--- Fallon's POV ---
Bouncing off the refrigerator's glass door, which housed numerous caffeinated drinks options, I caught myself staring at my ghostly reflection. My white hair and pale blue eyes looked opalescent, almost as if my doppelganger was stuck between the glass of the chilled door. The more I stared at myself, the more I wondered who was really looking into who.
"Excuse me," a man said, opening the glass door and snapping my detached gaze. In an unbuttoned red plaid shirt and dirt-stained jeans, his grimy hands, with black sludge permanently under his fingernails, grabbed a twelve-ounce iced coffee. He turned to face me. "Made up ya mind?"
A heavy question. It was apparent I'd made up my mind. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been standing in a rundown Shell truck stop half past midnight where the "S" was broken and dangling. It just said Hell, my last stop before reaching the small town I'd only heard of in stories told under star-filled skies in the middle of restless nights. A town I'd never imagined myself returning to.
Dirty-Trucker-Man lingered, awaiting a response. My gaze remained locked on to where my reflection had lived moments ago, my thumb swirling my mood ring around my ring finger over and over and over. The glass door freed from his hold and fell back into place before the man walked away, mumbling under his breath, "Okaaay then. Whatta freak."
Freak.
I opened the refrigerator door, and the frosty temperature brewing inside flared goosebumps up my forearm, raising every white hair over my flesh. I wanted to climb inside and shut the door and fall asleep with the icy current. However, I snatched up the last hazelnut iced coffee and made my way toward the checkout counter, keeping my head down, but my attention on my surroundings. Hell, past the midnight hour, was a lighthouse for pedophiles and serial killers, and I was the perfect prey.
Loner. Young. Odd. An acquired taste. A freak.
A girl no one would search for or miss.
On the other side of the checkout counter, behind a cabinet filled with lottery tickets, a guy lifted his elbows from the counter and clicked off his phone before tucking it into his pocket. Straight black hair fell over one eye before he tossed it to the side. "Anything else?" he asked through a forced sigh, dragging the chilled can across the counter and scanning.
"Yeah …" Reluctance dripped from my voice after noticing that here, in Hell, was the last place the cashier wanted to be. I pulled out my marble-cased iPhone to open the application for my GPS, partly to avoid any uncomfortable eye contact since he wasn't necessarily approachable. "I'm a little lost. Do you know the way to Weeping Hollow?"
Dirty-Trucker-Man from back at the refrigerators hobbled behind me as the cashier looked up from his register with a blank stare. Then the cashier's gaze moved past me to the Dirty-Trucker-Man. "Yah can get heyah from theya, but yah can't get theya from heyah." His Maine accent was thick as he half chuckled, shaking his head.
Dirty-Trucker-Man muttered to move it along. I dropped my phone-holding hand and shifted in my black and white saddle oxford shoes. It was past midnight. I was tired. I was lost. I didn't have time for riddles. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The cashier tapped the top of the can with a forced smile. "It'll be three-fifteen."
"Thanks for nothing," I grumbled, slapping a five-dollar bill over the counter and scooping up my drink. The little silver bell above the exit chimed on my way out, and the mild ocean air slammed into my eyes as I headed back to my car.
I'd been on the road for about thirty-five hours, only stopping for gas and food at a few fast-food chains. With every passing mile, my lids had grown heavy, and I had to shake my head to keep myself awake. I'd always been stubborn like that. Always challenged myself down to carrying every single grocery bag from the car to inside our Texas home, lining my arms, using my teeth, anything to avoid a second trip.
I had stopped once, pulling into a hotel parking lot, but only to rest my eyes. I hadn't realized I'd fallen asleep until a homeless man tapped his knuckle over my window, probably to make sure I wasn't dead.
Caffeinated and back on US-1, a few cars scattered along the highway as I followed the coastline up the state of Maine, remembering the directions Gramps had jotted down in his letter. GPS didn't recognize the small, secluded town of Weeping Hollow, and the farther I drove, the spottier the reception became until I found my exit off Archer Avenue.
The dull sign was hardly visible from the narrow, empty road. The dim headlights from my silver Mini Cooper turned into my only flashlights as I slowly drove past the faded sign. Rain had rusted the sharp metal edges that read the town name, and under it, POPULATION 665.
As I passed, the last number transformed, blurring into 666.
I rubbed my eyes. I was tired, seeing things. Right?
I continued onward, creeping along the eerie dark road tunneled by looming trees. Famished vultures littered the path like roadwork, fighting over a dead carcass and painting the street in blood and black wings. Ruthless with hunger, the birds hardly moved out of the way nor seemed threatened by the Mini Coop crossing their path. I crawled forward, and for the next three miles, the trees dwindled on both sides, dissolving into tombstones on my left and a rundown children's park on my right.
The translucent moon hung high above, illuminating a rusted iron sign arching over the only way in … and the only way out.
Weeping Hollow.
My Mini Cooper sputtered from the long and exhausting journey across numerous state lines, and I paused at a stop sign before the roundabout to canvas the small town I'd only heard of in stories. It didn't look like it belonged in the beautiful state of Maine. It was as if the Devil handcrafted Salem's Lot with a black-feathered quill and ebony ink over a tattered canvas, then blindly dropped his creation in amusement to see what could come of it—how the people would accommodate. And they did.