NOTHING STAYS BURIED IN GRAND HOLLOW
Not metaphorically.
Actually breathing.
The cardboard rose slowly in the darkness of her apartment like tired lungs struggling through sleep.
She stood frozen near the kitchen doorway, one hand still wrapped around a mug of cold coffee, watching the stack she had dragged from her closet barely an hour ago.
Three boxes.
Old photographs.
Lockets.
Letters she never mailed.
Things she had sworn to throw away before midnight.
Outside, rain clawed against the windows of Grand Hollow like something trying to enter.
The city always looked exhausted after midnight. Neon lights flickered above empty streets. Wet pavements reflected broken advertisements. Somewhere in the distance, a train screamed through the fog.
Dorothy hated that sound.
It reminded her of memory.
“You’re staring again.”
Dorothy nearly dropped her mug.
Anastasia Rose sat upside down on the couch with one leg hanging over the backrest, lazily eating caramel popcorn like a raccoon who paid rent.
One green eye.
One brown eye.
Both disturbingly observant.
“You move silently for somebody wearing six bracelets,” Dorothy muttered.
Anastasia shrugged.
“You breathe loudly for somebody pretending not to panic.”
Dorothy looked back toward the boxes.
Still.
Motionless now.
Her jaw tightened.
“Tell me something honest,” Anastasia said.
“That depends.”
“Did you finally decide to stop hoarding emotional corpses?”
Dorothy snorted.
“Wow. Poetry.”
“I try.”
The apartment smelled like cinnamon coffee and rainwater. A jazz record spun lazily near the bookshelf, though neither girl remembered turning it on.
That happened often lately.
Objects moved.
Songs played.
Lights flickered exactly three times every night at 2:17 a.m.
Grand Hollow had always been strange.
But recently, strange had started developing intentions.
Dorothy walked toward the boxes carefully.
The top one contained photographs.
Mostly college memories.
GrandView Arts Hall.
EspressoYourself.
Late-night parties.
Paint-stained smiles.
And Ethan Cartar.
Her fingers paused.
Even in photographs, Ethan looked emotionally unavailable.
Purple hair slightly messy.
Sharp blue eyes.
Tall enough to make doorframes look nervous.
Always standing somewhere near the edge of every picture like he distrusted happiness itself.
Which, honestly, he probably did.
Anastasia peeked over Dorothy’s shoulder.
“Oh look. Human melancholy in physical form.”
Dorothy rolled her eyes.
“He’s not that bad.”
“He once looked at me like he could hear my tax fraud.”
“You don’t pay taxes.”
“Exactly. Terrifying intuition.”
Dorothy laughed.
But the laugh died quickly.
Because the photograph changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Ethan’s eyes shifted.
Now he was looking directly at her.
Dorothy stopped breathing.
Anastasia noticed instantly.
“What?”
Dorothy slowly held up the photograph.
Silence.
Then Anastasia whispered:
“…That’s new.”
The room temperature dropped.
Dorothy could suddenly hear something faint inside the walls.
Knocking.
No.
Scratching.
No.
Whispering.
A hundred distant voices speaking too softly to understand.
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
2:17 a.m.
Right on schedule.
Then every photograph inside the box turned upside down simultaneously.
Dorothy stumbled backward.
Anastasia stood immediately.
The playful energy vanished from her face.
That scared Dorothy more than the photographs.
Because Anastasia only became serious when something truly dangerous appeared.
One photograph slid free from the pile.
Slowly.
Like invisible fingers pushed it forward.
Dorothy picked it up.
Her stomach twisted.
It was a picture of four people standing outside EspressoYourself.
Her.
Anastasia.
Adrian.
Ethan.
Except.
There should only have been three.
A fourth figure stood beside Dorothy.
Tall.
Blurred.
Featureless.
Its face scratched out completely.
Dorothy whispered:
“…Who the hell is that?”
Nobody answered.
Because somewhere inside the apartment—
Something laughed.
Not loud.
Not monstrous.
Soft.
Almost affectionate.
Like somebody remembering her.
The next morning, GrandView Arts Hall looked deceptively normal.
Students wandered through rain-drenched pathways carrying sketchbooks and iced coffees.
Music drifted from open studio windows.
Birds gathered along old gothic rooftops.
And somehow the entire campus still felt haunted.
Dorothy worked mornings at EspressoYourself.
The café sat directly across from GrandView’s eastern courtyard.
Warm yellow lights.
Dark wooden counters.
Bookshelves full of abandoned novels.
And enough caffeine to resurrect the dead.
Which, honestly, was becoming less metaphorical by the day.
“Dorothy!”
Adrian Smith appeared carrying three sketchbooks under one arm and smiling like human serotonin.
Green hair slightly damp from rain.
Bright green eyes.
Cream skin glowing under café lights.
The man looked genetically engineered to make elderly women trust him.
