Chapter 3: Unwelcome Truths
"That's not possible," Detective Blackwood said, studying my phone screen. "Dead people don't send text messages."
"No kidding." I scrolled through my message history, but the text from my grandmother was the only one there. Everything else—months of conversations with colleagues, patients, friends—had vanished. "This phone was working fine yesterday."
"Maybe someone else has access to her phone?"
"Who? According to the funeral director, I'm her only living relative."
Detective Blackwood handed back my phone, his expression thoughtful. "Ms. Voss, I need to ask you something, and I want you to think carefully before you answer."
"Okay."
"Did your grandmother ever mention anything about the missing children? In letters, phone calls, anything?"
I almost said no automatically, then remembered the journal entry I'd read the night before. The children of Ravenshollow depend on our family's burden.
"There might have been... references. Oblique ones."
"What kind of references?"
"In her journal, she mentioned children depending on our family. I assumed it was just part of her delusions."
"May I see this journal?"
We returned to the study, but the leather-bound book was no longer on the desk where I'd left it. I searched through every drawer, every shelf, every possible hiding place.
"It's gone," I said finally.
"Are you sure it was here?"
"Positive. It was open to an entry dated yesterday, talking about someone called 'The Hollow Man' and how our family was responsible for keeping him bound."
Detective Blackwood went very still. "The Hollow Man?"
"You recognize the name?"
"It's... local folklore. Children's stories about a faceless creature that steals kids who misbehave." He was trying to sound dismissive, but I caught the tension in his voice.
"But you've heard the name in connection with the disappearances."
"Lucy Ashford's younger brother claims he saw 'the man with no face' in their backyard the night she vanished. We assumed it was childhood trauma creating false memories."
I thought of the thing I'd seen in the basement—tall, thin, with smooth skin where a face should be. "What if it wasn't false?"
"Ms. Voss, you're a psychiatrist. Surely you don't believe in boogeyman stories."
"Three days ago, I would have said not. But after last night..." I trailed off, unsure how much to reveal.
"What happened last night?"
I made a decision. If I were losing my mind, at least I'd have a witness to document the process.
"I found a basement that shouldn't exist. There was an altar surrounded by children's belongings, and something down there that matched your description of the Hollow Man."
Detective Blackwood stared at me for a long moment. "Show me."
We searched the house for over an hour. Every room, every closet, every possible entrance to a basement level. We found nothing.
"Ms. Voss, there is no basement in this house. The architectural plans on file with the city show a foundation slab, no lower level."
"I know what I saw."
"Stress can cause very convincing hallucinations. You've been through a trauma—losing a family member, inheriting a strange house, sleeping in an unfamiliar environment."
He was being kind, professional. Everything I would tell one of my patients experiencing similar symptoms.
But I knew what I'd experienced wasn't a hallucination.
"Detective, would you do me a favor?"
"Depends what it is."
"Stay with me tonight. I know how that sounds, but I think something is going to happen, and I don't want to face it alone."
James Blackwood—I'd started thinking of him as James rather than Detective—studied my face carefully. "Ms. Voss, are you asking me to spend the night here in a professional capacity or a personal one?"
"Both, maybe. I'm scared, and I think you're the only person in this town who might actually help me figure out what's going on."
"What makes you think I can help?"
"Because you've been investigating these disappearances for two years. Because you know there's something wrong in Ravenshollow. And because when I mentioned the Hollow Man, you didn't laugh."
James was quiet for several minutes, walking around the study, examining the strange books, the family portraits, the overall atmosphere of barely contained dread.
"I've lived in this town my entire life," he said finally. "Forty-three years, and I've never understood why children keep disappearing. The FBI was brought in after the second vanishing, but they found nothing. No evidence, no patterns they could identify, no leads worth pursuing."
"But you found patterns."
"The moon phases. The proximity to this house. And the fact that every missing child was reported to have been having nightmares about 'the faceless man' for weeks before they vanished."
"Why didn't you investigate my grandmother directly?"
"I tried. But Cordelia Voss had connections in this town going back decades. The mayor, the police chief, the district attorney—they all insisted she was just an eccentric old woman who posed no threat to anyone."
"And now she's dead, and another child has disappeared."
"Exactly. Which means either she was never involved, or someone else is carrying on her work."
We stared at each other across the study, both understanding the implication. As her only heir, I was the obvious suspect.
"James," I said, using his first name intentionally, "I didn't hurt that little girl. I've devoted my entire career to helping children recover from trauma. I would never, could"
"I believe you." He stepped closer, clean and masculine, which made me feel safer than I had in days. "But someone wants me to suspect you. The timing of your arrival, the mysterious text message, the convenient disappearance of evidence that might support your claims."
"You think I'm being set up?"
"I think someone is playing a very sophisticated game, and we're both pawns in it."
My phone buzzed again. Another text from Grandmother:
Bring the detective tonight, dear one. He needs to understand his role in what's coming. The binding requires a willing sacrifice from both bloodlines. Yours and his.
I showed James the message and watched his face go pale.
"What does that mean, 'both bloodlines'?" I asked.
James sat down heavily in my grandmother's chair. "My family has lived in Ravenshollow for five generations. We've always served as the town's law enforcement, going back to my great-great-grandfather who was the sheriff in the 1890s."
"So?"
"So every generation of Blackwoods has investigated missing children cases. And according to family records, the disappearances have been happening for over a century."
"How is that possible?"
"I don't know. But I think your grandmother's journal might have contained the answers." James looked up at me with eyes that held fear, determination, and something else—an attraction that mirrored my own growing feelings. "And I think whoever took that journal plans to make sure we never get the chance to read it."
As if summoned by his words, the lights in the study went out. In the sudden darkness, we heard the sound that would haunt me for the rest of my life:
Children's laughter echoed up from somewhere deep beneath our feet.
From a basement that supposedly didn't exist.
"James," I whispered, reaching for his hand in the darkness.
"I'm here."
"Do you believe me now?"
His fingers intertwined with mine, strong and warm and reassuringly real.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I believe you."
Outside, the sun was setting on Halloween night in Ravenshollow.
And something ancient and hungry was waking up.