Chapter 8
Nathan sat in the Hollow Creek town records room, a mug of bitter vending machine coffee on his left, and stacks of folders on his right.
The air was musty, thick with the smell of old paper and dust. Fluorescent lights buzzed above him. There were no cameras. No clocks. Just time—and lies—pressed between file folders.
He pulled the first box closer. Fire Department Records – 2005–2022.
He flipped through incident reports, scanned through addresses.
Everything seemed normal at first.
A few chimney fires. Kitchen accidents. One barn lost in a lightning storm.
Then he found it.
Carter Residence – Fire.
Date: Three years ago.
Cause: Undetermined.
There was no photo. No full report. Just a single page summary.
Nathan frowned.
He moved to the next.
Moore Estate – Garage Fire – 2019.
Damage: Minimal.
Suspected cause: Electrical.
Also one page.
Too clean. Too vague. No signatures. No interviews. No lab analysis.
Nathan sat back in his chair.
“Two major properties. Two fires. No full report on either.”
He reached for a different box.
Sealed Juvenile Records – Restricted Access.
He hesitated. Then picked the lock with a thin paperclip. It clicked open like it was meant to be opened.
He pulled the top folder.
Carter, Jace – Age 10.
Inside: nothing but a single intake form from social services. No history. No notes. No incident reports. Just a brief paragraph about “removal from biological home” and a signature from a judge.
No foster placements. No school evaluations. Nothing.
Nathan’s brows furrowed. He flipped to the next folder.
Moore, Elijah – Age 11.
Same thing.
No notes.
No health records.
No school transcripts.
Nothing but a name, a birthdate, and a blacked-out field marked: Evaluation Complete.
Nathan whispered to himself, “Where are the rest?”
He stood and walked to the front desk.
Beatrice, the records clerk from earlier, looked up with her usual narrowed eyes.
“You again,” she said.
“I need full access,” Nathan said. “Property deeds, fire reports, juvenile records, court filings from 2000 to 2023.”
“That’s a lot of paper, Rourke.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
She slid her glasses higher. “You think this town has PayPal?”
He pulled out a wad of bills.
She raised her eyebrows. “You’re serious.”
“I need to see anything tied to these families,” he said. “Moore. Carter. Grady. And Rourke.”
Her lips thinned. “You’re looking for ghosts, Nathan.”
“Maybe. But someone has to.”
She gave a slow, careful nod and walked into the back.
Ten minutes later, she returned with a single box.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“For what you asked for? Yeah.”
He opened the box. Each folder was thin. Each report had pages missing. Names scratched out. Dates blurred with whiteout. Entire sections replaced with stickers that read: CONFIDENTIAL – REDACTED.
Nathan flipped through the files faster, fingers shaking now.
His own last name stared back at him.
Rourke, Mark.
His brother’s record.
It had been scrubbed.
All of it.
No record of what he’d been investigating. No permits. No court orders. No financial statements.
Just one line in shaky handwriting:
"He’s digging where the old ones sleep."
Nathan blinked, then reread it.
What the hell does that mean?
He turned to Beatrice.
“Who had access to these boxes in the last six months?”
She shrugged. “You think we keep a sign-in sheet?”
“You used to.”
“Not anymore.”
“Who’s your boss?”
She smirked. “That’d be Sheriff Grady. Town records fall under his department.”
Nathan’s blood went cold.
Of course they did.
He walked out without another word.
Back in his car, he opened his laptop and compared the report Jace’s foster mom gave him with the official version from the file room.
Different wording. Different witness notes. Whole sections missing.
He tried to access state-level case records through a backdoor login.
Access denied.
“Someone’s got their fingers in every drawer,” he muttered.
He checked the timestamp on Elijah’s first police interview.
Midnight.
That was illegal.
Minors couldn’t be interrogated without a parent or lawyer.
Nathan ran his hands through his hair. His heart was beating too fast now.
Everywhere he looked—holes. Every record, altered. Every name, shadowed.
Then he noticed it.
Every fire. Every missing record. Every incident.
Same dates.
December 21st.
June 21st.
September 21st.
March 21st.
Solstices and equinoxes.
He whispered it to himself. “Ritual dates.”
The Circle.
The Rebirth.
Whatever it was—it wasn’t just a secret society.
It was something deeper.
Older.
He looked back down at his brother’s file.
He’s digging where the old ones sleep.
Nathan sat in the silence of his car.
And for the first time since coming back to Hollow Creek, he felt real fear.
Because someone wasn’t just erasing history.
They were preparing for something.
And it hadn’t happened yet.
