October 20th, 1976
Hollow Creek, Pennsylvania
7:12 A.M.
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The sun shined its rays over Hollow Creek that morning, cutting through the autumn chill with serrated angles of gold that poured in a lazy stream across wet windows and rooftops. The air was still, cold, and painfully quiet.
State Trooper Evert Lane was finishing his first coffee of the day when the call came in.
"10-74, Possible break-in," dispatched crackled over the radio. "Pine Hollow Lane. Neighbor says the door's wide open, nobody is answering. Caller's. upset."
Lane sighed, setting the thermos on the hood of the cruiser, and rubbed the back of his neck before replying, "10-4, heading to the report." Not the first early call of the season. Deer through a window, drunk husband passed out on the shed—same every year when the cold started to bite.
He didnt expect what he found.
The Brigg's house looked quiet from the outside. Porch light still on. Leaves blanketing on the lawn in patchy gold and red patterns. But something about the front door—just barley ajar—didn't look right.
A woman was pacing the sidewalk in slippers and a robe, arms hugged tight around her chest. She looked up when Lane pulled into the driveway.
"I knocked and knocked," she talked quickly. "No response. Emily always has the children at school by this time. And Daniel—he never goes late to work. I saw the door. I didn't go in."
"You did the right thing," Lane said, stepping in past her.
The front hallway was quiet and cool. The kind of quiet that sucks of sound.
He stepped in. The air within wasn't still—it was dead.
Lane reached for his radio before raising it up to his mouth, saying to the dispatcher, "10-23 Arrived at the scene."
The smell had hit him the moment he stepped in. Not overpowering, but enough. Iron and rot. The particular smell of blood left too long to dry.
Red streaks on the banister. A line of dried beads on the stairwell wall.
Lane put one hand on his holster and ascended the stairs slowly.
The master bedroom door was partially open. He pushed it.
And the world stopped.
Daniel was crumpled on the floor next to the bed, his face twisted in shock. A wound was cut deep into his neck, dark and dry, something cut with stealth—but no intent.
Emily was stretched out on the bed, blankets tangled around her legs. Her throat was worse. Her face slack. A splash of red smeared on the pillows and wall, like someone had painted with a scream.
Lane didnt step in.
He didn't need to.
His tone was even as he reached for the radio.
"This is State Trooper Lane, 10-91, Need backup. And 10-100, 2 dead individuals. 10-61, for Crime Investigation Unit."
His knuckles were white on the mic, as he hung it back on his shoulder.
He went down the stairs, noticing things he hadn't seen before: the coffee cup still warm in the sink. A shoe left in the hall. The wallet, open in the living room table.
All indications of life—interrupted.
Outside, the town was waking up. Dogs barking down the block. Kids getting on buses. The world kept spinning, unaware.
But Lane knew.
Something had moced through this house like a shadow—and had left nothing but silence.
And the sun, burning bright and clear through the bare trees, couldn't erase it.