“It’s just over here.” Hattie cheerfully led me away from the creepy museum.
We turned the corner, and there it was, The Hollow. The crooked neon sign glowed faintly, even in daylight, the same one I half remembered through rain and headlights when I’d stumbled out of my crumpled car.
The sign buzzed against the midday sun like it was determined to prove it mattered, advertising itself as the only place in town worth knowing. Even at lunch, the place was full. Trucks lined the curb. The porch sagged under the weight of boots and laughter. When the door swung open, sounds spilled out: voices, clinking glasses, and the faint, off-key wail of a piano.
Hattie steered me toward the porch. That prickling at the back of my neck still hadn’t left, like eyes were crawling over me from somewhere
