Read The Stillness at Hollow Creek free: the opening chapter

The Salt-Stained Path: Arrival | Blackwood House

The asphalt surrendered to gravel with a sigh, the sound swallowed quickly by the thick, gray fog. Ellie gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, and slowed the rental car. The GPS declared she’d arrived, but all she could see was a swirling emptiness. Maine coast. Hollow Creek Island. A temporary escape. Or so she’d hoped.

The directions had warned of a rough track, but this was more than rough. Potholes, like open wounds in the road, threatened to swallow the small car whole. Trees, skeletal and draped with moss, clawed at the mist. It felt less like driving to a place and more like descending into one.

She’d left Boston wanting distance. Distance from the city, from the memories that clung to every street corner, from the gaping hole in her life. The photography assignment, documenting the slow decay of historic homes on remote islands, felt like a lifeline, a reason to keep moving. Blackwood House was the first stop. A grand, isolated Victorian, reportedly crumbling from the inside out. Perfect.

The fog pressed closer, a damp weight against the windshield. It muted the world, stealing color and sound. Even the ocean, she guessed was somewhere nearby, remained silent, hidden. It was a silence that wasn't peaceful, but expectant. Like something was holding its breath.

She rounded a bend, and a shape emerged from the gray. A weathered wooden sign, barely legible, announced “Hollow Creek.” The lettering was faded, chipped, almost… mournful. Beneath it, another, smaller sign, newer and painted a cheerful blue, read: “Welcome Visitors.” The contrast felt jarring, a forced smile on a grieving face.

---

The road narrowed, winding along the coastline. She passed a few small, gray cottages, their windows dark and uninviting. No signs of life. No smoke curling from chimneys. It was as if the island held its breath, waiting. She half expected to see figures standing silently, watching.

Then she saw him. An old man, standing at the edge of a field, leaning on a gnarled walking stick. He didn’t wave, didn’t acknowledge her presence. Just stood there, a silent sentinel, his gaze fixed on her car. His face was hidden in shadow, but Ellie felt the weight of his eyes. A prickle of unease ran down her spine.

She glanced away, then back. He was still there, unmoving. It wasn’t hostility in his stare, exactly. More… assessment. As if he were deciding if she belonged.

She told herself it was just an old man, a local resident curious about a new arrival. But the feeling of being watched lingered, growing stronger with each passing moment.

---

Finally, through the fog, she saw it. Blackwood House. It loomed over the landscape, a dark and imposing structure. Three stories high, with a sprawling veranda and a turret that pierced the mist like a skeletal finger. The paint was peeling, the wood weathered and gray, but even in its decay, it possessed a certain grandeur. It looked… haunted.

The driveway was overgrown, barely a path through the tangled weeds. She drove slowly, crunching over gravel and broken branches. The house seemed to absorb the sound, swallowing it whole.

She parked in front of the house, cut the engine, and sat for a moment, staring. The fog swirled around Blackwood House, obscuring its details, making it seem to shift and change before her eyes. It wasn't the beauty she'd expected to photograph. It was something else. Something… sad.

Taking a deep breath, she reached for the door handle. She needed to get out, to stretch her legs, to assess the situation. To prove to herself that this wasn't a mistake.

As she opened the door, a gust of wind swept through, carrying with it the scent of salt and something else. Something damp and earthy, like decaying leaves and… something metallic.

She stepped out into the mist, and immediately felt a chill, despite her layers of clothing. The air was heavy, thick with moisture. The silence pressed in on her, amplifying the sound of her own heartbeat.

---

The front door of Blackwood House was massive, made of dark, heavy wood. It was slightly ajar, as the rental agency had instructed. A single, tarnished brass knocker hung crookedly on the door. She hesitated, then pushed it open.

The entrance hall was cavernous, filled with shadows. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light that managed to penetrate the fog-shrouded windows. The air inside was stale, cold, and carried that same strange metallic scent she’d noticed outside.

A grand staircase swept upwards, disappearing into the darkness. Portraits lined the walls, their faces obscured by grime and shadow. They seemed to watch her as she entered, their eyes following her every move.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice sounding small and fragile in the vast space.

No answer.

She walked further inside, her footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. The house felt empty, but not abandoned. It was as if someone, or something, had just left, leaving behind a lingering presence.

She found a light switch and flicked it on. A dim, flickering bulb illuminated the hall, revealing more of the house’s decaying splendor. The wallpaper was peeling, the furniture covered in dust sheets, but beneath the grime, she could see traces of a former elegance.

---

She dropped her bag onto the floor with a thump. The weight of it felt heavier than it should. She needed to unpack, to make this place feel less… hostile.

As she rummaged through her bag for her camera, she heard a noise. A faint creaking sound, coming from upstairs.

She froze, listening intently. The house was silent again. She told herself it was just the old house settling, the wood expanding and contracting with the dampness.

But the feeling of being watched intensified. She turned slowly, scanning the hallway. The portraits seemed to loom closer, their eyes more pronounced.

She grabbed her camera, needing something solid in her hands. The cool metal felt reassuring.

“Just the house,” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. “It’s just an old house.”

She started to move toward the stairs, determined to explore, to document, to prove to herself that she wasn’t afraid.

Then she saw him. The old man from the road, standing at the end of the hallway, partially hidden in shadow. He hadn't made a sound. He'd simply appeared.

His face was still obscured, but she could feel his gaze, unwavering and intense. He wasn’t looking at her, she realized. He was looking through her. As if she weren’t really there.

He raised a hand, slowly, deliberately. And in the dim light, she saw something glint in his grasp. Something small and silver. A key.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stood there, holding the key, his eyes fixed on her.

