Chapter 9
Nathan sat at the edge of his brother’s old bed—same mattress, same uneven headboard. Dust hung in the air like it hadn’t been disturbed in months. The journal lay open in his lap, the pages soft from wear.
He traced his finger over the ink.
“It’s starting again.”
“They’re choosing again.”
The handwriting grew frantic toward the end. Mark had scribbled words over words. Rewritten names. Dates.
Then came the last full line before it stopped:
“I couldn’t save them last time.”
Nathan turned the page—and found a folded newspaper clipping.
“TRAGEDY STRIKES HOLLOW CREEK – THREE CHILDREN KILLED IN HOUSE FIRE”
August 17, 1995.
He read the small article.
Two boys and a girl. Ages seven to nine. Died in a fire that gutted a farmhouse just outside town limits. Cause of fire: unknown. Possible gas leak.
A photo of the ruins showed only black beams and charred stone.
Nathan stared at the article.
He didn’t remember the fire.
He was a teenager then. But he should’ve remembered something like this.
His phone buzzed.
Marlene.
He picked up. “Yeah?”
“You said to tell you if I found anything.”
“What is it?”
“I was digging through Dad’s closet. I found an old VHS tape. It’s labeled ‘Testimony – August 22.’”
“Where are you?”
“Home. Want me to bring it to you?”
“No,” Nathan said, already standing. “I’m coming now.”
Thirty minutes later, Nathan sat with Marlene in the living room, the tape loaded into a battered VCR connected to the TV.
Marlene clicked play.
The screen buzzed. Static. Then:
A teenage version of Nathan’s brother—Mark—sat on a wooden bench in what looked like the sheriff’s office.
The camera was crooked, the lighting poor. Grady’s voice came from offscreen.
“State your name.”
“Mark Rourke.”
“You were seen leaving the Calhoun farmhouse the night of the fire.”
“I wasn’t there when it started.”
“But you were there.”
“I was trying to get them out. I heard them screaming.”
“Why didn’t you call 911?”
“I panicked. I didn’t even have a phone on me. I—I thought someone else had called.”
“And what were you doing out there that late?”
“I followed them. I thought they were sneaking off to drink. Kids do that. But when I got close, I saw something else.”
“Such as?”
“…Torches.”
The camera tilted slightly, but the audio stayed clear.
“Torches? In the middle of the night?”
“Yeah. There were people in the trees. In robes.”
“That’s a big claim, Mark.”
“I’m not making it up.”
“You expect me to believe there was some cult out there?”
“I don’t know what they were. But they weren’t just there to pray.”
“You were the last person seen with those kids.”
“…You think I killed them?”
Silence.
Then Mark stood.
“You think I killed them, and you didn’t charge me because you couldn’t prove it. But you stopped looking for the real ones. You let them burn.”
The tape clicked.
Marlene sat back. “He was a suspect.”
Nathan didn’t speak.
“He never told me that,” she whispered. “He never told anyone.”
Nathan stared at the blank screen. “Three kids. Burned alive. No arrests. No convictions. And now, twenty-eight years later, it’s happening again.”
“You think it’s the same people?”
“I think it’s the same fire. Just waiting to burn again.”
Marlene handed him another paper from the box she found. A property record.
The Calhoun farmhouse, 1995.
Current owner?
Sheriff Grady.
Nathan stared at the paper, his grip tightening.
“He bought it after the fire?”
“Two months later. For pennies.”
Nathan whispered, “How many people knew?”
“Too many,” Marlene said. “And none of them did anything.”
Nathan stood up.
“I need to talk to the people who were there.”
“They’re probably gone.”
“Then I’ll talk to the ones still alive.”
Later that afternoon, Nathan visited the Hollow Creek library. He found the local history archive in the basement—a narrow room with flickering lights and damp spots on the ceiling.
He dug through old microfilm reels. 1995. 1996. Nothing major on the Calhoun fire. Just that one article.
Then he found it.
An opinion column from an anonymous writer.
“The fire on August 17th should haunt us all. But no one wants to talk about what was seen that night. Who was seen. We bury our truths in this town. But fire doesn’t forget. And neither should we.”
Nathan sat back in his chair.
The past wasn’t buried.
It was still burning.
And the first person to see the smoke had been his brother.
He stepped outside into the humid evening air, Marlene waiting near the car.
“Any luck?” she asked.
Nathan nodded slowly. “It wasn’t a coincidence.”
“What?”
“Jace’s fire. Elijah’s case. My brother’s death. The Calhoun fire. They’re all chapters in the same book. A book this town keeps trying to burn.”
Marlene looked at him, pale.
“Then what do we do?”
“We write the last chapter ourselves.”
