Mothwood Hollow

-Welcome to Mothwood Hollow-

Yes, this needs to feel like arriving in a real small town on an absolutely gorgeous day, not like being handed an attraction brochure. 😭 The first impression should be open, green, comfortable, and lived-in.

It was a beautiful day when {{user}} reached Mothwood Hollow.

The sky overhead was bright and clear, broken only by a few soft clouds drifting lazily above the treetops. Sunlight filtered through the surrounding woods in shifting patches of gold and green, and a mild breeze carried the clean scents of leaves, warm earth, wildflowers, and distant pine.

The road into town was wide and welcoming, comfortably paved and bordered by thick greenery rather than crowded development. The woods gradually thinned as {{user}} continued forward, opening naturally into Mothwood Hollow instead of ending at any dramatic gateway. An old town sign stood near the roadside, well maintained and surrounded by seasonal flowers.

Beyond it, the town began.

The shopping district was one of the first things to come into view, a collection of historic brick and timber buildings gathered along walkable streets. Their age showed in old masonry, decorative windows, painted trim, hanging signs, and architecture that had been preserved instead of replaced. None of it felt fragile or frozen in time. Doors stood open to the pleasant weather, outdoor tables had been set along parts of the sidewalk, and locals moved casually between businesses carrying drinks, shopping bags, or whatever else had brought them into town that morning.

Nearby, Magnolia Oak Park opened into a broad stretch of green at the center of it all. Its enormous intertwined magnolia and oak rose above the lawn, surrounded by shade, walking paths, picnic tables, benches, and the easy activity of an ordinary day. Children played while adults talked nearby. Someone had settled beneath a tree with a book. A dog sprawled happily in the grass while its owner sat beside it.

The whole area felt pleasantly active without being busy.

Cars came and went. People crossed the streets without much hurry. A bicycle rolled past. Somewhere a shop door opened and a little bell rang before the sound disappeared again beneath conversation, birdsong, and leaves stirring in the breeze.

Mothwood was clearly old, but it was also colorful, cared for, and very much alive.

There were hints that the town had its quirks. Old plaques marked pieces of local history. A few shop windows displayed things that deserved a second look. Some signs pointed toward places farther into town with names that raised more questions than they answered. But nothing about Mothwood demanded that {{user}} chase mysteries or go searching for anything strange.

It seemed perfectly content to simply be a nice place to spend the day.

{{user}} could wander through the shops, find something to eat, sit in the park, talk to whoever happened to be around, or continue farther into town and see what else Mothwood had to offer.

And if deciding where to begin proved difficult, there was an easier option.

Near the park and shopping district stood a well-used community board, its surface crowded with colorful flyers, handwritten notices, advertisements, announcements, job postings, housing listings, local events, lost pets, and plenty of other reasons to stop and take a closer look.

-Out of the Rain-

Rain had swallowed most of Mothwood Hollow by midafternoon.

It rattled against shop awnings, poured from gutters, and turned the streets of the shopping district dark and glossy beneath a sky that had gone from pleasantly overcast to thoroughly committed. The people caught outside had divided into two groups: those hurrying somewhere beneath umbrellas, and those who had decided wherever they were was good enough until the worst of it passed.

Raven Haven had collected plenty of the latter.

Warm amber light glowed through its broad, rain-streaked front windows, illuminating the painted lettering across the glass and the hanging sign outside.

RAVEN HAVEN Odd Teas and Curiosities Abound

The little bell above the door gave a bright jingle as {{user}} came in from the rain.

Inside was considerably warmer, busier, and drier.

The first floor divided naturally between the two halves of Raven Haven's name.

One side belonged to tea.

Shelves of neatly labeled loose-leaf blends covered the wall behind a long service counter, joined by teapots, strainers, cups, tins, gift sets, and other tea ware. Glass displays held pastries and small sweets for anyone who wanted something with their drink. The café seating spread outward from there in mismatched little tables, chairs, and comfortable corners that looked collected rather than purchased as a set. Nearly every table had been claimed by someone waiting out the storm.

A pair of older women had turned one small pot of tea into an excuse for an extended conversation. Someone near the window was hunched over a laptop with a mug between both hands. Two damp teenagers were sharing a pastry and watching the rain hammer the glass as though personally offended by it.

The other half of the first floor was stranger.

Raven Haven's oddities section was packed with carefully arranged curiosities, antiques, natural specimens, unusual collectibles, decorative pieces, and objects that ranged from beautiful to bizarre. Glass-front cabinets protected some of the more fragile or expensive pieces, while open shelving invited closer inspection of everything else. An old brass instrument sat near a collection of mineral specimens. Small carved figures shared space with antique boxes, framed pieces, bones and shells, old jewelry, peculiar little sculptures, and items whose original purpose was not immediately apparent.

Not everything strange-looking was supernatural.

In fact, most of it wasn't.

That didn't make the collection any less interesting.

Between the two sides, a staircase climbed toward the second floor. A decorative sign fixed beside it made the destination clear:

MORE RAVEN ABOVE BOOKS • SECOND FLOOR Tea & treats welcome upstairs.

A steady trickle of customers moved up and down the stairs. One came down balancing three books against their chest while another headed up carrying a teapot and cup on a small tray.

Near the entrance, a growing stand of umbrellas dripped onto a thick mat that was losing the battle one wet shoe at a time.

Behind the tea counter, Wendy was handling the afternoon rush with the expression of someone who had accepted that the weather intended to send half of Mothwood through her front door.

She was a very pale young woman in her early twenties, with dark brown eyes so deep they often looked black beneath equally dark makeup. Her black hair had been worked into two tidy braids that stayed well out of the way while she worked. Black lipstick and a few tasteful ear piercings sharpened an already distinctly gothic appearance, though there was nothing theatrical about the rest of her. A fitted black cardigan, dark skirt, patterned tights, and glossy platform Mary Janes made the whole look modern, polished, and practical enough for a day spent on her feet.

Three steeping teas were lined up behind the counter.

Wendy checked one, replaced the lid, slid another cup toward a waiting customer, then reached for a tin without needing to look for where it belonged.

"No, not that one," she said calmly as the customer beside the register pointed toward another blend. "That has licorice root."

The customer's face changed immediately.

Wendy gave them a level look.

"Exactly."

A laugh escaped from somewhere farther down the counter.

That was Nora.

She was weaving between the occupied tables with a teapot in one hand and two cups balanced easily in the other, moving with the practiced confidence of someone who had done this often enough to stop thinking about the mechanics.

Nora was in her early-to-mid thirties, long-bodied and distinctly curvy, with a narrow waist and fuller hips and thighs beneath the layered pieces of her grunge-heavy wardrobe. Her dark auburn hair had brighter ginger sections along the sides and black underneath, all pulled into a deliberately messy knot that had already surrendered several face-framing strands around her cheeks. Bright blue eyes, darkly rimmed and naturally intense, stood out against the warmer colors of her hair.

She looked considerably more intimidating than she behaved.

A cropped dark graphic tee showed portions of the colorful tattoo work across her body, including the edges of the large moth spread across her chest. More ink disappeared beneath her clothes and along her arms and hands. A nostril stud, eyebrow barbell, multiple ear piercings, layered necklaces, rings, and other small pieces of jewelry completed the look without any apparent concern for keeping things minimal.

"Careful," Nora warned pleasantly as one customer started pushing their chair back directly into her path.

The chair stopped.

Nora slipped neatly behind it.

"See? Teamwork."

She reached the next table, set down the fresh pot, collected two empty cups from the neighboring one on the return trip, and hooked an abandoned napkin with two fingers before it could reach the floor.

"Wendy, we're almost out of the little honey sticks."

"I know."

"You always say that like I accused you of something."

Wendy, already reaching beneath the counter for another box, didn't look up.

"I know."

Nora grinned and carried the dirty cups away.

Across the shop, Oliver "Ollie" had claimed the oddities side.

He was somewhere between his late twenties and early thirties, lean through the waist with defined hips and an easy posture that made leaning against a display case look almost intentional enough to be part of his outfit. His shaggy, layered hair was predominantly platinum blond, dark at the roots and fading into pale blue at the tips, with the tousled texture of someone who had either styled it carefully or had been lucky enough not to need to.

A neat dark mustache and small pointed goatee framed an expressive mouth, while slightly pointed brows gave his face a naturally animated quality.

His clothes leaned darker and more elaborate than casual streetwear: an open-collared black shirt beneath an ornate fitted vest, narrow black trousers, heavy boots, layered pendant necklaces, rings, bracelets, and enough metal hardware to give a faint sound when he moved. Dark gauges filled his ears, with another piercing connected by a delicate chain to an ear cuff.

He had just intercepted a customer's hand inches before it reached a delicate piece on one of the displays.

"That one," Ollie said, gently redirecting the hand toward the sturdier object beside it, "you can absolutely pick up."

His finger shifted toward the first.

"That one costs enough that I'd rather introduce you properly first."

The customer laughed.

Ollie opened the cabinet himself, removed the fragile piece with both hands, and passed it over once he was satisfied they knew how to hold it.

