Chapter 3: Halstead
The road to Halstead felt longer this time. The trees leaned closer to the highway, branches clawing overhead like they were trying to drag the sky down. Maya’s GPS refused to load; the map glitched every few seconds, and the voice assistant kept repeating:
“Recalculating… Recalculating…”
But she didn’t need directions. Her memory led her better than any map could. She passed the same cracked billboard that once read “Welcome to Halstead – Founded 1893” only now, the paint had faded so completely it looked like a blank tombstone.
She drove into fog.
Not the usual kind, but a wall of thick, pearlescent mist that swallowed sound. Even the engine seemed to hum quieter here. She slowed her cruiser to a crawl. Her headlights barely reached five feet ahead.
Suddenly movement.
A silhouette darted across the road.
Maya slammed the brakes.
Nothing.
She stepped out, her boots crunching on the wet gravel.
“Hello?” she called, hand on her holster.
No answer.
She scanned the woods on both sides, but it was as if the fog had devoured everything, even her voice. Still, something in her gut said she wasn’t alone.
Then she saw it.
A light in the distance. Not a streetlamp something higher, glowing faint green and pulsing slowly like a heartbeat.
She got back in the car and kept driving toward it.
Within minutes, the mist began to clear. Halstead emerged from the fog like a dream breaking through sleep only it wasn’t the town she remembered.
It was... cleaner. Too clean. Storefronts had fresh paint, and the air smelled like bleach. A woman swept a porch across the street with an eerie smile that never dropped. Two boys rode past on bikes, dressed identically in striped shirts.
It was like a movie set frozen in time.
She stopped the car in the town square. The digital clock above the bank said 1:17 PM. The second hand didn’t move.
She stepped out and approached an elderly man sitting on a bench, feeding birds that weren’t there.
“Excuse me,” she said gently. “Do you live here?”
He looked up, eyes vacant. Then, as if reciting lines, he said:
“Halstead is a lovely place. Peaceful. Safe.”
Maya frowned. “Do you know Carter Hale? He was here about a month ago.”
The man blinked. A pause. Then the same line again:
“Halstead is a lovely place. Peaceful. Safe.”
She stepped back. Something was wrong.
Across the square, a woman in a red coat stared at her from the bakery window. Unlike the others, her smile faltered. She gave a quick shake of the head—Don’t ask. Don’t speak.
Then she turned and walked away.
Maya followed, but by the time she reached the bakery, the woman was gone. Only the faint smell of burnt sugar lingered.
Behind the counter, a radio buzzed softly. It was tuned to 103.9 FM.
"... but only if the receiver is open... only if she listens..."
Maya leaned closer.
Then, clear as day, came Carter’s voice.
“If you found this broadcast, I’m still alive. But I’m running out of time. They’ve changed the town. Rewritten it. Don’t believe anything you see.”
“Meet me where the signal ends. Midnight. You’ll know the place.”
The radio went dead.
And from outside the bakery window, across the square, every head turned toward her at once.
Every person. Every smile. Frozen.
Watching her.
