Chapter 2: The Stranger’s Warning

Right then, a man suddenly stumbled into the yard.

He came out of nowhere, wild-eyed and desperate, his clothes caked with mud and blood. Even the dogs backed away.

He burst into the Whitlocks’ yard, screaming and sobbing, voice hoarse: “My wife! My wife! Give me back my wife!”

He wailed as he rushed toward the porch, rambling about how he and his wife were traveling to visit family when a gang attacked them—took everything, violated his wife, then kidnapped her. Nobody moved.

He’d barely escaped, and after following tire tracks, finally traced her to the Whitlocks.

He said he’d walked for miles, following the faintest clues—tire marks in the mud, scraps of fabric caught on branches. He’d begged for help at every farmhouse, but no one believed him. Now, here he was, standing in the lion’s den.

At first, the yard went dead silent—then erupted.

The silence broke like glass, and suddenly everyone was shouting at once. Nobody wanted trouble.

A couple of Lucas’s friends snickered, nudging each other. “Bet he’s just drunk. Oughta throw him in the creek to sober up!”

Some townsfolk, always looking for trouble, pointed at him and jeered: “Serves you right! Can’t even protect your own wife—what kind of man are you? Might as well pack it in and call it quits!” No mercy here.

A weaselly guy spat on the ground, cursing, “Don’t come here and die, you’re bad luck! Get lost!”

A heavyset woman chimed in, “I bet he’s just a crazy looking for hush money!”

Who cared if he was telling the truth? In this godforsaken place, who’d risk offending the Whitlocks for a stranger?

Everyone kept their distance, eyes darting between the mayor and the stranger. Nobody wanted to be the one to speak up and draw the Whitlocks’ wrath.

Mayor Whitlock, who’d been riding high, turned dark as soon as the man started making a scene.

His face twisted, smile dropping like a mask. He signaled to his men, his voice low and dangerous.

He shot a look at his cronies and barked, “Where’d this mad dog come from? Shut him up and get him out of here!”

His men grinned, eager for an excuse to rough someone up. They closed in, cracking their knuckles, ready to make an example out of him.

The cronies grinned and surrounded the man, beating him with sticks, fists, and boots—blows raining down like a storm.

The sound was sickening—thuds and grunts, the crowd’s laughter turning nervous. Nobody moved to stop it. Some folks even cheered, egging the thugs on.

The man curled up on the ground, shielding his head, still sobbing for his wife—his cries so desperate they made your heart clench.

I watched from the back of the crowd, feeling a sense of dread.

He was wailing his heart out, but on the porch, the bride—her head covered in a blood-red veil—sat motionless.

She was like a wooden statue, sitting perfectly still in the big armchair.

If she really was his wife, hearing him being beaten and crying out like that, wouldn’t she react somehow? Cry, struggle—anything?

But she didn’t. Nothing but silence.

It was all wrong.

The man was beaten until he started convulsing, crawling toward the porch, mumbling incoherently.

And Lucas? He didn’t care what was happening outside—he was circling the bride, face flushed with booze, sniffing at her, trying to touch her hand, acting like a dog in heat, completely bewitched.

The more I watched, the more creeped out I felt.

My grandpa, Walter Brooks, couldn’t take it anymore. He was the only one.

He was a respected figure in town. People listened when he talked.

People came to him when their cows got sick, or when their dreams turned dark. He kept a bundle of dried sage in his coat pocket and a Bible in his truck. Some called him superstitious, but when things got weird, they listened.

Whenever there was a wedding, funeral, or something spooky, people called for him.

His words, as long as they didn’t offend the Whitlocks, carried some weight—even with the mayor.

He walked a fine line—respected, but not untouchable.

Grandpa squeezed through the crowd, tugged Mayor Whitlock’s sleeve, and whispered, “Hank, Hank! It’s a wedding day—keep it clean, keep it smooth!”

Mayor Whitlock’s expression softened a little.

Then Grandpa raised his voice to the crowd: “But! Everything has a limit! If someone dies on a happy day, that’s bad luck! Might ruin the good fortune and curse the whole town!”

His words were part persuasion, part warning—a little scare tactic.

Mountain folks are superstitious about this stuff.

Mayor Whitlock hesitated, maybe afraid of real trouble.

He kicked the man on the ground and waved his hand at the thugs, grumbling, “Fine, fine! Old Walter’s right! Don’t kill him! Drag that mutt to the shed and lock him up! We’ll deal with him after the party!”

His voice was gruff, but there was relief underneath.

He called out, “Don’t crowd around! Eat, drink! The wedding goes on as planned!”

The crowd scattered.

The man was dragged away like a dead dog.

After he was tossed into the shed, Grandpa quietly beckoned me over.

He didn’t say a word, just crooked his finger, and I knew to follow.

I hurried over, and he pulled a neatly folded strip of paper from his pocket, shoved it into my hand, and whispered, “Eli, be smart. Sneak this to the man in the shed. Don’t let anyone see, especially the Whitlocks!”

