The Arrival

Night was settling as Leah Turner’s car rattled along the narrow, pitted road, steering her deeper into the wild-briar outskirts of Gallenford. Dust spiraled in the sharp beam of her headlights. Around her, the ancient trees seemed to lean closer with every mile. Just beyond, the hills hunched, devouring the horizon.

The dashboard clock glowed 8:43 PM. Leah’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. She replayed the message over in her mind, the envelope’s scratchy paper, the unfamiliar looping script. You are needed. Guilt must be reckoned. The old mill waits. Friday. Midnight.* She’d almost thrown it away—until a second envelope arrived, unsigned, bearing only the photograph: five teenagers, frozen mid-leap on the iron bridge, sun flashing off their faces. Before the mill.

The cluster of houses appeared suddenly out of the gloom, roofs slick with rain, hunched together as if bracing against the cold. The village square was nearly empty, save for twin pools of yellow light beneath the cracked hotel sign. Leah parked, engine hesitating before dying, and the silence felt thick as wool.

Darius Cole was already there, slouching against the hotel’s stoop, arms crossed, face half-lost in shadow. He wore the same battered leather jacket as always, but his eyes darted—caged animal, cornered. Next to him, Stephanie Wells leaned against her suitcase, lips moving silently, her blue scarf unraveling around her neck. Leah approached, her footsteps echoing louder than they should.

Stephanie looked up first and her eyes glistened. "Did you—"

“Yeah,” Leah said quickly. "The letter."

“I figured you’d come,” Darius said, trying a smile and failing. “Turner can’t resist a mystery.”

Leah didn’t reply, and the three regarded each other, uncomfortable, uncertain, until another car rumbled into view. It was Eli Grant, scowling at his phone, clothes pressed crisp, like armor. He tossed his cigarette aside, greeted no one.

Last was Victor Neal, his arrival a sullen punctuation. He strode from the mist on foot, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his eyes full of the wounded suspicion of someone with more questions than he’d ever get answered.

They moved inside. The hotel lobby—faded floral wallpaper, the musty tang of old carpets—was manned by a stooped woman with eyes like wet gravel. She barely looked up as they checked in, her hands shaking minutely as she handed out the keys.

“You folks here for the—?” she began, but her words withered at the sight of their faces.

It was Stephanie who forced a smile. “Just passing through.”

The woman’s gaze lingered as they filed upstairs. The corridor was lined with old photographs: horses in mud, rows of stony-eyed children. No one spoke until doors shut behind them.

Later, they reconvened in the lobby, drawn down as though by magnetic force. No one wanted to be alone, not with the oppressive hush that seemed to settle over every shiver of the wind.

“I saw the mill coming in,” Darius said abruptly. “Looks worse than I remember. Like the woods are trying to swallow what’s left.”

Eli fetched a pint from the empty bar. “Place has been cursed for a hundred years, if you listen to these backwards hicks.”

Leah frowned at him. “They probably don’t appreciate being called that.”

Victor, silent until now, stared through the mottled window at the looming black hulk on the hill. “My sister wasn’t afraid of stories. She went inside, and she never came home.”

Stephanie shivered. “I felt something. Even before I saw it.”

They all grew quiet. Unspoken things pressed at the edges.

A log cracked in the hearth. Leah drew the envelope from her bag and laid it on the table. “Someone’s trying to tell us something—or force us here. We’re all connected. We know what happened.” Her voice quavered. “Maybe it’s time we face it.”

Eli’s voice was harsh. “Face what? Cheap Halloween pranks? Nobody’s home in that mill but rats. We pick over the bones tonight and go.”

Victor’s hand curled into a fist. “You can pretend all you like, Grant, but someone kept us out for years. Now they want us in.”

Darius laughed hollowly. “Maybe it’s just some sick joke.”

They heard voices then, fragments from outside: low, urgent, wary. Through the glass, a knot of villagers—old men with faces like cracked bark, watching from the shadow of the churchyard. When one met Leah’s gaze, he spat and shook his head, disappearing into the night.

Darius tried a grin. “Friendly place.”

Stephanie looked ill. “They know about the mill. They know we shouldn’t go.”

Leah pressed the envelope flat. “We go. Together. We see what’s left. Then we leave.”

Thunder rumbled in the hills. The group fell silent, united by memory and dread, as the night grew colder and the outline of the mill—windowless, hulking, hungry—stretched deeper into their dreams.