Chapter 1
Ten years had passed since the horrifying event that took place at the lake that day.
Inside a small church in the quiet town of Hollow Lake, a young pastor knelt in prayer. The flickering candlelight cast long, trembling shadows across the wooden pews as dusk gave way to night. A thin fog crept through the town streets, whispering against the windows like a warning.
The heavy church doors groaned open with a long, echoing screech. A cold draft swept in as a hand gripped the iron knob. Footsteps followed — slow, deliberate — echoing across the stone floor.
The pastor continued his prayers, voice steady, devotion unbroken… until he sensed the presence behind him. His words faltered. He opened his eyes.
“Good evening, your holiness. Hope you’re having a blessed night,” came a familiar voice.
The pastor turned slightly. “Sheriff Miller…” he said quietly.
The sheriff tipped his hat. “Another Halloween upon us,” he replied, his tone grim. After a pause, he asked, “Tell me, Pastor — why the names?”
The pastor said nothing. His silence filled the room heavier than any confession.
“With each victim… each year… always the same names,” the sheriff continued. “Why?”
Still, the pastor remained silent.
The sheriff sighed, the weight of unanswered questions pressing on him. “Well,” he muttered, stepping back toward the door, “I’ll leave you to your prayers.”
His boots clicked softly against the floor, fading into the distance. Just before reaching the threshold, he stopped.
Without turning, he said quietly, “Well, Mark… I’ll be seeing you around. Keep those prayers coming.”
Then, in a whisper almost swallowed by the fog, “At this point… we need a miracle.”
The heavy door creaked shut behind Sheriff Miller, leaving the church swallowed by silence. Only the faint hiss of the candles and the rhythmic ticking of the old clock in the corner remained.
Pastor Mark stayed still, eyes closed, lips trembling as he whispered the same prayer he’d repeated for ten years — not for salvation, but for forgiveness.
Outside, the fog thickened, pressing against the stained-glass windows like a living thing.
From the far end of the church came a faint drip… drip… drip — water, seeping through the cracks in the floorboards. He took a hesitant step closer, the floor creaking under his weight.
When he knelt and pressed his hand to the ground, it came up wet — cold, dark, and metallic.
Blood.
The pastor stumbled backward, clutching his cross pendant. His breath quickened as faint whispers began to echo through the church — a child’s laughter, a cry for help, a name repeated over and over.
“Billy… Billy…”
He fell to his knees, tears mixing with sweat as the lights flickered overhead.
“Lord… forgive me,” he gasped. “We tried to bury the truth. We tried…”
And then, from the shadows behind the altar, came the low sound of something breathing.
Slow. Wet. Alive.
The scene cuts to Emma, now a young woman in her final years at university. She’s seated alone in the dimly lit library, surrounded by towers of open books and half-finished notes. Her dark hair falls loosely around her face as she stares blankly at the same page she’s been pretending to read for the last hour.
Outside, the autumn rain taps gently against the tall windows, a steady rhythm that mirrors her restless thoughts.
“Another Halloween…” she murmurs to herself, her voice barely audible. “Who will it be this time? Why? Why again?”
“Emma! Hey, Emma!”
The sound of her name jolts her from her trance. She blinks, glancing up to see Danny, standing by the corner of her table with an uneasy smile.
“Oh—hey, Danny,” she replies, forcing a small laugh.
“You okay?” he asks, concern edging his tone. “I’ve been calling you for a while, but you didn’t answer.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she lies softly. “Just… thinking. It’s that time of year again.”
Danny nods slowly, his expression darkening. “Yeah… Halloween.”
For a moment, neither of them speaks. The silence between them carries more than words — a decade of unspoken guilt and memory.
Danny leans against the table, his fingers tracing the edge of a book he isn’t reading. “What do you think causes it?” he asks quietly. “All those deaths… year after year.”
Emma’s eyes drop to the floor. “Maybe it’s not about what causes it,” she whispers. “Maybe it’s about what never left.”
A chill moves through the library as the lights flicker — just once — before steadying again. Danny looks up, uneasy.
Neither of them notices the faint reflection in the window behind them — the shape of a wet hand print slowly sliding down the glass.
The Sheriff’s Department
The next evening, the sun was setting behind the hills, painting the sky over Hollow Lake in deep orange and red. Inside the sheriff’s department, the last light of day filtered through dusty blinds as Sheriff Miller and his second-in-command, Deputy Samuel, reviewed reports. A few deputies were still out on patrol, keeping watch over the quiet, fog-wrapped town.
Sheriff Miller leaned back in his chair, his eyes heavy with thought.
“I’ve got a feeling,” he muttered, his tone low. “All this… it’s tied to what happened at the lake that day.”
He paused, his gaze drifting toward the window. His voice dropped to a whisper.
“Billy…”
BOOM!
The window behind him rattled violently, cracking at the edge as if struck by invisible force.
“Whoa! Damn!” Samuel shouted, jumping from his chair. “We’ve got some strong winds tonight!”
The sheriff didn’t move. His eyes stayed fixed on the window.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It always is… around this time.”
A shadow crossed his face. “But this year… it feels stronger.”
faint squeaking hinge sound, followed by a soft slam — “CLACK.”
Both men turned toward the main door. It had shut on its own. The hall beyond was empty.
Samuel tightened his jaw. “I’ve got a feeling, Sheriff — this Halloween isn’t going to be like the others.”
Miller nodded slowly. “I fear the same thing. None of them have ever been good… but this one—”
He stopped, his voice fading into a grim sigh. “This one feels different.”
Suddenly, the flush of a toilet echoed from the back hallway. Running water followed — the squeak of a faucet, then the tearing sound of paper towels.
