He never ate a single bite of the midnight meals you delivered for two years, the estate attorney told sixty-eight-year-old Arthur Pendelton inside the empty probate office.
The following morning, a biting wind swept through Hollow Creek, carrying with it not just the chill of the New England fall, but something colder and more insidious.
As I walked towards town, my stomach still churning from the long night trapped in the diner’s dark cellar, I saw them.
Flyers.
They were tacked to telephone poles, taped to storefront windows, even shoved under the wipers of parked cars. Each one bore a grainy photo of me, looking disheveled and tired.
The caption beneath it read: “Is Arthur Pendelton Exploiting Our Elders? Unfit to Manage Local Business?”
My hands trembled as I ripped one down. It referenced “unexplained nocturnal activities” and “erratic behavior.” It quoted anonymous sources claiming I was “confused” and “slipping.”
This was Greg’s doing. The smear campaign was in full swing.
When I reached the diner, a small crowd had gathered near the counter, not for coffee, but for the show Greg was putting on. He leaned across the scratched Formica, his voice low but carrying.
“It’s a genuine public health hazard, folks,” he was saying, shaking his head with an air of concerned regret. “That old basement? Full of mold. Unsanitary. Frankly, Arthur’s been… seeing things down there.”
He glanced at me as I walked in, a sly, knowing glint in his eyes, then quickly averted his gaze back to the townspeople.
“He’s been muttering to himself,” Greg continued, louder now. “Talking about ghosts and secret chambers. I’m genuinely worried for his mental well-being, and for the safety of this establishment.”
A few people shifted uncomfortably. Mrs. Gable, who always ordered the blueberry pancakes, squeezed her husband’s arm.
“It’s not mold,” I said, my voice hoarse. “It’s a sealed chamber, keeping something beneath the town.”
Greg let out a short, incredulous laugh. “See? This is what I’m talking about. A ‘sealed chamber.’ Arthur, with all due respect, that’s just a crawl space full of old junk.”
He pulled out his phone, showing a short video clip. It was dark and shaky, but clear enough to see me, flashlight in hand, talking animatedly to the empty air in the cellar.
He’d edited out my reading of Jasper’s journal. He’d cut the whispers. It just looked like an old man losing his mind.
Sheriff Rust, who had been listening from the corner, stepped forward. His expression was one of genuine concern, not suspicion.
“Arthur, maybe it’s time to let us take a look at things properly,” he suggested gently. “For your own good, and the diner’s.”
I wanted to tell them about the salt circles, the iron wards, Jasper’s journals. But the words felt ridiculous, even to me, against Greg’s calm, rational facade.
The town council members, who had come for their usual morning coffee, exchanged pitying glances. Mr. Henderson, the oldest councilman, just shook his head slowly.
“Poor Arthur,” he murmured, loud enough for me to hear. “Always was a bit of a dreamer.”
It wasn’t just the diner Greg wanted. He wanted my reputation. He wanted my sanity.
And he was succeeding.
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