Chapter 6: Town of Widows

Chapter 6: Town of Widows

The words scratched into the glass were a verdict. THE LINE HOLDS YOU IN. Leo stood frozen in the den, the triumphant adrenaline from the ritual draining away, replaced by the cold, slow-moving dread of a man in a cage. He was safe from them, yes, but he was also trapped with them. His home was now his prison, the threshold ward a one-way gate. The silence in the house was no longer a sign of victory, but the profound quiet of solitary confinement. He was their playmate, just as the message declared. A toy in a box.

The following morning, a weak, watery sunlight did little to dispel the gloom. Leo forced himself through a parody of a normal routine. He made coffee, his hands steady now, a strange calm settling over him. Denial was a powerful anesthetic. He was safe inside the house. That was the main thing. He had faced them and won the first round. The rest—the scratched message, the feeling of being trapped—was just psychological warfare. He wouldn't let them win that way.

To prove it to himself, to defy the creeping agoraphobia, he decided he had to leave. Just for an hour. He needed groceries, a simple, mundane task to reclaim a piece of his life. The ritual, he reasoned, was tied to the house, the dwelling itself. Surely the protection didn't mean he could never, ever leave. It was a sanctuary, not a tomb. He hoped.

Unlocking the front door felt like a momentous act. He hesitated, his hand on the bolt, expecting some monstrous consequence. But nothing happened. The air outside was cool and damp, and the world looked exactly as it had before. He took a tentative step across the salt-line, a man stepping on what he prays isn’t a landmine. Still nothing. The relief was so sharp it almost made him dizzy.

The drive into town, however, felt different. He was acutely aware of the treeline, a dark, ragged border to his vision at all times. The town of Dam’s End, which had previously seemed merely sleepy, now felt watchful and heavy, as if the very air had thickened. When he parked his scarred red truck on the main street, he felt the stares of the few people out and about, and this time, there was no mistaking their expression. It wasn't just curiosity anymore. It was a deep, mournful pity, the kind you give to a man already diagnosed with a terminal illness.

Inside the general store, the bell above the door chimed with what sounded like a funeral toll. Mildred, the cashier with the sad eyes, was stocking shelves. She looked up as he entered, and the practiced smile she gave him didn’t reach her eyes. In fact, her eyes looked haunted.

"Leo," she said, her voice softer than before. "Getting supplies?"

"Just the basics," he said, trying to sound cheerful. He grabbed a basket and began to walk the narrow aisles, keenly aware that the other two shoppers in the store—both older women in dark cardigans—had stopped their conversation and were now watching his every move. He felt like a ghost they could all see. He grabbed milk, bread, and eggs, the mundane items feeling absurdly disconnected from the reality of his life.

He paid in cash, avoiding Mildred's sorrowful gaze, and fled the store as quickly as he could. He was halfway to his truck when a familiar voice called out to him.

"Leo, dear! Over here!"

It was Elspeth Steinhop, his neighbor, standing by the post office with a canvas tote bag. Today, her inquisitive smile seemed tinged with a genuine, almost painful concern.

"Mrs. Steinhop," he greeted her, relieved for a conversation that might not feel like a eulogy.

"You're looking a little worn around the edges," she said, her eyes scanning his face. "This town can take some getting used to. The quiet gets under your skin."

"Something like that," he admitted.

She sighed, shifting her tote bag. "You know, you put me in mind of poor Mr. Abernathy. He moved here from the city, too, oh, must have been twenty years ago now. Bought the old Miller place at the north end of town. A lovely man. A writer." She shook her head sadly. "Lasted about six months."

"What happened to him?" Leo asked, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. He remembered Clara's words. This town is full of widows for a reason.

"A terrible accident," Mrs. Steinhop said, lowering her voice. "He was an avid hunter, you see. They said he tripped and fell while climbing a deer stand. A real tragedy. His wife, Martha, she still lives here. Never remarried. A sweet woman, but she always has such a sad look about her."

Leo’s grip tightened on his grocery bag, the plastic crinkling.

"And then there was that young artist, what was his name… Cole!" she continued, caught up in her litany of small-town tragedies. "Moved into the old cooper's cottage about ten years back. So full of life. He was always complaining about strange things, though. Noises at night. Things going missing from his yard. Said he felt like he was being watched."

"What happened to him?" Leo asked again, his own voice sounding distant to his ears.

"Fell from his own roof," she said with a click of her tongue. "They said he was up there trying to fix a leak during a storm. Slipped right off. His wife, Brenda, took over the bakery. You should try her scones. Best in the county."

The pattern was laid bare, a trail of breadcrumbs leading to a monstrous conclusion. Outsider men. A period of strange occurrences. A fatal "accident."

"Did… did people say anything else about them?" Leo pressed, his heart beginning to hammer against his ribs. "Before they died? Did they act strange?"

Mrs. Steinhop looked away for a moment, towards the dark woods that were visible even from the center of town. Her gossipy demeanor faltered, replaced by something that looked like fear. "Well," she said hesitantly, "you know how people talk. Old stories. They said Mr. Abernathy told everyone at the diner that he kept hearing children laughing in the woods behind his house, but there were no children for miles. And just before he died, Mr. Cole told the sheriff someone was building little dolls out of twigs and leaving them on his doorstep."

She stopped abruptly, her eyes wide, as if realizing what she’d just said. She looked at Leo, at his pale, stricken face, and her own expression filled with that same unbearable pity he’d seen everywhere else.

"You just be careful, Leo," she whispered, her voice strained. "This town… it has its patterns. It doesn't always take kindly to new faces."

She gave him a final, mournful nod and hurried away, leaving Leo standing alone on the sidewalk.

The grocery bag slipped from his numb fingers, spilling milk, bread, and a carton of eggs that cracked open on the pavement, the yolks spreading like jaundiced, staring eyes.

It all crashed down on him with the force of a physical blow. The pranks. The effigies. The games. It wasn’t a prelude to making him a ghostly playmate. That was just the tenderizing process. It was a hunt. A familiar, well-practiced culling. The Hollow Children weren't trying to break his spirit; they were trying to break his focus, to wear him down, to make him afraid and exhausted and prone to a clumsy, fatal mistake.

He wasn't the first. He was just the next. The town wasn't full of widows by chance; it was a curated population. The children weren't just playing games. They were weeding their garden. And the "accident" they were planning for him was already in the works.