The two lawmen exchanged tense glances.
Both drew their weapons.
Footsteps approaching… slow, deliberate.
The bathroom door creaked open. A figure stepped out.
“Hands up!” the sheriff barked.
The figure stumbled back, startled. “Whoa! Hey, hey! Easy there!”
A familiar voice broke through the tension.
“Sheriff Miller! Deputy Samuel! It’s just me — Frank!”
The two men lowered their weapons slightly.
“Frank?!” Samuel snapped. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Are you crazy?” Miller growled, holstering his gun. “Coming in here unannounced — on Halloween, of all nights?”
Frank raised his hands in apology, his face pale but sheepish. “Heh… my bad. I didn’t mean to scare you guys.”
The sheriff exhaled, shaking his head.
“Sorry, Sheriff. Sorry, Deputy,” Frank added. “I was in a hurry — just needed to use the bathroom.”
For a brief moment, the three men shared a nervous laugh.
But then — somewhere outside, the wind howled, and from deep within the woods, a faint sound echoed through the open window…
A voice. Distant.
Calling a name.
“Billy…”
The laughter died instantly.
The Churchyard
Morning sunlight broke over Hollow Lake — golden, quiet… too quiet. The mist from the previous night still lingered at the edges of town, curling through the empty streets like restless spirits.
Pastor Mark arrived at the church, tired eyes heavy with sleeplessness. As he reached for the iron handle of the main doors, a voice called out behind him.
“Hey, Mark. How’ve you been?”
Mark froze, startled. He turned quickly, clutching his Bible to his chest.
“Ha! Frank… you scared me half to death,” he said, exhaling in relief. “What are you doing here? You know this isn’t a good time to be around Hollow Lake.”
Frank shrugged, his tone uneasy but curious.
“Well, Pastor… if you’re still here after all these years, I’ve got to ask — how are you still alive?”
Mark frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”
Frank’s eyes darted around nervously.
“Every year, names appear — ours too. Written differently each time. But instead of us, it’s someone close to us who ends up dead.”
Mark’s expression hardened. “Yes… everything does seem connected to that day. But Billy’s not alive, Frank. He disappeared years ago — presumed dead.”
Frank swallowed hard, his voice trembling.
“But his body was never found.”
[Faint dripping — drip… drip… drip…]
The sound echoed faintly from somewhere nearby. Both men turned toward the noise. The air grew colder.
A chill crawled over their skin as a whisper carried through the fog.
“Billy… Billy… Billy…”
Each time it spoke, it drew closer — louder, clearer — until the once-bright morning dimmed into shadow. The fog thickened unnaturally, swallowing the sunlight whole.
[Sudden church door slam — BANG!]
The massive wooden doors slammed shut behind them. Both men froze, breath trembling. The whisper became a rasping moan.
Footsteps.
Slow. Wet. Approaching.
“Who’s there?” Frank shouted, his voice cracking.
Then, in one violent motion — a double hook burst through the fog, piercing both men through the shoulders.
Their screams echoed through the hollow churchyard, fading into the mist.
Moments later… silence.
The fog lifted, revealing nothing but an empty doorway. The church stood still, as if untouched — no bodies, no blood, no sign that anyone had been there.
The Discovery
Days passed.
By the final week of October, the town was holding its breath. Sheriff Miller and Deputy Samuel were out on afternoon patrol, their cruiser rolling slowly through the quiet streets of Hollow Lake.
Suddenly, a young girl ran into the road, waving frantically.
“Sheriff! Sheriff Miller!” she screamed, her voice trembling.
Miller stopped the car and stepped out. “Hey there, kid. What’s going on?”
The girl was pale and gasping for air. “Sheriff… we—we found two bodies… and one’s still breathing!”
The sheriff’s eyes widened. “Where?”
“The lake… down by the old dock!”
Within minutes, the patrol car roared toward the lake, siren wailing through the fog.
When they arrived, both men froze at the sight before them. Two bodies lay half-submerged at the water’s edge — torn, bloodied, and mangled.
Samuel swallowed hard. “Well, Sheriff… looks like it’s happened again. Two of the names from the list.”
Miller knelt slowly, his expression grim. “Yeah… and I want to know why.”
He turned to his deputy. “Samuel, clear the area. Call it in. Get the ambulance here fast — we might still save the pastor.”
“Yes, Sheriff,” the deputy said, hurrying back toward the cruiser.
Miller crouched beside Pastor Mark, whose chest rose weakly. The sheriff pressed down a bandage over the wound, blood soaking through instantly.
“Stay with me, Mark,” he said firmly. “Help’s on the way.”
Mark’s eyes flickered open. His lips moved faintly.
“Sheriff…” he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. “…Billy.”
Then his eyes rolled back, and his breathing faded into shallow gasps.
Miller froze — the word echoed in his head like a curse.
He turned his gaze toward Frank’s body, lying lifeless beside the dock — torn, the same double-hook wound carved deep into his chest. Bite marks marred his arms and neck — small, ragged, and unmistakably piranha.
“Piranha bites…” Miller muttered under his breath. “Hook wounds… the same as before.”
As he stood, the wind shifted. The water rippled gently — drip… drip… drip — each drop echoing across the lake’s still surface.
And then, faintly, carried on the wind — a whisper.
“Billy… Billy…”
The sheriff stood motionless, staring into the fog as the sound faded into silence.
The screen darkens. Only the dripping remains.
Then, slowly, the camera pans back to Frank’s body.
Carved into his chest — letters written in blood.
Emma. Danny. Sam.
And below them — two more names, Mark and Frank, violently crossed out.
The wounds still bleed.
The whisper returns — soft, echoing, inhuman.
“Billy…”