And in that moment, Ellie knew she wasn’t alone in Blackwood House. And she wasn't sure she'd made the right choice coming to Hollow Creek. The island didn’t feel like an escape anymore. It felt like a trap.

…The island didn’t feel like an escape anymore. It felt like a trap.

Ellie’s breath hitched in her throat. The camera felt less reassuring now, more like a useless weight in her hand. She wanted to run, to bolt back out the front door and into the swirling fog, but her feet were rooted to the floor.

The man remained motionless, a spectral figure at the edge of her vision. It wasn’t the sight of him that terrified her, not exactly. It was the wrongness of him. The way he didn’t seem to occupy the same space as she did. The emptiness behind his gaze.

“Who are you?” she managed, her voice a shaky whisper.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink. The silver object in his hand caught the light again, revealing a delicate, ornate design. It wasn’t just a key. It was an antique, something from another era.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he began to walk toward her. Each step was silent, deliberate. He didn’t walk as people walked. There was a fluidity to his movements, a gliding quality that defied gravity.

Ellie found her voice, though it trembled. “I… I’m Ellie. I’m renting the house.”

He continued to advance, ignoring her. He was close enough now that she could make out more details. His clothes were old-fashioned, a dark, heavy coat and trousers that seemed to absorb the light. His face was deeply lined, etched with a sadness that went beyond years. And his eyes… they were the color of the fog, grey and impenetrable.

He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could feel a chill emanating from him. He didn’t look at her, not directly. His gaze swept past her, over her shoulder, as if she were transparent.

He held out the key, offering it to her. Not with a gesture of welcome, but with a solemnity that felt like a pronouncement.

Ellie didn’t reach for it. She couldn’t. “What… what does this unlock?”

He finally spoke. His voice was a rasp, like dry leaves rustling in the wind. “The past.”

The single word hung in the air, heavy with implication. Ellie’s heart hammered against her ribs. She wanted to ask more, to demand an explanation, but the words wouldn’t come. The man’s presence was suffocating, draining the air from the room.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

He didn’t offer any further explanation. He simply extended the key again, his hand unwavering. Ellie glanced around, desperate for an escape, but the hallway seemed to have elongated, the portraits multiplying, their eyes mocking her.

She forced herself to meet his gaze, searching for any flicker of humanity. But there was nothing. Just an ancient sadness, and an unsettling sense of knowing.

He wasn’t a threat, not in the way she expected. He wasn’t going to hurt her. He was something… else. Something lost, something trapped.

And the key… it wasn’t an invitation. It was a burden.

Hesitantly, she reached out and took the key. The metal was cold against her palm, sending a shiver up her spine.

As her fingers closed around it, a wave of dizziness washed over her. Images flashed before her eyes: a grand ballroom filled with laughing faces, a shadowed garden shrouded in mist, a woman in a white dress weeping silently.

The images were fragmented, fleeting, but they felt… familiar. As if they were memories, not her own.

She stumbled back, clutching the key tightly. The man didn’t react. He simply watched, his expression unreadable.

“What was that?” she breathed, her voice laced with fear.

He tilted his head, a slight, almost imperceptible movement. “A glimpse.”

“A glimpse of what?”

“What was. What is. What will be.”

His words were cryptic, unsettling. Ellie wanted to scream, to run, to wake up from this nightmare. But she was paralyzed, trapped in the web of Blackwood House and the enigmatic man who haunted its halls.

She looked down at the key, turning it over in her hand. It was intricately carved with a single symbol: a crescent moon enclosed within a circle. It felt strangely significant, as if it held the answer to all her questions.

“Where does this key go?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

The man finally turned his gaze away from her, toward the darkened staircase. “The west wing.”

“The west wing?” Ellie repeated. “I thought that part of the house was sealed off.”

He didn’t respond. He simply stood there, a silent sentinel, urging her forward.

With a growing sense of dread, Ellie began to climb the stairs. Each step creaked under her weight, echoing through the silent house. The air grew colder, heavier, with each ascending step.

The west wing was even more dilapidated than the rest of the house. The wallpaper was peeling in large strips, revealing bare plaster beneath. Dust motes danced in the faint light filtering through the grimy windows. The air smelled of decay and forgotten things.

She found the door at the end of the hall, a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands. It was covered in cobwebs and grime, as if it hadn’t been opened in decades.

With trembling hands, she inserted the key into the lock. It fit perfectly.

As she turned the key, a click echoed through the silent wing. The door swung inward, revealing a small, circular room.

The room was almost completely empty. A single window looked out over the ocean, shrouded in fog. In the center of the room stood a small, wooden rocking chair.

And on the rocking chair, a faded, yellowed photograph.

Ellie picked up the photograph, her fingers brushing against the brittle paper. It was a portrait of a young woman, with long, dark hair and hauntingly familiar eyes.

She was wearing a white dress, and her expression was one of profound sadness. She looked… lost.

As Ellie stared at the photograph, a cold gust of wind swept through the room, extinguishing the flickering bulb.

She was plunged into darkness.

And then she heard it. A faint, mournful sigh. Coming from the rocking chair.

She fumbled for her camera, switching on the flash. The beam of light illuminated the room, revealing… nothing.

The rocking chair was empty.

But the photograph was no longer in her hand.

She dropped to her knees, frantically searching the floor. The photograph was gone. Vanished.

She spun around, her heart pounding in her chest. She was alone in the room, but she didn’t feel alone.

She felt watched.

And she knew, with a chilling certainty, that the past wasn’t just unlocked. It was reaching for her. The fog outside pressed closer, a silent, suffocating presence. Hollow Creek had claimed another soul, and Ellie feared she was next. The drive in hadn't prepared her for this. Nothing could have.

The sample ends here.