The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows across my office floor. I’d woken up in a cold sweat, heart pounding as if I’d just escaped a nightmare I couldn’t remember. My sleep had been dreamless, but the fear lingered, clinging to me like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

I sat at my desk, the remnants of that unease still buzzing in the back of my mind as I stared at the black coffee steaming in front of me. The day ahead was already shaping up to be a long one. Sarah Haverstead’s desperate plea echoed in my thoughts, intertwining with the questions that had plagued me since last night.

But I wasn’t one to skip breakfast, no matter how tightly the anxiety wound itself around my chest. Experience had taught me that you never knew when you’d get your next meal in this line of work. I reached for the buttered toast, its familiar warmth grounding me in the moment. As I ate, the rhythm of normalcy began to take hold, pushing aside the remnants of whatever had chased me through the night.

Once the dishes were cleared, I made my way to the small closet by the door. My hand reached instinctively for my hat, its familiar weight a small comfort in an otherwise unpredictable world. I placed it on my head, adjusting it until it sat just right. Only then did I reach for my coat, a habit that had become as much a part of me as the revolver tucked away in its holster.

The revolver wasn’t just a tool; it was a necessity, a reminder that while the city might have its charms, it also had its dangers. The cold steel felt reassuring against my side as I shrugged on the coat, the weight of the world settling back onto my shoulders.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself before I stepped out into the hallway. The unease from the morning still lingered, but it had dulled to a manageable hum, the kind that sharpened the senses rather than dulling them. Today, I would need to be sharp. Richard’s disappearance, the strange connection to that children’s book, and the looming presence of Hollow Town’s ruins—all of it pointed to something more than just a missing person.

As I locked the door behind me, I couldn’t help but feel the day’s first steps were like crossing a threshold into the unknown. The Haverstead home awaited, and with it, answers—or perhaps more questions. Either way, I was ready. I had to be.

The morning air was crisp as I walked to my car, the city still waking up around me. New Hollow had a way of wearing its history on its sleeve, and today, it seemed more palpable than ever. The drive to the Haverstead home was short, but each mile felt like I was venturing deeper into the past.

When I finally arrived, the Haverstead home stood before me—a stately old house that seemed to carry the weight of history itself. Its imposing façade loomed over the quiet street; a stark reminder of the past that refused to be forgotten. As I approached the front door, I felt a familiar tension in the air, the kind that always accompanied the beginning of a case.

Sarah greeted me at the door, her face pale and drawn, the weight of worry evident in every line. She led me inside without a word, the quiet of the house amplifying the sound of our footsteps on the wooden floors. The house reflected its occupants—meticulously kept, but with an undercurrent of unease that seemed to hum just beneath the surface.

Richard’s study was on the second floor, tucked away in a corner that seemed almost forgotten by the rest of the house. The room was both meticulously organized and eerily chaotic. Shelves lined with old tomes and dusty artifacts stood in stark contrast to the scattered papers and open books on his desk. It was clear that Richard’s obsession had consumed him.

Sarah lingered in the doorway as I stepped inside, her presence a reminder of the human cost behind the case. “This is where he spent most of his time,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

I nodded, already scanning the room for clues. “Thank you, Sarah. I’ll take it from here.”

Sarah hesitated for a moment before leaving me alone with Richard’s thoughts, his research, and the lingering echoes of his obsession. The room was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of paper and the distant hum of the house settling. Richard’s study was a chaotic reflection of his mind, filled with scattered notes, half-formed theories, and frantic annotations.

As I sifted through Richard’s notes, the weight of his obsession pressed heavily on me. Hours passed as I meticulously organized the papers, grouping them by subject. His focus had clearly been on the Hollow Town witch trials, with particular attention to those who had first accused others of witchcraft. Among the papers was an old government report from the trials, listing names chronologically with brief notes on the accusations. While thorough, it offered little in the way of new insights.

Slowly, patterns began to emerge from the disjointed notes. Richard seemed fixated on specific names, noting their backgrounds, interactions, and reading habits. There was an undercurrent of connection between these accusers, a thread Richard had tried to pull at but had evidently not fully unraveled.

As I continued to comb through the documents, an old library ledger caught my eye. Tucked away among a pile of papers, its leather cover was cracked and faded from age. This ledger had belonged to a library in Hollow Town from years before the trials. I opened it with growing curiosity.

Scanning the entries, one title stood out—The Day the Sheep Learnt Trust. The frequency with which this book had circulated was startling. I cross-referenced the names of those who had borrowed it with Richard’s research on the accusers. The book had been borrowed by nearly every person who later accused someone of witchcraft. All but one followed this pattern—Silas Elmer.

The government report listed him as the first to begin the witch accusations, specifically against his wife, Catherine Elmer. Surprisingly, however, I could not find his name in the ledger.

The implications were chilling. This seemingly innocuous children’s book was linked to many of the individuals who had fueled the hysteria. But what exactly was the connection? And why was Silas different? How could he, the first accuser, be untouched by the book that seemed to infect the others?

My thoughts circled around a possible explanation. Given the book’s pervasive influence and the mass hysteria it seemed to induce, it was plausible that it contained some kind of microbe or bacteria. This hypothesis fit with my current belief that something unknown at the time, like a pathogen of some sort, had been responsible for the outbreak of madness. Yet Silas’s apparent immunity to the book's effects was puzzling. Was there a part of the story I was missing? Or was there another factor at play?

I continued piecing together Richard’s research, but the disjointed notes and frantic scribbles painted a picture of a man who had stumbled upon something he couldn’t fully grasp. As I pored over the chaotic jumble, my eyes fell upon a crumpled piece of paper partially hidden beneath a stack of old newspapers. Carefully unfolding it, I found a hastily scrawled note: “Collington’s Bookstore.”

The name triggered a memory. I recalled reading about Collington’s Bookstore during my first year in New Hollow. Situated near the edge of the city, where modern infrastructure gave way to the ruins of Hollow Town, the library had survived a devastating fire that had destroyed most of the surrounding buildings. Despite the damage, it had managed to endure, serving as a remnant of the city’s past.

Richard’s note suggested that Collington’s Bookstore might have played a significant role in his investigation. Given its history and its collection of rare and historical texts, it was conceivable that he had uncovered something vital there. To confirm this, I cross-referenced the location of Collington’s Bookstore with an old map of Hollow Town. To my surprise, I discovered that Collington’s Bookstore occupied the same building as the old library from Hollow Town, though it had been renovated over the years.

With this new lead, I knew my next step was clear. I needed to visit Collington’s Bookstore to uncover what, if anything, Richard might have found. I gathered my things, ready to dive deeper into the enigma that had ensnared Richard.

As I left the Haverstead home, the air seemed charged with anticipation. The day held the weight of untold answers, and my mind buzzed with the possibilities of what lay ahead. Collington’s Bookstore, with its enigmatic history and connection to the dark legacy of Hollow Town, was my next destination. I felt a surge of hopeful curiosity mingled with the creeping uncertainty of what truths might be hidden within.