Chapter 1: Arrival

I should have known something was wrong when my GPS lost signal fifty miles before I reached Spring Water.

The rental car's navigation system kept recalculating the route, spinning in digital circles like a confused compass. I'd been driving through Nevada desert for six hours, following increasingly narrow roads that seemed designed to discourage visitors rather than welcome them.

"Welcome to Spring Water, Population 847," announced a weathered sign decorated with bullet holes in what might have been artistic patterns if they weren't so ominous.

I pulled out my phone to call my producer, but the screen showed no signal. Complete dead zone. In the age of satellite internet, finding a place this disconnected felt almost supernatural—which was exactly why I was here.

My name is Fern Walker, and I make documentaries that expose supernatural frauds. Ghost hunters, psychic investigators, UFO enthusiasts—I've debunked them all with careful research and hidden cameras. My latest project focused on Spring Water, Nevada, a town that supposedly trapped visitors with ghostly apparitions and mysterious disappearances.

The pitch had been irresistible: a remote desert town where people checked in but never checked out, where locals claimed ancient spirits prevented anyone from leaving. Online forums were filled with testimonials from people who'd escaped Spring Water, describing weeks of car troubles, road closures, and supernatural encounters that kept them prisoner.

Pure nonsense, of course. But profitable nonsense.

Spring Water's main street stretched for maybe six blocks, lined with buildings that looked frozen in time. A diner with neon signs that flickered erratically. A general store with dusty windows. A small library that seemed too well-maintained compared to everything else. The whole place felt like a movie set designed to look authentically American but missing something indefinable that would make it feel real.

I parked outside Henley's Inn, a two-story building that advertised vacancy in hand-painted letters. Before getting my equipment, I walked the main street, filming establishing shots with my handheld camera.

"Day one in Spring Water," I narrated quietly. "Population allegedly 847, though I haven't seen a single person since arriving. The town claims to be a hotspot for supernatural activity, but so far the only spirits I've encountered are the ones that should be maintaining these roads."

A door chimed behind me, and I turned to see a woman emerging from the library. She was tall and lean, with short auburn hair and intelligent brown eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. Her clothes were simple—jeans, flannel shirt, work boots—but she carried herself with quiet confidence that immediately caught my attention.

"You must be the documentary filmmaker," she said, approaching with a slight smile. "I'm Sage Morrison, town librarian. Mayor Kane asked me to help you get settled."

I lowered my camera, surprised by how attractive she was and annoyed with myself for noticing. "Word travels fast in a town this size."

"Sheriff Henley called ahead when he saw you drive through the checkpoint."

"Checkpoint?" I hadn't seen any checkpoint.

"About ten miles back, where the county road meets the state highway. He keeps an eye on visitors." Sage's expression was pleasant but guarded. "What brings you to Spring Water?"

"I'm investigating reports of supernatural activity. Ghost sightings, unexplained disappearances, that sort of thing."

Something flickered in Sage's eyes—fear? Warning?—but her smile never wavered. "Well, you've come to the right place. This town has plenty of stories to tell."

"Any truth to them?"

"That depends what you consider truth, I suppose."

I raised my camera again, intrigued by her evasive answer. "Would you mind being interviewed? Local perspective is always valuable."

"Maybe later. Let's get you checked in first."

Henley's Inn was clean but dated, decorated with vintage photographs of Spring Water's supposedly prosperous past. The desk clerk, a nervous man named Pete, handed me an old-fashioned room key and a laminated sheet of "local guidelines."

"Checkout is eleven AM," he said quickly. "But most folks end up extending their stays. Car troubles, mostly. Desert roads are hard on vehicles."

The guidelines were standard tourist warnings about wandering alone at night and respecting private property. But the last item made me pause: "In case of extended stays due to circumstances beyond our control, additional amenities can be arranged through the front desk."

"Extended stays?" I asked Pete.

"Sometimes people have mechanical problems, weather delays, that sort of thing. We like to make sure everyone's comfortable while they wait."

Sage had been quiet during this exchange, but I caught her watching me carefully. When Pete handed her a separate key, I realized she was staying at the inn too.

"I thought you lived here," I said as we climbed the stairs to the second floor.

"I do. But my house is being fumigated this week. Termites." Her explanation felt rehearsed, like something she'd said many times before.

My room was at the end of the hall, decorated in faded floral patterns that might have been charming thirty years ago. A window overlooked the main street, giving me a perfect view of anyone coming or going.

"Dinner's at six in the diner," Sage said from my doorway. "Only place in town that serves meals. I could show you around afterward, if you'd like."

"That would be great. I'm particularly interested in locations where supernatural events have been reported."

"There are quite a few of those." Sage's tone was neutral, but something in her posture suggested she was uncomfortable with the topic. "Fern, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"What do you hope to accomplish here? With your documentary, I mean."

Most people asked about my filming techniques or release dates. No one had ever asked about my goals.

"I expose fraud," I said finally. "I show people that supernatural explanations are usually covers for very human problems. Missing persons cases that weren't properly investigated. Natural phenomena that people don't understand. Sometimes deliberate deception for profit."

"And if you're wrong? If there really is something supernatural here?"

I laughed. "Then I'll have the most exciting footage of my career."

Sage didn't smile. "Be careful what you wish for, Fern Walker."

After she left, I unpacked my equipment and set up my laptop to review the day's footage. The establishing shots looked good—Spring Water had an authentically creepy atmosphere that would work well for the documentary's opening.

But as I scrolled through the files, I noticed something odd. In several shots of the main street, I could see figures in windows that I hadn't observed while filming. A woman in the general store. A man in the diner. Children in the upper floors of various buildings.

Where had all these people been when I walked through town?

I enhanced the images, but the figures were too distant and blurry to make out clearly. They could be reflections, shadows, artifacts of digital compression. But their presence felt deliberate, like an audience watching my performance from behind glass.

My phone still showed no signal. I connected to the inn's Wi-Fi network, but it couldn't reach any external sites. The connection worked for local services only—weather updates, town information, business directories.

According to the local weather service, a severe storm system was approaching that could close the main highway for several days. The earliest I could leave would be Thursday—five days from now.

I'd planned to spend two days in Spring Water, getting enough footage to build my debunking narrative. Five days meant I could dig deeper, find more evidence of whatever scam the town was running.

Or maybe the storm was part of the scam. Keep visitors trapped long enough to separate them from their money, create artificial supernatural experiences, build word-of-mouth marketing for the town's ghost tourism business.

Outside my window, Spring Water settled into early evening quiet. But in that silence, I heard something that made me grab my camera and start recording again: children's voices, singing lullabies in harmony, coming from the direction of the old mine shaft.

For the first time in my career, I was beginning to wonder if I'd underestimated the supernatural.