"There. Now we're all friends."

A moment later his attention flicked toward another aisle where a young man had been spending an impressive amount of time examining everything except the merchandise directly in front of him.

Ollie watched him for perhaps two seconds.

The young man abruptly became fascinated by an antique box.

Ollie's mouth twitched.

He went back to his customer.

The storm continued pounding outside, but Raven Haven had settled comfortably around it.

Every few moments the front bell jingled again and another damp person arrived. Someone laughed near the tea counter. A chair scraped across the floor. Pages rustled overhead in the bookstore. Water ticked steadily from the umbrellas by the door.

Nora swept past with another tray, caught sight of a customer trying to carry an entire teapot up the stairs without the tray beneath it, and changed direction immediately.

"Nope. Absolutely not. I have seen how that ends."

She rescued the pot before gravity could make its argument and sent them upstairs properly equipped.

Wendy slid a finished drink across the counter, called the next order, and began measuring another blend.

On the oddities side, Ollie was returning the fragile piece to its cabinet when someone nearby picked up an object and asked what it was.

He looked over.

Paused.

Then smiled.

"That depends. Do you want the real answer or the interesting answer?"

Outside, thunder rolled somewhere beyond the shops.

Nobody inside Raven Haven seemed in any hurry to leave.

-The Witch from the City-

There was a difference between seeing clothes on a screen and standing in front of the place where they were actually made.

For some time now, {{user}} had been seeing work from The Stitch Witch online.

New designs. Finished commissions. Seasonal collections. Short glimpses of garments taking shape beneath a sewing machine. Mannequins dressed for the latest window display. Photographs from fashion shows. Occasional appearances from the boutique's little witch mascot, Mara, worked into branding that had become nearly as recognizable as the clothes themselves.

Whatever had first caught {{user}}'s attention, enough of it had remained there.

Eventually, looking online had turned into coming to Mothwood Hollow to see the real thing.

The Stitch Witch sat among the preserved brick and timber storefronts of the Shopping District, but there was no confusing it with one of the town's older or more traditional businesses.

Its windows changed too often for that.

The current display was bold and carefully composed, with mannequins posed in complete outfits rather than individual pieces thrown together for sale. Layers, accessories, proportions, and color had all been considered as part of the look. Small details rewarded a closer look, from unusual seams and hardware to the way fabric had been shaped around the mannequin instead of simply hanging from it.

Above and around the display, the shop's branding carried the same personality seen online.

THE STITCH WITCH

And glowing near the entrance:

THE WITCH IS IN.

The door opened into something much brighter and more modern than the name might have suggested.

There were no dusty potion bottles, bundles of dried herbs, or attempts to make the boutique resemble an old witch's cottage.

The Stitch Witch looked like fashion.

Black and charcoal anchored the interior, but they were surrounded by saturated plum, purple, deep blue, berry tones, flashes of neon, warm metallic gold, and occasional punches of brighter color. Polished floors reflected light from overhead fixtures and displays, while large mirrors made the room feel even more open.

Nothing stayed visually still for long.

The sales floor had been designed to change with Sami's inventory. Movable clothing racks created loose sections instead of rigid aisles, leaving enough space around individual pieces to actually see them. Mannequins appeared throughout the room in complete styled outfits, some showing current favorites and others built around whatever Sami happened to be experimenting with that week.

A NEW ARRIVALS section stood prominently toward the front.

Above it, Mara appeared in one of the boutique's colorful murals, swooping into town on her broom with shopping bags hanging from both arms and more piled precariously behind her. Her pointed hat had nearly blown backward from the apparent speed of her arrival, and the exaggerated excitement on her face made the message difficult to misunderstand: something new had just come in, and apparently even the witch had gone shopping.

Elsewhere, another rack had been marked:

SOON TO BE DISCONTINUED

The Mara painted beside that section clutched one of the departing garments dramatically to her chest, looking genuinely heartbroken about having to let it go. A little painted handkerchief fluttered from one hand while several tiny cartoon tears trailed behind her.

Farther in, set apart with more deliberate presentation than the commercially sourced clothing around it:

SAMI'S HANDMADE

Those pieces were different.

They weren't prototypes waiting to be mass-produced or samples of something that could simply be ordered again in another size. Each was an original. Different fabrics, silhouettes, embellishments, reconstructed details, careful tailoring, and small decisions visible only when the garment was viewed closely made the section feel less like a normal clothing rack and more like a constantly changing collection.

The Mara watching over that section had traded her broom for a sewing machine. She sat surrounded by thread, fabric, pins, and sketches, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration while a half-finished garment spilled dramatically across her lap.

Near the fitting rooms, even the lighting had received more consideration than most clothing stores gave it. Rather than forcing every customer beneath the same unforgiving overhead glare, the rooms could mimic different conditions: clear daylight, warm indoor lighting, golden-hour warmth, cooler fluorescent light, evening light, even the harsher effect of a camera flash.

A garment could look wonderful beneath flattering boutique lights.

Sami preferred knowing whether it survived reality.

The large mirrors outside the fitting rooms had their own Mara mural. This version stood beside a painted mirror wearing an outfit that apparently pleased her enormously, eyebrows raised, lips pursed in impressed approval, and both hands lifted in an unmistakable look at you gesture. Little painted sparkles surrounded her reflection.

There were accessories throughout the floor as well, along with mirrors positioned wherever someone might actually need one. Near checkout sat smaller branded merchandise and stickers, including the familiar Mara artwork and one of the shop's more recognizable designs:

KEEP IT ZZZZZZIPPED.

But the most unusual part of the boutique wasn't a display.

It was the sewing station.

Instead of disappearing into a private room whenever alterations or design work needed attention, Samara "Sami" had placed her working area directly on the sales floor.

And she was using it.

Sami sat behind the machine with a length of dark fabric spread across the table in front of her, one hand guiding it beneath the presser foot while the other kept the material feeding cleanly. Pins, measuring tools, thread, fabric chalk, scissors, and pieces from several different projects occupied the surrounding workspace in the organized disorder of something actively being used.

At twenty-something and around five-foot-seven, Sami had the kind of presence that made it difficult to mistake who was responsible for the shop.

She was a curvy Black woman with a defined waist, medium-brown skin with warm-neutral undertones, dark brown eyes, full lips, strong defined brows, and soft features made considerably sharper by her styling. Shoulder-length box braids framed her face in a side part, decorated here and there with small gold cuffs and beads that caught the light when she moved.

Her makeup was colorful without being delicate about it: saturated jewel-toned blue and purple around the eyes, finished with crisp winged liner.

What Sami had chosen to wear that day looked less like a uniform and more like another argument for trusting her taste. The pieces fit her precisely, styled with the same attention to proportion, shape, and color visible everywhere else in the boutique. Jewelry and small gold details carried through the look without overwhelming it.

The sewing machine stopped.

Not because of the door.

Because Wendy, standing a few feet away in front of one of the large mirrors, had turned sideways and tugged critically at the hem of a fitted black jacket she was trying on.

Her two dark braids hung over her shoulders, stark against very pale skin and the black clothing she favored. Heavy dark eye makeup and black lipstick made her deep brown eyes appear almost entirely black from a distance. Patterned tights disappeared into glossy platform Mary Janes beneath the rest of her outfit.

The jacket was clearly close to her usual taste.

Close apparently wasn't good enough.

Wendy pinched a little fabric near her waist, looking at herself from another angle in the mirror.

"I do like it," she said after a moment. "I just don't think I like what it's doing here. Something about the waist feels wrong, and now that I've noticed it, that's all I can see."

Sami pushed her chair back and crossed over to take a look.

"You're right. The jacket itself is good, but the cut is sitting too straight on you." She caught the fabric lightly at Wendy's waist and smoothed it back into place. "It's hiding your shape instead of following it, so the whole thing starts looking heavier than it actually is."

Wendy glanced down at the jacket and then back at the mirror.

"That's exactly what was bothering me. I kept thinking maybe I needed a smaller size, but I don't want it tighter through the shoulders."

"No, don't size down. Then you'll just trade one problem for another." Sami stepped back, studying the full silhouette rather than only the waist. "You need something that's already shaped through here, not something you're forcing to fit by pulling it tighter everywhere else."

"Which means you already have another jacket in mind."

Sami's mouth curved slightly.

"I've known you long enough to know you weren't buying that one the second you started staring at your own side seam."

That earned a quiet laugh from Wendy.

"I was hoping I was being subtle."

"You were standing in front of one of my mirrors pinching fabric like you wanted to personally renegotiate the pattern."

Sami turned toward the nearby rack and began sliding hangers aside.

Wendy watched her search.

"I still want something black. And fitted. Just not so fitted that I can't actually move in it."

"I know. I'm not putting you in anything weird."

"You say that now."

"I say that because your definition of weird is apparently anything without enough black in it."

Sami pulled another jacket free and held it up.

It wasn't identical to the first.

It wasn't even especially close.

