Chapter 1: The Crimson Coffin Unearthed

When the folks out in Maple Hollow started breaking ground for a new house, their shovels hit something hard—a coffin, red as a barn door, buried deep in the earth.

It was the sort of small-town uproar that gets everyone tumbling out of their houses, rain or shine. News traveled faster than the ice cream truck in July—old Mrs. Abernathy was the first to spot it, and soon the whole neighborhood came running, some stomping through mud in their boots, others hustling out in pajamas. Folks snatched up every trinket and heirloom they could find—one even yanked the dress right off the woman’s corpse. It was chaos—part greed, part fear, part something else I couldn’t name.

You could hear the shouts and nervous laughter echoing all the way down the block, the air heavy with the sweet, metallic tang of fresh-turned earth—and something else, something old and unsettling. You could almost taste it. Nobody wanted to admit they were scared, but I swear, you could see it in the way folks clung to their finds, glancing over their shoulders like they half-expected the dead woman to sit up and demand her belongings back.

As for me, well—I wound up with the crimson-stitched shoes they’d pulled from that grave. I hesitated for a second, staring at them, before taking them in hand.

They were passed to me almost by accident, caught in the shuffle—someone muttered, "You run that shop, don’t you? These seem like your kind of trouble." I just nodded and took them, my fingers tingling as I wrapped them in a faded old dish towel, not sure if I should feel lucky, or just plain cursed.

I run an antique store.

It’s this creaky old place on Main Street, always smelling of lemon oil and history, with a bell over the door that jingles every time someone walks in. Civil War-era cameos, Depression glass, vintage kitchenware—I collect it all (and then some).

Some folks in town call it a museum, others a junk heap. Honestly, it’s the stories I love most—the tales behind every chipped teacup and tarnished locket. Dealing in old Americana, I’ve come across my share of odd and downright creepy things.

But the strangest—the most chilling by far—was a pair of embroidered shoes.

They didn’t look like much at first: small, faded, and just plain out of place. But there was something about them that made the hairs on my neck stand up—the way you feel when you step into a room and just know you’re not alone. My gut twisted. Something was off.

The night I got those shoes, a thunderstorm was raging outside—loud enough to shake the windows.

Lightning flashed across the sky, throwing harsh white light over the rows of antiques. Rain hammered the old tin roof, drowning out every other sound. I figured, with a storm like that, nobody would show. I was about to lock up when a man in a black rain slicker dashed up onto the porch, rain streaming off his hat and shoulders.

He looked about fifty, with a weathered face—definitely a local farmer, or someone who’d spent years working the land.

His boots tracked mud across my welcome mat, and he paused just inside the door, water dripping off him onto the floorboards. He wiped the rain from his brow and asked, "Mason Calhoun, you still buyin’ tonight?"

I froze for a second—a fellow insider, then. Most people just call me ‘boss’ or ‘shop guy’—the ones who bring in dusty knickknacks, nothing special.

But if someone calls me ‘Mason Calhoun’ right off the bat, it means they’re in the trade. Their goods are usually the real deal.

I hurried him inside and poured him a mug of coffee.

The pot was half-cold, but he didn’t care. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, just downed it in one go.