing the layout of Hollow Town before its collapse. I traced the lines of the streets, the locations of the homes, the places where accusations had first taken root. The thought struck me—what if Richard had found something in those ruins, something that had been buried for centuries? Something that explained why Hollow Town had turned on itself in such a brutal and senseless way.

I closed the book, the weight of it heavy in my hands. Whatever Richard had been looking for, it was tied to this forgotten chapter of history. And if I was going to find him, I needed to uncover the truth that had eluded so many before me.