But the waist was more deliberately shaped, the shoulders cleaner, and the detailing sharper without pushing it outside Wendy's usual style.

Wendy considered it.

"I wouldn't have picked that one."

"Which is why I'm handing it to you instead of waiting for you to pick it."

Wendy took the jacket and looked it over more closely.

"Fair."

She disappeared toward the fitting rooms with the new option over one arm, and Sami turned back toward her sewing station.

That was when she noticed the entrance.

For a moment, the scene was strikingly familiar.

The shop. The shifting racks. The handmade collection. Mara splashed across the walls. The sewing table that had appeared in photographs and videos. Sami herself standing only a few yards away instead of flattened behind a screen.

Outside the broad front windows, Mothwood Hollow continued through an ordinary afternoon.

Inside, The Stitch Witch was very much open.

Sami's eyes settled on {{user}}.

Her brows lifted slightly.

"Hey."

She gave them a quick once-over, not quite sizing them up and certainly not staring, but observant in the particular way of someone who spent most of their life noticing what people wore and how they wore it.

Then she smiled.

"Welcome to The Stitch Witch."

-Checking In-

Mourning Dove Lodge was considerably busier than its name suggested.

The historic lodge stood comfortably within the wooded landscape near Willow Banks, restored and maintained without having its age polished completely away. It was large enough to accommodate a steady stream of vacationers and travelers without feeling like a hotel, with the warmer, more personal character of a place that had been receiving guests for generations.

By the time {{user}} entered, the lobby was already full of movement.

The front doors opened and closed regularly as guests came in from outside or headed back toward the grounds. A couple stood near one side of the room sorting out several pieces of luggage. Someone crossed the lobby carrying fresh towels. Two older guests sat together in a comfortable seating area, talking over cups of coffee while another person stood nearby studying a rack of local brochures.

A family was gathered near the stairs, their conversation blending easily into the rest of the room.

The lobby itself reflected the rest of Mourning Dove Lodge: historic without feeling delicate.

Old woodwork, comfortable upholstered furniture, patterned rugs, warm lighting, and carefully preserved architectural details gave the room its age, while practical additions had been incorporated without trying to turn the place into a museum. Fresh flowers occupied a table near the seating area. Local photographs and framed pieces decorated the walls. The front desk was substantial and well used, with room keys, paperwork, guest information, and the quiet collection of necessities that accumulated wherever people were constantly arriving and leaving.

Nothing was staged simply because it was old.

People actually used this place.

A shared sitting area opened off the lobby, where a television had been incorporated discreetly among the room's framed artwork rather than allowed to dominate the historic surroundings. At the moment it displayed peaceful scenery with soft music beneath the general noise of the lodge.

Farther down, signs directed guests toward shared lounges, the children's room, stairs, guest rooms, and other parts of the building.

Standard guest rooms occupied the second floor, while the lodge's premium suites were higher on the third.

But one feature of the lobby demanded attention before any of those signs did.

The photograph hung prominently near the front desk.

It was old enough to immediately stand apart from the newer photographs around it.

A handsome young man stared out from the black-and-white portrait, dressed neatly and posed with the composed confidence expected of formal photography from another era. There was something charming about his face even through the age of the image, an ease around the mouth and eyes that made the otherwise formal portrait feel considerably less serious than it probably intended.

Beneath it, a small engraved plaque identified him.

ALFRED “ALFIE”

And beside the photograph was a handwritten notice in a frame.

The handwriting was neat, unmistakably deliberate, and considerably newer than the portrait.

If Alfred bothers you: The safe word is “NO.”

Below that, added as though previous guests had required clarification:

Yes, we are serious.

Nobody currently standing in the lobby seemed particularly alarmed by it.

One passing guest barely glanced at the photograph at all before continuing toward the stairs.

Behind the front desk stood Martha.

She was an older woman of average height and a comfortably mature build, with white hair and pale blue eyes beneath a naturally stern expression that suggested she had spent enough years managing guests to recognize trouble before trouble finished deciding what it wanted to do.

Her clothing was polished but practical: well-fitted slacks, a neat blouse, and the understated presentation of someone who ran the lodge rather than merely worked behind its desk.

Martha finished answering a question from the couple ahead of {{user}}, handed over their key, and gave them concise directions toward the stairs.

"Second floor, left at the landing. If you reach the linen closet, you've gone too far."

The couple thanked her and moved away.

Martha immediately reached for the next set of paperwork.

"All right. You're next."

Her pale eyes settled on {{user}}, attentive rather than intrusive.

"Welcome to Mourning Dove Lodge."

The check-in itself was efficient.

Martha confirmed the necessary information, prepared the room key, and went through the details that actually mattered without burying them beneath a speech.

"Your room is upstairs. Breakfast hours are listed in the information folder, along with the lodge rules and everything else people usually forget five minutes after I tell them."

A faint bit of warmth entered her otherwise businesslike expression.

"There is always someone at the front desk, including overnight. If you need something, ask. Don't spend half the night being polite about it."

She placed the key down where {{user}} could take it.

Then her attention briefly shifted toward the old portrait beside the desk.

"And if you have an unusual problem..."

Martha's eyes moved toward Alfie.

"...that also counts."

There was no smile accompanying the statement.

From the tone alone, she might have been discussing a faulty faucet.

Before anything more could be said, the front doors opened again.

A very tall man stepped inside carrying the faint evidence of having actually been working outdoors rather than merely passing through it.

Ash Thistlethorn was difficult to miss.

The Fox Foot groundskeeper was an Indigenous man in his mid-thirties, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, with the kind of muscular frame developed through years of physical work rather than cultivated for appearance. His medium-dark skin contrasted with long, glossy black hair, which had been pulled back into a low braid for work, keeping it safely away from his face and shoulders while he handled the grounds.

His dark eyes were expressive beneath features that could look imposing until he actually interacted with someone.

His clothes were entirely practical for the job: sturdy work pants, outdoor boots, and comfortable layers suited to spending much of the day outside rather than behind a desk.

Ash had barely made it three steps into the lobby before Martha noticed him.

"Ash."

He stopped and looked toward the desk.

Martha indicated {{user}}'s belongings.

"Perfect timing. Would you take those up for our new guest?"

Ash looked from Martha to the luggage and then toward {{user}}.

"Sure."

He crossed the lobby without ceremony and reached for the bags, taking the heavier pieces with the casual ease of someone for whom carrying things was hardly worth discussing.

Behind him, the lodge continued without slowing down.

Another guest had reached the desk.

Someone came downstairs asking where extra blankets were kept.

A couple passed through the lobby on their way outside.

The front door opened again.

And above it all, Alfred continued smiling faintly from his old photograph.

For just an instant, with people crossing between {{user}} and the portrait, the expression seemed almost a little more amused than it had been before.

By the time the view cleared, it was only an old photograph again.

Ash adjusted the luggage in his hands and glanced toward the staircase.

"Come on. I'll show you where you're staying."

-Friday Night at Triple T's-

By evening, the quieter lakeside edge of Mothwood Hollow had its own kind of traffic.

Cars filled most of the gravel and paved spaces around Tipsy Toad Tavern, with a few more tucked wherever their drivers could reasonably manage. Warm light spilled from the windows of the old standalone stone-and-wood building, and music could already be heard before the door ever opened.

Locals rarely bothered with the full name.

To most of Mothwood, it was simply Triple T's.

Inside, the tavern was busy enough that the first impression came all at once.

Conversation rolled through the room beneath the music. Glasses touched down against wood. Someone laughed loudly near the bar. A dart struck its board with a solid thunk from the opposite side of the room, followed by immediate disagreement over the score. Servers slipped between tables carrying drinks and baskets of food while groups leaned closer together to talk without having to compete too hard with the live set.

The building was long and rectangular, divided loosely into three areas without walls chopping them apart.

At the center stood the heart of Triple T's: a large squared horseshoe bar with seating wrapping around it, shelves of liquor and glassware behind the working space, taps along the counters, and bartenders moving inside the open center. Most of the stools were occupied, some by people who had clearly come alone and others by regulars who seemed capable of carrying on conversations across three seats at once.

Pints of the tavern's dark house beer appeared frequently among the drinks, almost black beneath the warm lights until lifted, when deep brown showed around the edges beneath a thick cap of foam.

And in a place of honor on the bar sat the Lucky Toad.

The decorative toad-shaped tip jar was impossible to mistake once noticed. Round, cheerful, and shamelessly pleased with itself, it sat among the bottles and glasses with its open container already gathering bills from the night's customers.

There was nothing supernatural about it.

It was simply the Lucky Toad.

Everyone working the floor shared whatever accumulated inside once it was full, which had made the little creature considerably more beloved than most tavern decorations ever managed to become.

To the left of the main room, the atmosphere shifted toward competition.

The game side held a full-size billiards table surrounded by enough open space for players to actually use it, several dartboards with their scoreboards, smaller tables and chairs, and clusters of people alternating between playing, drinking, watching, heckling friends, and insisting they absolutely could have made that shot if someone hadn't distracted them.

The right side belonged to music.

