Bay Valley
“Positive. Vision hit me like a freight train. We’re going—now.” She was already standing, grabbing her hat from the booth, the felt worn but familiar, her movements sharp despite the lingering dizziness.
Kane didn’t argue. He tossed a couple of crumpled bills on the table—more than enough for the beers and a tip—and grabbed his axe from the booth’s shadow, slinging it over his shoulder with a practiced motion. “Lead the way, Sheriff,” he said, his voice steady now, the hunter in him rising to match her urgency. They pushed through the bar, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft thud, Hank Williams fading into silence, the patrons barely glancing up as the night swallowed them.
Outside, the air was cool and crisp, the sky a deep indigo pricked with stars, the scent of woodsmoke and distant pine sharp in their lungs. Kane’s truck waited at the curb, its battered Ford frame glinting under the streetlight, the toolbox rattling in the back as he fired the engine. Vera slid into the passenger seat, her pistol heavy on her hip, her mind racing with the vision’s details—the shelf, the book, the pull that felt like Moriah’s laughter echoing in her bones. The truck’s headlights cutting through the dark, tires humming over the cracked pavement toward Bay Valley, the library’s forgotten shelves waiting in the deepest part of Greenly Bay, the vision’s urgency driving them forward into the night.
The truck’s headlights carved a narrow tunnel through the inky dark as Kane Baker steered down the winding, potholed road to Bay Valley, the engine’s low, steady growl filling the tense silence. Vera Kingsley sat in the passenger seat, her sheriff’s hat clutched in her lap, the felt worn soft from years of service, her mind still reeling from the vision that had struck her in the bar—the towering shelves crammed with leather-bound books, the dust motes dancing in slanted light, the single volume pulsing like a heartbeat on the third shelf from the floor, far end. The air through the cracked window was cool and sharp, carrying the faint, briny scent of the river mingled with the rusty tang of the old mill’s abandoned machinery, a reminder of Greenly Bay’s faded industry. Kane’s hands tightened on the wheel, his knuckles pale, the graveyard dirt still smudged on his coat, his axe resting across the back seat like a silent guardian. His voice cut through the hum of the tires, low and deliberate, as if the weight of the night demanded careful words.
“That library you saw,” he began, his eyes fixed on the road, the headlights catching the twisted branches of oaks that lined the way. “Bay Valley branch—went up in 1913, right after the town killed the Careys. Martin stoned, Elena burned, the mob thinking they’d cleansed the sin. But it wasn’t Mathias Baker’s project, whatever folks say. It was Elias Hawthorne. Good Christian man, never laid a hand on the mob that night. Preached against the stoning from his little church on Elm Street, called it murder, not justice. Said the town was damning itself, chasing witchcraft with blood.
“He stood in the square, Bible in hand, warning them they’d invited something darker than any spell. After the Careys were gone, he couldn’t stay among the hypocrites. Retired from preaching, took his wife and two young kids, and built the library in Bay Valley—deepest part of town, far from the rest, away from the whispers and the guilt. Wanted a place to keep the truth, not bury it. Said history shouldn’t be a grave, but a light. Put every record he could find in there—town ledgers, old sermons, even scraps about the Careys. Secluded himself and his family, lived quiet till he passed in ’29.”
Vera’s fingers tightened on her hat, the vision’s pull sharpening with every word, the image of that glowing shelf burning brighter in her mind, its connection to Hawthorne’s mission undeniable.
“That shelf I saw—third from the floor, far end, one book pulsing like it was alive. Hawthorne saved something. About the curse, Moriah, maybe even why you were spared. If he built that place to hold the truth, that book’s the key.”
Kane nodded, his jaw tight, the truck swaying slightly as he took a sharp curve, the mill’s skeletal silhouette looming in the distance, its smokestacks like broken fingers against the sky. “Hawthorne was a stubborn old coot. His kids kept the library running after he died, but it’s been half-forgotten since. Folks don’t like digging up what he preserved.”
They reached the Bay Valley branch, a squat brick building hunched at the edge of the old mill district, its facade weathered by decades of rain and neglect, ivy creeping up the walls like veins. The windows were dark, but the town’s power grid hummed faintly, a single streetlight casting a weak pool of yellow on the cracked pavement.
Vera parked the truck with a crunch of gravel, the headlights cutting off to reveal the library’s shadowed outline, the sign reading “Bay Valley Public Library” in faded gold letters, the paint peeling like old skin. They climbed out, boots heavy on the path, the night air cool and thick with the scent of damp earth and distant pine. Kane slung his axe over his shoulder, the blade catching the streetlight’s glow, while Vera’s hand rested on her pistol, the weight a comfort against her hip. They approached the front door—glass-paneled, reinforced with iron bars, a crooked “CLOSED” sign hanging inside, swaying slightly in a draft.
Vera knocked hard, her fist thudding against the glass, the sound sharp and commanding in the stillness. “Sheriff’s department! Open up!” No answer, only the faint hum of the town’s power lines and the distant croak of a frog by the river. She banged again, louder, her knuckles stinging, her instincts screaming that someone was inside, hiding in the dark.
“Open the door, now!” she shouted, her voice echoing off the brick, the vision’s urgency driving her, the pulsing book a beacon she couldn’t ignore.