Chapter 6

six

The photograph had burrowed under my skin like a parasite, festering in my mind, and no amount of scrubbing could wash away the feeling of being watched. I'd taken to sleeping with all the lights on, a poor substitute for the sense of security I so desperately craved. The cameras and alarms I ordered were a Band-Aid on a gaping wound, but they were all I had—my thin veil of protection against the darkness that lurked outside.

I'd always thought of myself as strong, independent, but that image had begun to crack and splinter, revealing the scared girl cowering beneath the leather and studs. The masked stranger had taken more than just my body that night; he'd stolen my sense of control, my belief that I could handle anything life threw at me. But with each passing day, the fear that had consumed me was slowly giving way to anger—a fiery, defiant fury that refused to be extinguished.

I had become a creature of routine, checking and rechecking the locks, the cameras, the alarms, as if my life depended on it—because it did. The house that was supposed to be my fresh start had become my prison, and I was its most vigilant guard. I found solace in the small victories, like successfully replacing the batteries in the smoke detectors or learning how to set the security system's panic feature. These were the things that kept the panic at bay, the actions that allowed me to pretend, if only for a moment, that I was safe.

But it was the nights that tested me, the long, interminable hours when the silence of the house seemed to mock my fear. The winds that howled outside my windows were like the whispers of ghosts, taunting me with reminders of my vulnerability. Sleep was a luxury I could scarcely afford, and when it did come, it was fractured and fraught with nightmares.

I had just settled onto the couch, a blanket wrapped tightly around my shoulders, when the familiar chime of the security system alerted me to movement outside. My heart leaped into my throat as I rushed to the monitor, my hands shaking as I clicked through the camera feeds. There, on the screen, was the shadowy figure of a man, standing just beyond the reach of the porch light's glow.

I couldn't make out his features, but I didn't need to—I knew who it was. The way he stood there, so still, so patient, sent a clear message: he was in control, and I was nothing more than a mouse trapped in his maze. I watched, frozen, as he took a step forward, his face hidden beneath the brim of a hat.

The anger that had been simmering inside me boiled over, and I felt a surge of adrenaline. I wouldn't be his victim again. I grabbed the knife I had stashed beneath the couch cushions and gripped it tightly, the metal cool against my clammy palm.

He stood there, just staring directly into the camera with a chilling confidence. It was as if he could see through the lens, through the walls, and straight into my soul. His message was clear: "Do you think this was going to stop me?" His gaze seemed to mock the futility of my efforts.

In one swift motion, he drew a knife from his belt—a wicked blade that glinted ominously under the dim porch light—and slammed it into the wood of my porch with such force that I felt the impact reverberate through the floorboards beneath my feet. The room spun around me, and for a moment, I was lightheaded with terror, my breath caught in my throat. The knife quivered there, a grotesque monument to his power, to my helplessness.

Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the knife embedded in the wood as a twisted calling card. The red hoodie, a splash of crimson against the dark backdrop of the night, disappeared into the shadows, and I was left alone with the pounding of my heart and the cold realization that this was far from over.

I stood there for what felt like an eternity, my body trembling and my mind racing. I needed answers. I needed them now.

* * *

I spent the following days at the town's library, poring over dusty tomes and yellowed newspapers, desperate for any scrap of information that might shed light on the terror haunting my days and nights. My eyes were grainy from hours of reading by the dim glow of the green-shaded banker's lamp, my fingers stained with newsprint, and my mind brimming with tales of a past that seemed to bleed into the present.

The Bone Keepers, it turned out, were no mere folktale. They were a grim reality of Red Hallow's history—a secret society of townsfolk who, according to the records I unearthed, believed in a perverse form of purification through ritualistic cannibalism. The thought of it made my skin crawl, but I forced myself to keep reading, to understand the depths of depravity this place had seen. It was a sickness that seemed to have seeped into the very soil of Red Hallow.

I dismissed the stories as macabre folklore at first, the kind of local legend that every old small town seemed to have. But the line between myth and reality began to blur as I uncovered more about the town's dark legacy. Murmurs and sideways glances from the townsfolk took on new meaning. The way they whispered about the Vesper name, about my grandparents, and my great aunts and uncles—it all pointed to something deeper, something I was only beginning to comprehend.

It was in an old microfiche archive that I found the first mention of him: Grayson Hale. The name seemed to leap off the screen, electrifying my senses. There he was, in a police report from decades ago, accused of a series of grisly murders that shook the town to its core. The details were scant, the case shrouded in mystery, but the pattern was unmistakable. The obsession with knives, the silence, the relentless pursuit of his victims—it was him. It had always been him.

As I pieced together the fragments of his past, a picture emerged of a boy twisted by abuse and isolation, his humanity stripped away until only the monster remained. Grayson Hale was the embodiment of Red Hallow's sins, a living ghost story that haunted the town's streets and whispered through its trees.

I closed my eyes, the weight of this new knowledge pressing down on me. Grayson was more than just a stalker or a troubled soul; he was the manifestation of Red Hallow's darkest secrets, a thread woven into the very fabric of the town's existence. And somehow, I was tangled up in it all.

The sun had set by the time I emerged from the library, the night air cool against my flushed cheeks. I walked the streets with purpose, my mind racing with questions and theories. How was I connected to Grayson Hale? What did he want from me? And more importantly, how could I stop him?

The answers, I knew, lay hidden in the shadows of Red Hallow, in the whispers of the past that echoed through the present, and in the fucked up scavenger hunt my mom left for me. I would uncover the truth, no matter how terrifying it might be. Red Hallow had chosen me, and I would face its darkness head-on.