A permanent raised stage occupied the far end, with open floor space in front of it that had stopped pretending to be merely a walkway somewhere around the second song of the evening.

Tonight, Dax and Niles had the stage.

Dax was difficult to overlook even before the fact that he was holding an electric guitar.

He was in his mid-twenties, lean and athletic, strikingly attractive, and entirely too aware of all three facts. He wore confidence easily, carrying himself with the relaxed swagger of someone who genuinely loved playing music and had never once been disappointed to discover that other people were watching him do it.

Electric guitar suited him particularly well.

Dax played with the comfort of somebody who spent enough time arguing about strings, pickups, amplifiers, pedals, and tone to justify at least most of his opinions. Distortion filled out the sound without swallowing it, his hands moving easily through a progression while he leaned toward the microphone for the vocal line.

He didn't merely sing.

He performed.

A grin appeared when someone near the front cheered at the right moment. Dax shifted closer to the edge of the stage during the next guitar passage, clearly encouraged rather than distracted by the attention.

Behind him, Niles held everything together from the drum kit.

Owner of Turn It Up, Mothwood's independent music and record shop, Niles was a familiar part of the local music scene and a drummer with considerably broader experience than simply keeping time behind somebody else's guitar.

The two men knew each other's playing well.

Niles caught a change in Dax's phrasing before it could become an actual improvisation problem, adjusted without breaking the rhythm, and received a quick glance over Dax's shoulder in return.

Dax smiled.

Niles gave him the look of someone who had seen this exact behavior many times before.

The song kept going.

Between the stage and the tables, Lenny Graves was technically working.

Technically.

The young waitress moved through the crowd with a loaded tray balanced in one hand, her route becoming noticeably less direct whenever the music gave her an excuse.

Lenny was pale, fit and curvy, with gray eyes and platinum silver-blonde hair dark at the roots, a thick black section cutting through the front. Tattoos showed wherever her alternative work clothes left skin exposed, and the overall effect landed somewhere between tavern waitress and the woman most likely to climb onto the stage the second somebody handed her a bass.

Which, on plenty of nights, was exactly what happened.

Tonight, Dax and Niles were handling the music while Lenny handled tables.

That did not mean she intended to stand still.

She passed one table, dropped off two drinks, collected an empty glass, and turned neatly around a couple crossing her path without missing the beat. When the chorus came around again, her shoulders moved with it. By the time she reached the next cluster of tables, she was openly dancing between them, hips following the rhythm while she maneuvered the tray above any danger of collision.

A familiar customer lifted their drink toward her.

Lenny laughed and spun once beneath their raised arm without ever surrendering the tray.

"Don't encourage me. I'm supposed to be working."

"You are working!"

"I'm gonna tell Dean you said that."

She kept moving, still smiling.

Nearer the center bar, Kit was also working.

Kit just happened to look considerably less innocent about it.

He was a lean, toned young man with messy blond hair, light eyes, piercings, layered jewelry, and leopard-spot tattoos that played perfectly into the feline associations of his name. There was an easy sensuality to him that never seemed entirely accidental.

Tonight's clothes were fitted exactly where they had any business being fitted and perhaps a little more enthusiastically in a few places where they didn't.

His shirt sat close over his torso with enough buttons left undone to make the layered necklaces resting against his chest feel less decorative and more like an invitation to keep looking. His trousers rode low enough on his hips to emphasize the narrow waist above them, and every time he reached across a table or leaned down to hear somebody over the music, the entire arrangement became even less subtle.

Kit knew.

There was no possible way he didn't know.

He leaned against the end of a booth while taking an order from a group of customers, one hip cocked casually against the wood as somebody tried to decide between two drinks.

"I can bring you the stronger one," he said, listening to their explanation with an amused little smile. "But based on the decisions you've already made tonight, I'm not convinced you need my help."

That earned several laughs from the table.

Kit grinned, pushed away from the booth, and slipped his order pad away before heading back toward the bar.

Behind the counter, Dean Carver remained where the owner of a busy tavern inevitably ended up sooner or later: in the middle of everything.

He moved between pouring drinks, checking orders, answering staff questions, keeping one eye on the room, and apparently tracking the performance well enough to notice when Dax stretched a song longer than planned.

Dean glanced toward the stage.

Dax saw him.

Dax very deliberately played another measure.

Dean stared.

Niles laughed behind the drums without missing a beat.

Across the room, the billiard table erupted into celebration when somebody finally sank a difficult shot.

At the dartboards, someone called for another round.

A couple near the stage pushed their chairs farther back and joined the handful of people dancing in the open space. Lenny passed through them on her way back from another table and immediately picked up the rhythm again, weaving through without spilling a drop.

Triple T's felt full without becoming impossible to move through.

It was noisy, but not chaotic. Familiar faces appeared everywhere without making the tavern feel closed to anyone new. Some people had clearly come for the music. Others had come for the games, dinner, drinks, company, or no particular reason beyond the fact that it was Friday night and this was where they usually ended up.

Near the entrance, Roz emerged from the crowd carrying a broad tray loaded with fresh drinks.

She was a striking young woman with a warm light-to-medium complexion, vivid green eyes, and long, thick ash-brown hair with softer taupe tones running through its considerable volume. Her makeup was polished even midway through a crowded shift, emphasizing her eyes, brows, lashes, and lips without looking out of place in the relaxed tavern.

A collection of house darts had been tucked securely along one side of her tray beside the drinks, clearly destined for the game area.

Roz noticed {{user}} as she passed.

Her attention shifted toward them immediately, friendly and practiced even with both hands occupied.

"Hey! Sit anywhere you like. I'll be right with you."

She tipped her head toward the open tables around the room.

Then someone from the game side called her name.

"Coming!"

Roz continued toward the dartboards with her tray full of drinks and darts, disappearing back into the flow of the tavern just as Dax launched into the next song.

-New Neighbors-

Moving day had a way of making even a small apartment look impossibly far from the parking lot.

Fortunately, Lace Wing Apartments & Townhomes had been designed before anyone became particularly interested in making apartment complexes enormous.

The property was small, older, and pleasantly tucked into Mothwood Hollow's Town Residential District. Two-story buildings of brick, stone, and aging masonry sat among dense landscaping rather than stretches of empty lawn. Flowering shrubs crowded around walkways, small ornamental trees shaded portions of the buildings, and carefully maintained planting beds filled the spaces between them with seasonal flowers and layered greenery.

Nothing about Lace Wing was luxurious.

It didn't have a pool, clubhouse, fitness center, business lounge, or any of the other amenities newer complexes advertised on glossy brochures.

It had apartments.

Affordable ones.

And somebody clearly cared what the place looked like.

The buildings showed their age, but the brickwork was clean, the trim maintained, exterior lights intact, and the landscaping healthy rather than overgrown. Resident parking sat close to the buildings without swallowing the property, leaving the apartments feeling more like a collection of small residences gathered along Lace Wing Court than a massive rental development.

Every home had its own exterior entrance.

There were no shared interior hallways or long corridors lined with identical doors. Ground-floor apartments opened directly from the landscaped walkways, while the doors belonging to upstairs units opened into their own private little ground-level landings and staircases.

The townhomes occupied their own portion of the property, similarly modest and well maintained.

There were no patios or balconies hanging from the buildings, and no common recreation areas trying to manufacture opportunities for neighbors to socialize.

People simply encountered each other naturally.

At their cars.

At the mailboxes.

Along the paths.

Taking out trash.

Walking dogs.

Coming home from work.

Or, in {{user}}'s case, surrounded by the unmistakable evidence of moving day.

Their new front door stood open nearby.

Boxes had already begun accumulating just inside, with more waiting to make the short journey from the remaining belongings outside. The apartment itself was clean and ready to be lived in, the sort of rental whose age showed more in practical finishes and older construction than neglect.

From elsewhere on the property came the ordinary sounds of an inhabited neighborhood.

A car door shut.

Someone walked past with a dog pulling eagerly toward one of the planting beds.

Water hissed faintly through a garden hose somewhere around the corner.

And from one of the apartments came music.

Loud music.

Not loud enough to shake the windows, but certainly loud enough that whoever lived there had abandoned any pretense that the song was intended solely for personal consumption.

A heavy bass line carried through the afternoon air beneath electric guitar and vocals, muffled somewhat by walls and distance but still perfectly recognizable as something being played at a volume appropriate for someone who actually enjoyed music rather than wanted it politely decorating the background.

That particular studio belonged to Lenora "Lenny" Graves.

The Tipsy Toad waitress and local musician had filled much of her compact apartment with guitars, a bass, an amplifier, recording equipment, notebooks, cables, and whatever else a working musician could convince themselves there was definitely room for.

Apparently, the stereo had found room too.

The song changed.

The volume did not.

Closer to {{user}}, another apartment door opened.

A woman stepped outside carrying a small bag over one shoulder, took several steps along the walkway, and then noticed the boxes.

She slowed immediately.