I was puzzled, no idea what Grandpa was up to—but I wouldn’t dare disobey him.

I nodded, clutched the paper, and slipped to the Whitlocks’ shed while the backyard was busy.

I waited until the music got loud and folks were busy with the food.

The shed reeked.

The man was bloodied, curled up in a corner, shivering like a frightened rabbit.

He eyed me warily as I entered.

I kept my hands up, trying to look harmless.

He stared at the note like it was a snake, then snatched it from my hand.

He read it once, then again. His breathing changed—shallow, sharp, like he’d just run a mile.

I didn’t know what Grandpa had written, but I watched the man’s face shift—first cautious, then sneering, then stunned, and finally, a terrifying gleam flashed in his eyes, blood-red and fierce.

It was like watching a storm roll in—one minute calm, the next raging.

Uncle Ben died under suspicious circumstances.

My family always said the Whitlocks had a hand in it, but nobody could prove a thing. Uncle Ben was tough, but even he couldn’t stand up to them.

After reading the note, the man took a deep breath. When he looked up again, all the despair and pleading were gone—replaced by cold determination.

He looked different—harder, older. Like he’d made up his mind to do something he couldn’t take back.

He stopped crying.

He stood up straighter, wiped the blood from his mouth, and stared at me with eyes that burned.

He felt wrong. Not broken—dangerous.

I wasn’t sure if I should be scared or relieved. He didn’t seem broken anymore—just dangerous.

He said calmly, “Tell your grandpa I understand everything now.”

His voice was flat, almost gentle. It sent a chill down my spine.

I had no idea what he meant, but I nodded and repeated it to Grandpa.

Grandpa just nodded, eyes narrowing, and silently sipped his whiskey.

He didn’t say a word, just stared into the distance, the bottle trembling in his hand.

My heart pounded—I knew something was about to happen.

All around, townsfolk gossiped.

They gathered in tight knots, whispering behind their hands.

They weren’t upset about the man being beaten—mountain folks are used to the idea that might makes right. Who’d stick their neck out for an outsider?

It was just the way things were. If you weren’t from here, you didn’t matter. That’s how Hollow Creek had always been.

They were staring up at the sky. It looked wrong.

Clouds were rolling in fast, dark and heavy.

“Look at those clouds—something’s off!”

“Looks like a storm’s coming. Hope it doesn’t ruin the barbecue.”

An old man pointed up. “Yeah! Just a while ago, the sun was blazing, now all of a sudden, it’s dark and cloudy—right at the wedding hour!”

He tugged his cap lower, peering at the sky like it might bite him.

“Exactly! It’s pitch black, like someone turned off the sun—gives me the creeps.”

A woman clutched her rosary, muttering a prayer under her breath.

I looked up too. Sure enough, what had been a clear sky was now swallowed by thick, dark clouds, turning everything gloomy.

The wind picked up, rattling the streamers and sending a shiver through the crowd.

It cut through my jacket, sharp and wet, carrying the smell of rain and something metallic.

It was hard to describe—not the dry, biting cold of winter, but a clammy, chilling draft that seemed to seep from underground, creeping into your bones.

It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Dust and ashes from burnt newspaper scraps swirled in the wind, stinging my eyes.

Someone had been burning trash in a barrel nearby, and the ashes floated through the air like snow.

Fear settled in my gut.

It sat there, heavy and sour, making it hard to breathe.

Through the crowd, I peeked onto the porch.

The bride sat alone, still as stone. The officiant stood beside her, her outfit catching the light in a way that made my stomach twist.

She was a stranger, too—nobody knew her name. Her clothes were strange, old-fashioned, like something out of a photograph from a hundred years ago.

Her outfit was bizarre—half bright red, half stark black.

The colors clashed, making her look like a warning sign.

Her face was caked with powder, two red circles on her cheeks like a clown’s, and her smile was twisted—more like a grimace.

Her eyes were cold, unblinking. She looked like she knew something the rest of us didn’t, and it wasn’t good.

Nothing about this wedding was normal.

The music, the food, the decorations—none of it fit together.

A regular wedding around here is white lace and soft colors. But here, everything was split—half red, half black.

It was as if the whole town was caught between life and death, celebration and mourning.

I’d overheard adults gossiping: Mayor Whitlock originally wanted the woman for his dead son’s ghost wedding, but his eldest son snatched her. To keep things “fair,” and to let the dead son “rest easy,” they were holding a blood moon wedding—one woman marrying two brothers.

Folks talked in circles, trying to make sense of it.

After all, they were blood brothers—keeping the fortune in the family.

The Whitlocks always found a way to turn tragedy into opportunity.

Just hearing about it gave me the chills.

I hugged myself, wishing I could run away.

What kind of wedding was this?

It was the kind you only read about in horror stories, not the kind you’d ever want to see in real life.

Just as the officiant was dragging out, “The hour has come—bride and groom, bow to heaven and earth—” something happened!

The words barely left his mouth when chaos erupted. The music stopped, and everyone turned to look.