The Hollow

The gravel crunched under my heels as I stepped out of the rental car. Hollow's End looked exactly as I remembered.

I hadn't been back in ten years. Ten years since I'd sworn never to set foot in this godforsaken place again.

The funeral home sat at the end of Main Street like a gray sentinel.

As I approached, conversations died. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed.

"Look what the wind blew in," someone muttered.

"Curse-bringer," another voice hissed.

I kept my chin up, my steps steady, even as my hands trembled. These people had known me since I was five years old, had watched me grow up, had come to my mother's funeral. Now they stared at me like I was poison.

Mrs. Henderson, my old kindergarten teacher, crossed herself as I passed. "Should have stayed gone, Evelyn Cross."

"Some things are better left buried," added Tom Miller from behind his newspaper.

I pushed through the funeral home doors, the whispers following me like smoke. Inside, the air was thick with lilies and grief. My father's casket sat at the front of the room, surrounded by flowers that looked too bright, too alive for this place of death.

I walked down the center aisle, feeling every eye on me. The pews were half-empty; not many people had loved William Cross. He'd been a bitter man, made more bitter by my mother's suicide and my abandonment. But he'd been my father, and I'd failed him too.

The casket was open. I forced myself to look.

He appeared smaller than I remembered, his weathered face finally at peace. The lines of anger and disappointment had smoothed away, leaving behind only an old man who'd lost too much. His hands were folded over his chest, holding the silver cross he'd worn since my mother's death.

"I'm sorry I left you too," I whispered, my voice breaking.

A throat cleared behind me. I turned to find Jonas Hale standing in the aisle, his sheriff's uniform crisp despite the early hour. He'd grown broader since I'd last seen him, his boyish features hardened into sharp angles.

"Evelyn." His voice was flat, professional.

"Jonas."

We stared at each other for a long moment. Ten years collapsed between us, the kiss we'd shared the night before I left. The kiss I'd run from.

"You look good," he said finally, though his tone suggested he wished otherwise.

"You look..." I gestured at his badge. "Sheriff suits you."

"Yeah, well, someone had to stay and clean up the mess." The words hit like a slap. "Someone had to take care of things while others ran off to the city."

Heat flared in my chest. "I had my reasons."

"Did you?" He stepped closer, "or did you just get scared when things got hard?"

"Don't." My voice came out sharper than intended. "Not now. Not here. Not today."

Jonas's jaw tightened, but he backed off. "You're right. Today's about your father." He paused, his expression softening just a fraction. "He missed you, you know. Even if he was too proud to say it."

"I know."

"You should never have come back."

I watched him walk toward the exit.

Part of me wanted to follow, to explain, to somehow bridge the chasm that had opened between us. But what could I say? That I'd been terrified of becoming my mother? That I'd feared the darkness in my bloodline would destroy everyone I loved?

That I'd left because I'd loved him too much to stay?

The service started.

Reverend Phillips spoke about redemption and forgiveness. I sat in the front pew alone, feeling fifty stares boring into my back.

When it was over, we processed to the cemetery behind the church. Hollow's End Cemetery was old, filled with weathered headstones dating back to the town's founding.

My parents were buried side by side in the Cross family plot. The headstones here stretched back generations, all bearing the same family crest, a Celtic knot intertwined with thorns. My mother's grave looked lonely despite being surrounded by family. I'd missed her funeral too, too paralyzed by grief and guilt to face what I'd failed to prevent.

"Margaret Anne Cross," I read aloud, tracing her name with my finger. "Beloved wife and mother."

She hadn't been beloved at the end, she'd been broken, haunted, consumed by something none of us understood. And I'd been too young, too frightened to save her.

The graveside service was mercifully short. As the mourners began to disperse, I remained behind, kneeling between my parents' graves.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to both of them. "I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to stay. I'm sorry I wasn't brave enough to come back."

Tears came then, hot and bitter, for my father's loneliness, for my mother's despair, for the girl I'd been who'd thought running away could solve everything.

I don't know how long I knelt there, but eventually, I became aware of voices coming from the direction of the woods that bordered the cemetery. Concerned voices, then alarmed ones.

"Oh my God!"

"Someone call 911!"

"Get the sheriff!"

I stood on shaking legs and followed the sound. A small crowd had gathered at the edge of the tree line, their faces pale with shock. I pushed through them, my heart hammering against my ribs.

And then I saw her.

A young woman hung from the old oak tree that marked the boundary between the cemetery and the woods. Her body swayed gently in the breeze, her head tilted at an unnatural angle. But it was what was carved into her forehead that made my blood freeze.

The Cross family sigil.

Someone was screaming. It took me a moment to realize the sound was coming from my own throat.

I should never have come back.