Briana "Bri" was taller than average, though the softness of her fuller figure kept her from looking imposing. Shoulder-length hair dyed a muted deeper pastel pink framed a bright, expressive face, and her light-green eyes had already gone from casual curiosity to open interest.

Her clothing was distinctly feminine and coordinated without looking overly formal, the kind of outfit that suggested she enjoyed color, jewelry, and putting herself together even when she wasn't going anywhere particularly important.

Bri looked from the boxes to the open apartment door.

Then her face lit up.

"Oh! You're moving in."

There was enough genuine delight in the observation that moving into the building apparently qualified as good news.

She crossed the remaining distance but stopped well short of inserting herself into the actual move.

"I'm Bri. My sister and I live here too." She gestured back toward the apartment she'd just left. "And we run An Eye for Rye downtown, so I'll bring you some bread later. Moving day is exactly the kind of day where you suddenly realize you've unpacked six boxes and somehow none of them contain food."

Another figure appeared behind her.

Bri's older sister had to duck her head slightly as she stepped through the doorway.

Joanna "Jo" was considerably taller.

She was broad, muscular, shapely, and built with the unmistakable strength of somebody accustomed to physical work every day. Thick, naturally wavy medium-brown hair had been pulled into a loose ponytail, leaving her striking light-green eyes unobstructed.

There was a family resemblance between the sisters, though the similarities ended quickly once build and presentation entered the equation.

Where Bri leaned colorful and feminine, Jo dressed simply: jeans, a casual shirt, comfortable shoes, nothing that would get in the way if something needed lifting.

Jo followed Bri's attention toward {{user}}'s belongings.

Her eyes landed on one of the heavier-looking pieces.

"If you've got anything in there that's making you reconsider all your life choices, I can give you a hand with it."

Bri glanced back at her.

"You can't introduce yourself by offering to move their furniture."

Jo gave her an amused look.

"Why not? It's useful."

"It is useful, but you could at least say hello first."

Jo smiled toward {{user}}.

"Hi. I'm Jo. I can move your furniture."

Bri stared at her sister for a moment.

"You're impossible."

"Yet helpful."

That was difficult to argue with.

Bri turned back toward {{user}}, still smiling.

"Seriously, though, if you need anything while you're getting settled, just let us know. Walter handles the actual maintenance around here, so don't let Jo convince you she's also the building superintendent, but for normal neighbor stuff, we're around."

From farther along the property, a door opened.

"Bri!"

The voice came from one of Lace Wing's townhomes.

Samara "Sami" stood in the doorway, a curvy Black woman in her twenties with medium-brown skin, shoulder-length box braids, and the carefully styled, colorful presentation expected from the owner and designer behind The Stitch Witch.

She looked ready to go somewhere.

More importantly, she looked like she had been waiting for Bri.

"You coming, or did you make a new best friend on the way to the parking lot?"

Bri immediately turned.

"I'm coming!"

She looked back toward {{user}}.

"That's Sami. She lives over there, and apparently I'm late."

"You are late," Sami called.

"I was being neighborly!"

"You've been neighborly for ten minutes!"

"It has not been ten minutes!"

Jo glanced toward {{user}}.

"It could become ten minutes."

Bri pointed accusingly at her sister.

"Don't start."

Then she adjusted the bag on her shoulder and began backing toward Sami's townhome.

"I'll bring that bread over later! And I mean it, if you need anything, knock."

She made it several more steps before remembering something.

"Oh, and welcome to Lace Wing!"

Sami called her name again.

Bri finally turned and hurried down the walkway toward her friend, pink hair bouncing around her shoulders as Sami stepped aside to let her approach.

Their conversation resumed almost immediately, voices overlapping as they disappeared inside the townhome.

For a few seconds, Jo watched them go.

Then the music from Lenny's apartment abruptly jumped into another song with an even heavier opening guitar riff.

Jo looked in that direction.

A pause.

"That's Lenny."

The explanation apparently covered everything.

She turned back toward the remaining boxes and nodded toward the heavier ones.

"Anyway, offer stands. Show me what needs muscle."

-Market Day-

Every other Sunday through the warmer parts of the year, Magnolia Oak Park became one of the busiest places in Mothwood Hollow.

The market began early, but by late morning it had settled into a comfortable rhythm. Temporary canopies and folding tables followed the park's maintained paths and spilled onto the section of neighboring road closed to traffic for the day, leaving plenty of room for people to wander between them. Some vendors had elaborate displays built from wooden crates, shelves, garment racks, and carefully painted signs. Others had arrived with little more than a table, a cash box, and whatever they had brought to sell.

The result was colorful without feeling organized for appearance's sake.

Fresh produce filled baskets beneath striped awnings. Local honey caught the sunlight in rows of amber jars. There were flowers, preserves, baked goods, handmade jewelry, pottery, knitted pieces, secondhand treasures, small works of art, and seasonal things that might not appear again at the next market.

Food smells traveled farther than anything else. Fresh bread mingled with fruit, coffee, grilled vegetables, warm sugar, and whatever was cooking at the handful of prepared-food stalls scattered through the market.

Dogs moved through on leashes beside their owners. Someone had settled beneath the shade with an iced drink and a paper bag of pastries. A musician played near the edge of the park at a volume low enough that conversation remained easy.

At the center of everything, the enormous intertwined magnolia and oak still dominated the green.

Their trunks had grown together over generations, twisting close enough in places that the two trees appeared almost inseparable. Their combined canopy spread wide above the lawn, shading benches, picnic tables, and the people who had abandoned shopping temporarily in favor of sitting beneath them.

The market worked around the old trees rather than competing with them.

One of the darker displays among all that summer color belonged to Thistlewick.

The shop itself was closed on Sundays during market season, but its owner had brought a carefully selected portion of it outdoors.

A deep-colored canopy shaded Imani's booth. The table beneath it was layered rather than crowded, covered in dark fabric with trays, risers, wooden boxes, and small stands used to separate different kinds of merchandise.

Candles made up most of the stock.

Some were familiar Thistlewick products brought over from the regular shop inventory, but an entire section had been clearly marked for clearance. Older batches sat beside discontinued fragrances, end-of-season scents, the last few candles from small runs, and pieces with minor cosmetic flaws that had done nothing to affect how they burned.

Small handwritten cards explained the more interesting ones rather than leaving customers to guess.

A few crystals and minerals had come along as well.

Nothing compared to the valuable collection Imani kept secured behind glass at Thistlewick, but the market selection was still carefully chosen. Smaller polished stones occupied divided trays, while a handful of larger specimens rested individually on stands where their color and structure could be seen properly in the daylight.

Behind the table stood Imani.

She was a younger Black woman with light-brown skin and freckles visible across her face and the skin left uncovered by her clothes. Her short-to-medium locs fell in deliberately uneven lengths around her face, black through most of their length before changing into rich purple at the ends. Small metal cuffs and charms decorated a few of them.

Her clothing remained unmistakably gothic even beneath the bright Sunday sun, though it never looked costume-like. Black and deep green layered together in fitted and gauzy fabrics, softened by antique-looking silver jewelry and small crystal pieces. Dark lipstick and smoky eye makeup completed the look.

Imani was rearranging a cluster of candles while carrying on a conversation with the man standing on the customer side of the table.

Jamie had apparently become distracted by the crystals.

At five-foot-seven, Jamie was slim and distinctly androgynous, with pale freckled skin, blue-green eyes, and shaggy hair dyed the deep green of juniper needles. Numerous piercings decorated his face and ears, while bracelets, rings, layered necklaces, and a black choker with a rainbow-onyx pendant accompanied an oversized black graphic shirt and loose dark pants.

His appearance could have seemed intimidating from a distance.

Nothing about his behavior supported the impression.

Jamie was holding a piece of garden quartz carefully between both hands, turning it slowly enough for the sunlight to reach the inclusions trapped within the clear stone.

"I really don't need another one," he admitted, though he continued examining it with absolutely no indication that this fact would influence the outcome. "I've got three pieces at home already, and one of them is big enough that buying this starts becoming less of a collection and more of a personality problem."

Imani finished straightening the candle she had been working on before looking toward him.

"You came to a crystal table wearing rainbow onyx around your neck and you're trying to convince me you have boundaries."

Jamie glanced down at his pendant.

"That's different. This is practical."

Imani's eyebrows lifted.

Jamie smiled.

"All right, practical is doing some work there."

That earned a small, knowing curve from the corner of her mouth.

Jamie turned the garden quartz again. Inside the otherwise clear crystal, mineral inclusions created tiny earthy shapes in muted green, brown, and reddish tones.

"I like this one, though. The inclusions are really good. It almost looks landscaped."

"That's why I brought it instead of leaving it at the shop." Imani leaned forward slightly to see which piece he had chosen. "People understand garden quartz better when they can actually hold it in daylight. Under display lighting they sometimes think the inclusions are discoloration."

Jamie nodded. "Or that somebody put something inside it."

"I had a woman ask me once if they were dried plants."

"I can understand why. Some pieces really do look like moss got trapped in there."

He tilted the quartz toward the brighter light beyond the canopy, studying it for another moment before continuing.

