Apr 9, 2026
Rat Hollow
The wind didn’t sound like wind in Hollow Creek. It sounded like something dragging its breath across the bones of the town. Elias stood alone in the street, boots sunk just enough into the dust to feel the weight of the place. The lantern above the saloon door swayed, creaking on rusted chain, throwing crooked light across the road. No voices. No horses. No hymn from the church. Just that wind. He adjusted the strap across his shoulder, fingers brushing the worn grip of his rifle. The wood felt colder than it should’ve been. “Town ain’t right tonight,” he muttered. From the far end of the street, the church doors stood open. They were never open at night. A faint glow bled out from inside — not warm, not welcoming. Pale. Sickly. Like candlelight filtered through bone. Elias didn’t move at first. He’d seen men die in this town. Seen things that didn’t make sense. But something about that open doorway — something about the silence — pressed against his chest like a warning he couldn’t shake. Then came the voice. Low. Steady. Preaching. “…and the Lord shall separate the worthy from the rot…” Elias’s jaw tightened. “Silas…” He stepped forward. Each footfall echoed louder than it should have, like the town itself was listening. Watching. Waiting. As he reached the church steps, the wind died completely. No sound. No movement. Just the voice inside. “…for the flesh is weak, but the will must be carved clean…” Elias pushed the door. It groaned open the rest of the way. Inside, the pews were full. Every seat taken. Every head bowed. But none of them moved. Not a breath. Not a twitch. Just figures… sitting… still. At the altar stood Silas. Not a reverend. Not a man of the cloth. Something else wearing the shape of one. His back was to Elias, arms raised slightly, fingers trembling as if holding something unseen in the air. “And in His name,” Silas whispered, voice trembling with something like joy, “we make them whole again.” One of the seated figures twitched. Just once. Sharp. Wrong. Elias lifted his rifle. “…Silas.” The preacher’s head tilted. Slowly. Too slowly. Then it turned. Not the body. Just the head. Eyes wide. Smiling. “Marshal,” Silas said softly. The figures in the pews all moved at once. Not standing. Not rising. Just… shifting. Like something inside them had woken up. Elias exhaled. “…you finally decided to come to church.”