“You made the cinnamon latte today?” he asked hopefully.
“You ask that every morning.”
“Because every morning I choose happiness.”
“Get a hobby.”
“You’re my hobby.”
Dorothy threw a napkin at him.
He grinned harder.
Adrian had the emotional energy of a golden retriever blessed by a forest spirit.
Which made it difficult to remember he could become terrifyingly serious when necessary.
He slid into a chair beside the counter.
“You look tired.”
“I slept badly.”
“Nightmares?”
Dorothy hesitated.
“Yes.”
That was technically true.
Except the nightmare hadn’t ended after she woke up.
Adrian studied her quietly.
His smile faded slightly.
“You know,” he said softly, “people in Grand Hollow have started disappearing again.”
Dorothy froze.
Again.
That word mattered.
“Who disappeared?”
“Lily from the literature department.”
Dorothy frowned.
“She vanished?”
Adrian nodded.
“They found her apartment empty this morning.”
A pause.
“Except every mirror in the apartment had been covered with black paint.”
Dorothy’s throat tightened.
Because she had dreamed about black mirrors last night.
Dozens of them.
And in every reflection—
something stood behind her.
Adrian leaned closer.
“Dorothy.”
“Hm?”
“You’re shaking.”
She looked down.
He was right.
Coffee trembled violently inside her cup.
Then Ethan Cartar entered the café.
And the entire atmosphere changed.
The bell above the door rang once.
Conversation dimmed.
Even the music felt quieter.
Ethan moved through rooms like storms moved across oceans.
Silent.
Heavy.
Inevitable.
Purple hair slightly messy.
Blue eyes sharp enough to dissect lies.
Black hoodie.
Tattoo visible beneath one sleeve.
A small injured crow perched calmly on his shoulder.
Because apparently this man collected emotional damage and wounded animals equally.
Dorothy hated how attractive that was.
Ethan approached the counter.
His gaze landed on Dorothy instantly.
Not warmly.
Not coldly.
Carefully.
Like she was a dangerous equation.
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
Dorothy blinked.
“You called me?”
“Three times.”
She checked her phone.
No missed calls.
Her stomach dropped.
Ethan noticed.
“You didn’t get them.”
Not a question.
A statement.
Adrian looked between them.
“Okay. Why does this suddenly feel like the opening scene of a murder documentary?”
Neither answered.
Ethan lowered his voice.
“Did anything unusual happen last night?”
Dorothy stared at him.
“How would you know something happened?”
A beat of silence.
Then Ethan said:
“Because I saw someone standing outside your apartment at 2:17 a.m.”
The café suddenly felt too small.
Dorothy whispered:
“…What?”
Ethan’s expression darkened.
“I couldn’t see its face.”
Adrian stopped smiling completely.
“Ethan.”
“It was watching her window.”
Dorothy’s pulse became uneven.
Anastasia’s words from last night echoed through her head:
He remembers you.
The lights inside the café flickered.
Every customer looked up simultaneously.
Three flickers.
Exactly three.
2:17.
Even during daylight.
Coffee cups rattled.
One shattered.
Then came the whisper.
Not from outside.
Not from the walls.
From directly behind Dorothy.
A woman’s voice.
Soft.
Ancient.
Hungry.
“You finally opened the boxes.”
Dorothy turned violently.
Nobody there.
But written across the café mirror behind the counter—
appearing letter by letter through dripping black condensation—
was a sentence.
I REMEMBER WHAT YOU DID TO US.
People screamed.
Someone dropped a tray.
Adrian stood immediately.
Ethan grabbed Dorothy’s wrist.
And for one horrifying second—
the mirror moved.
Not shattered.
Moved.
Like liquid skin.
And something beneath it smiled.
—
That night, Dorothy could not stop hearing the whisper.
You finally opened the boxes.
Rain hammered against her apartment windows.
Anastasia sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by old photographs.
Candles flickered around her.
“You know,” Anastasia murmured casually, “most people would be emotionally collapsing right now.”
Dorothy sat near the kitchen counter gripping coffee like a survival mechanism.
“Who says I’m not?”
“You’re making latte art while traumatized.”
“Multitasking.”
Anastasia smiled faintly.
Then her expression changed.
She picked up another photograph slowly.
“…Dorothy.”
Dorothy looked over.
Ice flooded her veins.
The blurred figure from the photograph now had eyes.
Black eyes.
Exactly like Dorothy’s.
And written faintly beneath the picture:
RETURN HER HEART.
The apartment lights died instantly.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Then came the knocking.
From inside the boxes.
Slow.
Patient.
Alive.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Dorothy stopped breathing as one final whisper slid through the darkness:
“Do you remember who you were before they buried you?”
And somewhere beneath the apartment floorboards—
something enormous began waking up.
Who exactly had Dorothy Frankfurt become before she forgot herself?