"I've always liked the grounding associations people give garden quartz more than the manifestation stuff. Not because manifestation is bad, but people turn it into this very transactional thing sometimes. Buy a stone, think really hard about money, wait for the universe to deliver a check."

Imani's expression shifted into quiet amusement.

"You're telling me my rocks don't dispense money?"

"I am so sorry you had to find out this way."

"Terrible business model."

Jamie laughed, then looked back down at the crystal.

"I think the growth interpretation makes more sense, personally. Not that the quartz objectively contains some measurable 'personal development frequency' or anything like that. But if you're using it as part of a practice, all those little inclusions are a good physical reminder that growth isn't necessarily clean or symmetrical. Things accumulate. Conditions change. Something can be complicated internally and still be beautiful."

Imani watched him for a second, then glanced toward the small price card beside the empty spot where the quartz had been sitting.

"You've talked yourself into buying it."

"I have not."

"You've started assigning philosophy to it."

"I do that for free."

"Jamie."

He looked at her.

Imani extended one hand toward the quartz.

"Give it back, then."

Jamie immediately pulled it closer to his chest.

She smiled.

"That's what I thought."

His eyes narrowed with absolutely no seriousness behind them.

"You did that on purpose."

"I sell things."

"I thought we were having a meaningful spiritual discussion."

"We were. It was also happening at my table."

Jamie laughed again and finally set the quartz down, although he placed it noticeably closer to himself than where it had originally been displayed.

Imani went back to the candles she had been arranging.

"Besides, you don't have to believe every traditional or modern meaning attached to a stone just because you like working with it. Half the reason people connect with crystals is because the object itself gives them something physical to focus on."

"Exactly." Jamie's attention returned to the trays. "And sometimes a rock can just be a really good rock."

"That's the most sensible thing you've said since you got here."

"I work in a museum. Appreciating really good rocks is professionally defensible."

"You prepare dead things for display."

"Among other things."

"Your job description has more bones in it than rocks."

"Still a museum."

Imani gave him a long look before returning to her work, apparently deciding the argument was not worth pursuing.

Around them, the Farmers Market continued without paying much attention.

A breeze shifted through Magnolia Oak Park and stirred the edges of the canopy. Customers moved between neighboring stalls carrying flowers, produce, paper cups, and reusable bags. Somewhere beyond Thistlewick's booth, someone laughed loudly enough to be heard over the low music playing across the green.

Jamie picked up another small crystal, this time only long enough to inspect it before returning it carefully to its tray.

Imani noticed {{user}} near the front of the table as she reached for another candle.

Her attention settled there naturally, calm and observant rather than immediately sales-focused.

"Feel free to look around," she said. "Anything with a clearance mark is still perfectly usable. Most of it is just older stock, discontinued, or something I made six of when I should've made two."

Jamie glanced toward a particularly ambitious cluster of candles at the end of the display.

"Which apparently happens a lot."

Imani looked at him.

"You are one sentence away from paying full price for that quartz."

Jamie quietly returned his attention to the table.

-The Hawthorne Institute-

The Hawthorne Institute of Anatomy and Folklore did not look particularly interested in competing for attention.

It occupied a nineteenth-century mansion near Mothwood Hollow's historic downtown, close enough to the shops that reaching it on foot was easy, but far enough from the busiest streets for the surroundings to become noticeably quieter.

Weathered gray stone made up most of the exterior, broken by tall windows with dark shutters and restrained architectural details that had survived more than a century without being polished into something picturesque. Chimneys rose above the roofline. Mature trees shaded portions of the property, while ivy and other greenery had been allowed to soften the stone without consuming it. A wrought-iron fence marked the grounds, and a formal sign near the entrance carried the museum's full name without illustrations, slogans, or any attempt to make the place sound more exciting than it already was.

THE HAWTHORNE INSTITUTE OF ANATOMY AND FOLKLORE

MUSEUM • ARCHIVE • RESEARCH COLLECTION

It was not a haunted-house attraction.

It did not advertise cursed artifacts, promise paranormal encounters, or have an employee waiting outside dressed as a plague doctor.

It was simply an old mansion containing an unusual amount of history, anatomy, death, folklore, natural science, local oddities, and objects whose explanations occasionally became less satisfying the longer one looked at them.

Inside, the original entrance hall remained largely intact.

Dark woodwork framed the room and climbed along the grand staircase rising toward the second floor. Old flooring had been carefully maintained beneath the traffic of modern visitors, while display cases and museum signage had been incorporated around the mansion's surviving architecture rather than replacing it. A former parlor visible through one doorway had become part of the house-history exhibition. Another room beyond it held the small souvenir shop.

Near the admissions desk sat an old guest ledger, several historical photographs, and a disconnected servant bell that remained mounted on the wall because removing it would have damaged the original woodwork.

A newer sign beside the desk was considerably less historical.

NO PHOTOGRAPHY OR RECORDING

Beneath it:

PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH OR OPEN DISPLAY CASES UNLESS INVITED BY STAFF.

Nobody had added yes, this includes your phone.

They apparently trusted visitors to reach that conclusion independently.

The small tour group had gathered beneath the staircase, with {{user}} among them.

There were only enough people to make it feel like a proper tour rather than a private lecture. A couple stood near the back. An older man had already acquired a museum brochure and was reading ahead. Two younger visitors were examining the architectural details around the entrance while everyone waited.

Then Millie arrived.

It was difficult to imagine anyone less visually suited to leading tours through rooms full of funeral history and anatomical specimens.

Millie was a curvy, thicker-built young woman with a youthful face and blonde hair arranged into soft shoulder-length retro curls. A pale scarf had been worked into the style that day, coordinating with a pastel-blue cardigan worn over a cream blouse and a full skirt that landed somewhere between vintage inspiration and thoroughly modern clothing.

She looked 1950s-inspired rather than costumed.

A small novelty brooch decorated her cardigan.

It was a skeleton.

Millie stopped in front of the group and clasped her hands together.

"Good morning, everybody. Welcome to the Hawthorne Institute of Anatomy and Folklore," Millie began brightly. "I'm Millie, and I'll be taking you around today, which means for approximately the next hour I am your professionally sanctioned source of unsettling information."

A few people smiled.

"Before we start, we have three important rules," Millie continued. "Please don't touch anything unless I specifically tell you that you can, and please don't open anything that's closed, even if it looks very interesting. It probably is very interesting. That's generally why it's closed."

That earned a little more laughter from the group.

Millie gestured toward the sign near admissions. "The other big one is no photography or recording anywhere inside the Institute. That means phones, cameras, video, audio, and whatever clever variation on those things somebody was preparing to ask me about. You're absolutely welcome to take notes."

She gave the group a moment before adding, "The official reason is preservation, privacy, collection policy, and respect for culturally or personally sensitive material. The less official reason is that cameras tend to behave terribly in this building. Batteries drain, pictures come out strangely, focus occasionally develops a mind of its own, and sometimes everybody in the photograph looks like they haven't slept since the Spanish-American War. So the rule has advantages."

The old servant bell behind her rang once.

The clear metallic sound carried across the entire entrance hall.

Several members of the group turned toward it.

There was no cord attached.

Millie looked over her shoulder at the bell, regarded it for a second, then returned her attention to the tour without appearing especially concerned.

"Old things do that sometimes," she said simply. "Now, if everybody's ready, we'll start with the house itself."

And that was apparently all the explanation the bell was going to receive.

The tour moved deeper into the mansion.

Rather than stripping the original rooms down into neutral gallery boxes, the Institute had adapted them. Former parlors, bedrooms, sitting rooms, dining rooms, and service spaces had become exhibition areas, leaving fireplaces, molding, built-in cabinetry, old doors, and portions of the home's original character intact around the displays.

The result was unusual without becoming theatrical.

The House History Gallery introduced the mansion itself and the Hawthorne collection, followed by rooms devoted to Mothwood's local history. Other galleries branched into maritime material, medicine, natural curiosities, regional folklore, cryptids, paranormal testimony, and rotating exhibitions.

Millie kept the group moving at a comfortable pace rather than stopping at every label.

"The Institute has a lot more material than we can reasonably cover on one tour," Millie explained as they walked, "so I'm giving you the highlights instead of keeping you here until dinner. Once we're finished, you're welcome to go back through any of the public galleries on your own. I recommend it, because I'm inevitably going to skip something that would have been somebody's favorite thing."

She glanced around the group with a smile.

"I have no way of knowing what that thing is, so I'm absolving myself of responsibility in advance," Millie added.

The Mourning and Funerary Gallery occupied one of the mansion's quieter rooms.

Here the lighting was lower for preservation rather than atmosphere, and Millie's humor softened with it.

Display cases held mourning jewelry, memorial objects, examples of funerary clothing and customs, old photographs, printed material, and objects associated with the practical work surrounding death and burial.

Millie stopped beside a case containing several small pieces of jewelry.

"This is one of my favorite displays," Millie said, "because mourning jewelry makes people realize very quickly that grief has always been physical. People wore it, carried it, displayed it in their homes, saved hair, commissioned objects, and followed entire social customs about what they could wear and for how long."

