Chapter 1: The Den Part 1
CHAPTER 1: THE DEN
“HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?
Name: Claire Benson
Age: 19 years
Height: 5’2”/157cm
Weight: 102Lbs/46Kgs
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown
Place last seen: Riley Hall Dormitories
Date last seen: 17 July 2025”
The notice had curled at the corners, sun-bleached and soft with rain that never quite soaked through. Photos and phone numbers sit in neat rows, like quiet pleas. Club meetups, late-night tutoring, a couch in a shared apartment. And then her face, caught in grayscale, pinned but not noticed. People wall past it a hundred times, not because they don't see it, but because seeing isn't the same as noticing. Three months. Three months the notice has been there.
Elliot Mercer, reporter extraordinaire, is one of those people.
Ok, maybe not extraordinaire.
Head reporter.
Ok, not exactly head reporter.
Journalist.
Alright, alright, he was an intern.
He had likely seen that notice a hundred times before, but something this time drew him to the poster.
“Claire?” He read the name out loud, his voice low, pondering. He doesn't know her, had probably seen her around campus, but not a friend. Not that he had any friends at the college. He lifted the paper from the bulletin board and his brows furrow. Hollow Creek. He doesn't know the town. He's never been there, never even heard of it. Pulling out his phone, he pulls up the location.
“Only an hour’s drive,” he comments quietly before folding the paper and placing it in his pocket followed by his phone. He is now determined to solve this case. The case of the missing girl. After some more research, he finds out that Claire is not the only one missing from in or around Hollow Creek. Over the last eight months, eleven girls between the ages of nineteen and twenty-eight have gone missing. Not dead, as no bodies have been found, just simply missing.
“Hollow Creek is the place to start, I guess,” he mutters shutting down his computer and packing his backpack with a few changes of clothes, his notebook, and his laptop. He walks out to his car, noticing that it looks like it might rain soon.
“I hate the rain,” he grumbles. He runs his hand through his messy black hair, sighs, and climbs into his beat up car that is badly in need of service. The check engine light has been on for longer than Claire has been missing.
Other than a torrential downpour starting half way there, the trip is rather uneventful. The wipers on his car are fighting with their last breath against the wall of water battering the dying car.
“Please make it,” he mutters, sending a prayer to any deity that decides to listen. “Please.” His teeth are clamped tight as he enters the small town’s Main Street.
“For the love of-” he starts as the engine chugs, coughs, and finally gives up. “Come on!” he yells, hitting the steering wheel. He tries the keys, willing it to start again, but finally has to concede that the car is now bound for the junkyard. He hangs his head down in defeat, smacking his forehead lightly, but repeatedly, on the steering wheel. Lifting his head, he notices a bar just down the street. Parked out front is a large black truck.
“Now there's a vehicle that'll get you places,” he mutters, resigning himself to a very wet walk to the establishment. He sighs, bracing himself for the swim through the rain, and pushes open his door. Quickly shutting it, he bolts down the street. He's only outside for a few moments, but by the time he bursts through the door of The Den, he's drenched from head to toe. Dripping and more than a little irritated, he makes his way to the bar.
“Whiskey. Neat.” He puts a ten on the bar, letting his forehead rest on the oak surface.
While Elliot is questioning every life choice that's led him to this point, across the bar a large man with a very imposing aura watches as he enters. Unbeknownst to Elliot, the man hasn't taken his eyes off of him since he first entered.
“You do know how intimidating you are to the younger pack members, right? Taylor got so flustered the other day, he actually bowed and apologized to a tree he bumped into thinking it was you.” The man sitting in the same booth as the imposing man laughed at the memory. He is currently being ignored.
“Alpha?” the man attempts to get his attention.
“Riley, that man.” He points to Elliot. “Find out who he is.” The imposing man sits in his booth, swirling a glass of bourbon.
“On it, Alpha.” Riley rises and walks over to Elliot, approaching warily. He slows his approach the closer he gets. His nose works, scenting something that shouldn't be there. He doesn't need to talk directly with Elliot, just needs to listen to the conversation with the bartender, Meg.
“You look like something the cat regretfully dragged in, honey. You ok?” Meg asks Elliot as she places his whiskey down.
“Yeah, I guess. My car died down the street and I hate the rain.” He tosses the glass of alcohol back like a pro.
“You poor thing. What you doin’ in a place like this? Nice college kid like you.” She wipes the bar with a clean rag. Meg is nothing if not cleanly. Elliot studies her for a moment.
“Just passin’ through.” He decides on the spot not to reveal his true intentions for being in the town. Before he can order another whiskey, Riley taps his shoulder. Elliot looks up to see a tall, broad shouldered man with a long, blonde ponytail looking down at him.
“Can I help you?” Elliot regards the stranger with irritation.
“My boss wants to talk to you.” Riley jerks a thumb in the direction of the imposing individual. Elliot looks over and is immediately overcome by feelings and a pull he has no words for. He frowns, but rises from his stool. As he walks over, he watches the man hold up one finger, signaling to the bartender for another round. The drinks are delivered right as Elliot sits. He doesn't speak, simply sits and takes the offered drink, swirling, but not drinking. The man raises an eyebrow.
“Not drinking something offered by a stranger. Smart,” the man comments. And cute, though he doesn't say that outloud. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. His impossibly gold eyes hold Elliot's bright green ones.
“You can call me Damon.” He holds his hand out. Elliot regards his hand for a few moments before reaching out and grasping it.
“Elliot. Call me Eli.”
“Eli,” Damon sounds like he's committing the name to memory. He continues, letting go of Elliot's hand and sitting back. On the outside, he looks like a well controlled man simply making conversation. On the inside, two sides of himself are at war.
“So, Eli, what brings you to town?”
“A shitty car that should have been scraped years ago,” he says dryly, sitting back in his own chair. Elliot's messy dark brown hair drips water into his eyes. He barely registers the wetness. Damon regards him with interest.
“Picked one hell of a night for it to die, huh?” Damon doesn't really expect an answer. He leans forward again, his golden eyes on Eli's once more. “Tell me what you're really doing here. No one ‘just passes through’.” For some reason, Eli is compelled to answer truthfully. It's the same compulsion that caused him to come over to the man in the first place.
“Her,” he says simply as he pulls the worn flyer from his pocket. “I want to know what happened. To her and the others.” Damon looks at the flyer briefly before narrowing his eyes.
“What’s your relation to her?” Damon asks. He hasn't decided just how much information he's willing to part with. Not until he hears Eli's story.
“Honestly? None. I've never met her. Something told me to investigate.” Eli answers, folding the paper and putting it back in his pocket.
“Never met her? But felt compelled to come here,” Damon mutters, exchanging a look with Riley. “What do you do at the University, Eli?”
“I'm… uh… a reporter,” Eli stumbles on his words a bit, but Damon doesn't comment.
“A reporter? So, you, what? Thought you'd come out here and solve a mystery that seasoned detectives and investigative news professionals couldn't?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid. But hey, it's either this or report on the 100th touchdown in the football captain's career or the suspiciously rubbery meat the cafeteria tries to pass off as ground beef. This seemed like the better option of the three.” That's not entirely true. His editor doesn't even know he left town, but he figures it's better to not point that out.
