Chapter 57

Chapter 57
The fire started in silence.

One spark. No sound.

But Nathan could feel it—spreading behind him, licking up the walls, painting the air in shades of orange and ash.

He stood in the middle of a familiar living room. Old green carpet. A broken ceiling fan. The Rourke family photo hung askew on the wall, scorched at the edges.

His brother stood by the window, looking out.

Not moving.

Not burning.

Just watching.

“Mark?” Nathan’s voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.

Mark turned.

His face was older than Nathan remembered. Eyes hollowed out with worry. Skin pale, haunted.

He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Only smoke.

Nathan stepped forward. “What are you trying to tell me?”

Mark raised a shaking hand and pointed toward the hallway.

Nathan turned.

The hallway stretched impossibly long, lined with doors.

All of them marked with badges.

Sheriff.

Deputy.

Judge.

DA.

Nathan walked slowly down the corridor.

As he passed each door, a sound came from behind it—screams, chanting, the rustle of robes, and once... a child’s laugh that abruptly cut to silence.

He reached the end.

There was one final door.

No badge.

Just the word:

“REDEEMED”

He reached for the knob.

But Mark’s voice stopped him.

“Don’t trust anyone wearing a badge.”

Nathan turned.

Mark was gone.

The fire now filled the room.

The floor cracked. The walls screamed.

And then—

He woke up choking.

Coughing.

The smell of smoke still in his nose.

His chest heaved, sweat soaking through his shirt.

He sat up in bed, heart pounding like gunshots in his ribs.

The room was dark.

Still.

Quiet.

But something had changed.

Not just in the dream.

In him.

Nathan stood slowly and went to the kitchen. Poured a glass of water with shaking hands.

He gripped the edge of the sink.

Don’t trust anyone wearing a badge.

Mark’s words had burned into him.

He’d spent so much of his life defending systems, trying to believe in the people behind the walls of law and order.

But here, in Hollow Creek, the badges weren’t shields.

They were masks.

Disguises worn by men who fed fire with flesh.

Judge Bligh. Sheriff Grady. Half the damn Civic Council.

All hiding behind authority.

All guilty.

And the worst part?

He could feel the system still closing in—tightening around Jace, Elijah, and anyone who dared to pull back the curtain.

Later that morning, Nathan sat with Marlene on the cabin porch, the dream still heavy on his shoulders.

“You okay?” she asked.

“No,” he said honestly. “But I don’t think I’ve ever been.”

She waited, sensing he wasn’t finished.

“I dreamed of Mark,” Nathan said. “He warned me. Told me not to trust badges.”

Marlene looked away, then back. “Sounds about right.”

He turned to her. “You think he knew everything?”

She nodded slowly. “He was scared before he died. I used to hear him on the phone late at night. Talking to someone. Whispering. I asked once, and he said, ‘I’m just trying to keep the fire from waking up again.’”

Nathan gripped the porch railing.

“Maybe this whole town is dreaming,” he said. “Dreaming the same lie. Over and over again. And we’re the only ones trying to wake up.”

“Then we’d better make some noise,” Marlene said softly.

They returned to the map.

The symbol of The Mouth—spiraled like a fingerprint—seemed to pulse beneath the ink.

Nathan touched it.

His fingertips tingled.

Images flooded back from the dream—the hallway, the burning doors, the scorched floor.

And then it hit him.

“Mark’s last voicemail,” he muttered. “He said, ‘Don’t look for justice in the courthouse. Look where the truth was buried.’”

Marlene’s eyes widened. “You think he meant—”

“The tunnels,” Nathan said. “The ones under the settler ruins.”

“The map leads right there.”

He nodded, resolve sharpening in his voice. “Then we follow it. Tonight.”

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the pines, they packed gear—flashlights, food, a hammer, and a crowbar.

Nathan slipped Mark’s journal into his coat pocket.

The last thing he did before locking the cabin was stare one more time at the burned photo of their family—mom, dad, Mark, Marla, and himself.

He traced a finger over his brother’s face.

“I’m listening now,” he whispered.

Then turned and walked into the forest.

They reached the trailhead near midnight.

The trees loomed like quiet sentinels.

Owls hooted far off, and something stirred in the underbrush, but nothing dared step close.

Not here.

The coordinates from Jace’s map led to a moss-covered mound behind an old stone marker—barely visible under years of leaf fall.

Nathan brushed it aside, revealing a wooden hatch.

A chain had once sealed it, now rusted and broken.

Marlene shined the flashlight.

A spiral was carved into the wood.

“The Mouth,” she whispered.

Nathan nodded and gripped the handle.

It groaned as it opened, exhaling air that smelled like old stone and memory.

Below: darkness.

A narrow set of stairs disappearing into the earth.

Marlene looked at him.

“Ready?”

He inhaled.

“No,” he said. “But we’re going anyway.”

Then they descended into the dark.

Toward the truth.

Toward the fire.