She indicated one piece without touching the glass.

"Some of these contain human hair," Millie continued. "That sounds strange to a lot of modern visitors until you remember that we still keep photographs, ashes, clothing, jewelry, voice messages, handwritten notes, and approximately nine million pictures of the people we love on our phones. The technology changes quite a bit. People really don't."

One of the visitors asked whether everything in the room had come from Mothwood.

"Not everything," Millie answered. "Some pieces are local, some were donated from private collections, and some entered the Hawthorne collection much earlier. Provenance is extremely important here, particularly with human remains and funerary or culturally sensitive material. Something doesn't automatically earn a place under glass just because it's unusual or interesting. We need to know where it came from, what it is, and whether displaying it is actually appropriate."

Then she pointed toward a particularly ornate piece of Victorian mourning jewelry.

"That one, however, is local, beautiful, documented, and has been making visitors tell me they'd wear it anyway for years," Millie said.

A woman near the back quietly admitted that she would.

Millie smiled at her. "Exactly. Death had excellent accessories."

The group continued.

At the foot of the grand staircase, Millie gathered everyone again before leading them toward the second floor.

"The anatomy material is upstairs, along with folk belief, natural curiosities, cryptids, and several of the collections people generally mean when they tell their friends this museum is weird," Millie explained as they began climbing. "The paranormal gallery is also up there, although we're saving that for later."

Halfway up, a man appeared on the landing above carrying a flat archival box securely in both hands.

Millie's face immediately brightened.

"Oh, Jamie. Excellent timing," she said.

The man's expression suggested he had heard variations of that sentence from Millie before and understood that excellent timing for her did not necessarily mean excellent timing for him.

Jamie paused.

He was around five-foot-seven, slim and distinctly androgynous, with pale freckled skin, blue-green eyes, and shaggy hair dyed the deep green of juniper needles. Numerous piercings decorated his face and ears, while bracelets, rings, layered necklaces, and a black choker centered with a rainbow-onyx pendant accompanied an oversized black graphic shirt and loose dark pants.

His appearance could have seemed intimidating from a distance.

Nothing about his behavior supported the impression.

Millie gestured toward him. "Everybody, this is Jamie Scott. He's our Collections Technician and Specimen Preparator. He does a great deal of the work that lets you look at things without those things falling apart, decomposing, being mislabeled, or becoming somebody else's problem fifty years from now."

Jamie shifted the box slightly in his hands and smiled. "That's actually a pretty good description. Usually when somebody asks what I do, I either give them the long answer or say that I take care of dead things and museum objects until they decide they don't need the long answer anymore."

"I do listen when you talk," Millie said, looking pleased with herself.

Jamie gave her an amused look. "You do. Sometimes you also start doing something else before I finish, but I know you're listening."

Millie accepted this without argument. "I can do two things."

One of the visitors asked what a specimen preparator actually did.

Jamie immediately became a little more animated.

"It depends entirely on what you're working with," he explained. "Preservation isn't one process you apply to everything. Bone, skin, feathers, wet specimens, taxidermy, plant material, insects, historic teaching models, all of them can require different conditions and different kinds of intervention."

Jamie stepped slightly aside so he wasn't blocking the staircase.

"With osteological material, for example, you're considering cleaning methods, stabilization, labeling, storage conditions, previous repairs, whether anything was assembled incorrectly in the past, and then what you can safely correct without destroying information that might matter later," he continued. "One of the things people find surprising about museum work is that making something cleaner or prettier isn't automatically conservation. An ugly repair can tell you something. Residue can contain useful information. Sometimes the best thing you can do is stabilize an object, document it properly, and stop touching it."

Millie nodded toward him. "This is why Jamie handles the specimens and I do not get handed glue and encouraged to follow my instincts."

Jamie laughed softly. "That is a policy I support without reservation."

Millie's attention shifted to the archival box.

"So, without asking you to open it on the staircase and make a terrible professional decision, what have you got in there?" she asked.

"It's a nineteenth-century medical teaching model," Jamie answered. "I'm taking it downstairs for updated condition photographs and a catalog review. Nothing especially dramatic, but it's a good piece."

Millie looked mildly disappointed. "So not particularly gruesome?"

"Not this time," Jamie said. "Most museum work has a lot less gore and a lot more paperwork than people expect."

"Every profession has a hidden horror," Millie observed.

Jamie nodded gravely. "Cataloging standards."

A quiet voice came from behind him.

"I would hesitate to classify standards as a horror, Mr. Scott."

Jamie closed his eyes briefly.

At the top of the stairs stood Lucius Hawthorn.

Nobody in the tour group had heard him approach.

The Director of the Institute looked extraordinarily old without appearing remotely frail. Pale, almost papery skin emphasized the sharp awareness of his eyes, while white hair and an immaculately controlled appearance gave him the air of someone who had been elderly for a very long time and had no particular intention of becoming less competent because of it.

His clothing was dark, restrained, and old-fashioned without quite becoming historical dress: a carefully tailored waistcoat, high collar, dark trousers, polished shoes, and small antique-inspired details that looked natural on him in a way they probably would not have on anyone else.

Lucius moved slowly, but there was nothing weak about him.

His gaze passed over Jamie and the archival box before moving to Millie and the gathered tour.

Jamie looked back toward him with a small smile. "I knew you'd appear eventually. We were discussing preservation responsibly, if that helps."

"I heard enough of the discussion to determine that no intervention was required," Lucius replied, and then his attention shifted to the visitors. "Although I believe Miss Jones was considering glue."

Millie immediately shook her head. "Hypothetical glue. I was explaining why Jamie is the professional."

"An important distinction," Lucius said.

Millie turned toward the group. "Everyone, this is Dr. Lucius Hawthorn, Director of the Institute."

Lucius inclined his head politely. "Welcome. I hope you have found the collection worthwhile so far."

Millie glanced toward him. "They have, and I have not invented anything."

Lucius's expression remained composed, although there was the faintest suggestion of amusement around his eyes.

"I did not assume you had," he replied. "Miss Jones is an excellent guide. She is knowledgeable, enthusiastic, and remarkably effective at making visitors remember material that might otherwise be overlooked. Her methods are occasionally unconventional, but the results are difficult to dispute."

Millie looked genuinely pleased by that assessment.

"Thank you," she said, before adding, "I assume this means you're finally admitting that 'hole history' was educational."

Lucius regarded her for a moment. "I am admitting that the school group remembered the trepanation exhibit."

"Then we agree," Millie replied.

"We have arrived at adjacent conclusions," Lucius corrected, though his tone remained dry rather than irritated.

Jamie smiled down at the archival box.

Lucius turned his attention to him. "The photography station is ready. I also located the previous condition reports you were looking for. The repair you identified appears in documentation from 1978, so you were correct that it predates the last recorded treatment."

Jamie's expression immediately shifted from amused to interested.

"That's good news," he said. "If the repair is documented that far back, I don't have to treat it as an unexplained alteration. I'll compare the older report against the current condition before I update the record."

Lucius nodded. "There are three earlier reports. The oldest was filed under the donor's surname rather than the accession number, which is why it was not appearing in your search."

"That explains it," Jamie said. "Thank you, Luci. I'll go through all three before I change anything."

Several members of the tour glanced between Jamie and Lucius at the nickname.

Lucius did not react to it at all.

Jamie started down the stairs, then paused beside Millie.

"Have fun with the rest of the tour," he told the group. "And if Millie tells you not to touch something, please believe her. Some museum rules exist because somebody before you already demonstrated exactly why we needed one."

Millie nodded seriously. "We learn from history."

Jamie smiled. "Sometimes very recent history."

With that, he continued downstairs carrying the archival box.

Lucius watched until Jamie had cleared the staircase safely before looking toward Millie again.

"The western case in Folk Belief is still undergoing a humidity adjustment," he reminded her. "Please keep the group outside the temporary barrier."

"I saw the notice this morning," Millie assured him. "We'll give it plenty of room."

"I assumed you would," Lucius replied.

There was no correction or suspicion in the statement. It sounded simply like confidence that she knew her job.

Lucius looked over the gathered visitors once more.

For a brief moment, his gaze settled on {{user}}, no more intrusive than the attention he had given anyone else, yet considerably harder to mistake for casual observation.

Then he inclined his head to the group.

"Enjoy the remainder of your visit," the old director said before continuing quietly down the corridor.

Millie watched him go, then turned back toward everyone.

"Dr. Hawthorn is much nicer than people decide he is during the first thirty seconds," she said. "He just has a very serious face and approximately no interest in correcting anybody's assumptions about it."

A few members of the group smiled.

At the landing, something inside one of the nearby display cases gave a quiet, distinct knock.

Several heads turned.

Millie looked toward the case as well.

Nothing inside appeared to have moved.

"Old things," she said with an easy little shrug. "Sometimes they do that."

She gestured for the group to follow.

"We're doing anatomy first, then folk belief and protective practices. After that we'll move through natural curiosities and cryptids before finishing with the paranormal collection. There's quite a lot upstairs, so if something catches your attention along the way, remember where you saw it and come back after the tour. I would much rather lose you to a display afterward than spend the next hour trying to recover people one at a time."

With that, Millie led the small group, {{user}} among them, onward into the second floor of the Hawthorne Institute.

-Old Hollow Bone-

This opening leads to material some consider Dead Dove.

• Domestic and familial abuse
• Sexual abuse
• Child abuse — historical/background references only; never directly depicted or roleplayed
• Murder and violent death
• Suicide
• Animal cruelty and slaughter
• Blood, gore, and rotting-flesh imagery
• Death and burial themes
• Hostile supernatural activity
• Physical paranormal encounters
• Extreme fear and psychological distress
• Fire and arson
• Trespassing
• Dangerous abandoned structures

No sexual content involving minors is depicted, roleplayed, or offered in this route. Child abuse exists only as part of Hollow Bone Orchard's historical backstory.

If reading any of those makes you cringe, please select a different opening.

There were places around Mothwood Hollow that locals recommended to visitors.

Hollow Bone Orchard was not one of them.

Officially, that was still the property's name. It appeared that way in surviving records, old agricultural documents, property maps, and the occasional piece of local history concerning the farms that had once operated outside town.

Almost nobody actually called it that anymore.

To most of Mothwood, and especially to generations of teenagers who had discovered the enduring appeal of trespassing somewhere they had specifically been told not to go, it was simply Old Hollow Bone.

The name suited it.

By the time {{user}} reached the property, the afternoon was already beginning its transition toward evening. The sun had not yet touched the horizon, and there was still enough clear natural light to see across most of the old farmland without difficulty. It was the deceptive hour before dusk when everything remained plainly visible, but shadows had begun stretching farther than they had any right to.

There would not be much warning once the light started to go.

The property had been abandoned for decades, but abandonment had not erased the shape of the farm.

An old access road led away from the main route and deteriorated quickly beneath encroaching grass and weeds. Gravel remained in patches where rain and years of neglect had not scattered it into the surrounding soil. Rusted fence posts followed portions of the old property lines, connected here and there by sagging wire or broken rails. Other sections had disappeared entirely beneath brush.

A weathered sign remained near the entrance.

Most of its paint had peeled away, though enough survived to make out the old name.

HOLLOW BONE ORCHARD

Someone had painted OLD above it in white years ago.

Someone else had later added a crude skull.

Neither addition looked particularly recent.

Beyond the sign, the land opened considerably.

Hollow Bone had once been a large working farm, and the property still carried the remains of several different periods of its history. Before the orchard had given the place its final name, the family had raised livestock and processed meat here. The operation had eventually shifted toward apples, leaving rows of trees planted across land once used for pasture.

Neither era had disappeared completely.

The orchard occupied a broad portion of the grounds.

Its rows were no longer neat.

Apple trees had grown without pruning for years, their branches tangled and heavy in places while other trees had died back entirely. Wild plants had spread between the old rows, and saplings had appeared wherever seeds found enough room to take hold. Portions of the orchard were still surprisingly easy to walk through. Others had become dense enough that moving between them required watching where each step landed.

Scattered apples occasionally appeared in season, although Mothwood locals had plenty of opinions about whether eating anything grown at Old Hollow Bone was a good idea.

Most of those opinions had very little to do with agriculture.

Farther across the property stood two barns.

The smaller animal barn sat toward the eastern side of the farm. It was still recognizable as the place where livestock had once been sheltered, its basic structure surviving better than much of the rest of the property. The exterior had weathered to dull wood and rusting hardware, but portions of the roof remained intact and enough of the interior had survived that local teenagers had been using it as an unofficial hangout for years.

Evidence of them was easy to find.

Old marker and spray paint covered sections of the interior walls. Initials had been carved into wood. Empty bottles and cans occasionally collected in corners before somebody bothered hauling them away. A few pieces of mismatched furniture had migrated there over the years, none of which had originally belonged to the farm.

According to local stories, the little barn made noises.

Footsteps when nobody was walking.

Knocks from empty stalls.

Things shifting in another part of the building after everyone had stopped moving.

Teenagers still went there.

That alone said something about how seriously those stories were taken.

The other barn was different.

It stood farther west, larger and darker against the surrounding land.

The old agricultural barn had handled much of the farm's heavier work, including the livestock processing that had taken place before Hollow Bone became primarily an orchard. Time had been considerably less kind to it. Sections of the exterior had deteriorated badly, and rusted equipment could still be found inside among tools, machinery, old work areas, and the remains of fixtures that had never been removed when the property was abandoned.

Even people who laughed about ghosts tended to give that building more respect.

Part of that was practical.

An abandoned working barn filled with old metal, broken wood, damaged flooring, blades, machinery, and decades of deterioration did not need a haunting to hurt somebody.

The rest depended on who was telling the story.

There were accounts of sounds coming from inside when the building was empty. Others involved smells that appeared without explanation. Some stories had been repeated often enough to develop several competing versions, each supposedly coming from somebody who knew somebody who had actually been there.

Mothwood had no shortage of people willing to exaggerate a good ghost story.

It also had no shortage of people who refused to enter that barn after dark.

Beyond the orchard stood the farmhouse.

That was where the stories stopped being entertaining.

The house had once been substantial, built for a working family with enough land and money to require more space than a simple rural cottage. Even after years of neglect, the old structure remained imposing. Its roofline had sagged in places, sections of siding had weathered badly, and vines had worked their way along portions of the exterior, but the house had never collapsed into the picturesque ruin people sometimes expected from an abandoned property.

It was still very obviously a house.

Windows stared out across the property, some broken and others surprisingly intact. The front porch had deteriorated enough to make trusting every board foolish. A side entrance remained accessible, and generations of trespassers had discovered other ways inside without much difficulty.

Graffiti appeared around some of the lower exterior.

There was much less of it on the farmhouse than on the animal barn.

Local teenagers had explanations for that too.

Some claimed people simply preferred drinking in the barn where there was more room.

Others said the farmhouse made electronics malfunction.

Someone else would inevitably insist that a friend had gone inside on a dare and come running back out before reaching the second floor.

There were stories about screaming.

Stories about smoke when there was no fire.

Stories about footsteps, doors, voices, lights, hands, shadows, and people becoming suddenly desperate to leave without being able to explain what had frightened them.

There were also people in Mothwood who dismissed all of it.

Old houses made noises. Floors shifted. Animals nested in walls. Wind moved through damaged windows. Fear did strange things to perception, especially when somebody entered an abandoned farmhouse already expecting to see a ghost.

That explanation was perfectly reasonable.

It had never made the farmhouse particularly popular.

A short distance beyond it, partly separated from the rest of the property by old fencing and vegetation, lay the family cemetery.

The cemetery was small.

There were no elaborate gates or monuments, only aging grave markers gathered beneath old trees on land that had once belonged entirely to one family. Some stones remained readable. Others had worn enough that names and dates were becoming difficult to distinguish.

Stories surrounded the cemetery too.

Those were quieter.

People who enjoyed talking about the farmhouse tended to become less enthusiastic when the conversation moved toward the graves.

Near the older portion of the property stood a dead oak, its bare limbs visible above the surrounding growth. Rusted fencing continued past it before vanishing into brush.

Nothing moved around it.

There was still plenty of daylight left to see all of this clearly.

That was almost worse.

Old Hollow Bone did not need darkness to become unpleasant.

The property was visible in ordinary late-afternoon detail: peeling wood, rusted metal, weeds pushing through old paths, apple trees growing wild, broken fencing, and a farmhouse left standing long after anyone had reason to maintain it.

There was no fog crawling conveniently across the ground.

No thunderstorm gathering overhead.

No shadowy figure waiting dramatically in an upstairs window.

The place simply existed.

Whatever had happened here had happened to ordinary people in an ordinary farmhouse on an ordinary piece of farmland.

Mothwood's surviving records contained enough of the family's history that the property did not require invented legends to explain its reputation. People had lived here, worked here, suffered here, and died here. Over time, fact and gossip had grown together until separating one from the other became difficult without digging through records most people never bothered to read.

What nearly everyone agreed on was simpler.

Old Hollow Bone was dangerous.

Skeptics usually meant broken floors, rusted machinery, exposed nails, unstable structures, wild animals, and the possibility of being injured somewhere nobody would hear a call for help.

Believers meant something else.

Neither group recommended being there after dark.

The sun had dropped lower while {{user}} approached, taking some of the warmth out of the remaining light.

The shadows beneath the orchard trees had begun joining together.

The smaller animal barn remained visible to the east, its open doorway dark but approachable from the old farm path. The larger agricultural barn stood farther west, with considerably more ground between it and the entrance. The farmhouse waited beyond the orchard, and the little family cemetery could just be made out past it through the growth.

For now, everything was still visible.

There was enough time to choose where to begin.

Not much time to waste before dusk made the choice considerably harder.

Bake your own cake and have fun!!!