**Present day**
"*Welcome to Willow Creek. Population: 214*"
The sign, and the town it invites me to, appear floating in the sea of green. Fields of grass start near to the sides of the road and never end. It stretches into the horizon, and a swatch of short brick houses ahead of me looks like a raft that rocks on the waves. Not the safest place in the world, but the only thing to grasp onto as far as I can see.
Just like a sea of water, the sea of grass hides what lurks in the depths below. From where I am, I can't even judge how tall the grass is, but it must be at least knee-tall.
With the sunny weather and a pleasant breeze that flows into my car's open window, I think I am supposed to find this place tranquil. Idyllic. But something ominous hides under this facade. This is why I'm here.
I think about it as my car eats the last mile between myself and the streets of Willow Creek. I thought about it my entire way here, picking at clues and trying to create an answer from nothing.
Rose, my best friend since kindergarten, went to Willow Creek and didn't return... For a month. An investigative journalist, she wanted to find the answer behind the disturbing amount of travelers who had never returned from the tiny town. And not just in a year, or several—according to Rose's research, this had spanned *decades*, with two or so people disappearing each year.
Anomalous, but clearly not anomalous enough for the local sheriff to grow concerned.
I had warned Rose that this all spelled danger. But she was always so brave, it bordered on recklessness. While I hid like a coward, even as I wanted to find out the truth just as badly.
My fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
No more.
From close up, the town looks like it hasn't been rebuilt much since the times of the Wild West. One- and two-storey buildings, two rows of lampposts, painted signboards of a grocery store and a pub. Several cars parked on the sides of the main road. Some people trailing me with eyes from the sidewalk.
This is clearly not a tourist trap.
I stop my car in a free space near the pub. The noon is not for drinking, but I hope to find at least someone besides barmen inside. Plus, I'd like to eat something that doesn't smell like a gas station.
When I step in, I feel transported a century back in time. The place is entirely rustic, with its wooden walls and dim lights. There's a jukebox in a corner, but right now it's off. There are only six square tables, and only one of them is taken right now. The singular visitor of the unnamed pub drowns himself in a bottle of something so strong, I can smell it from the entrance. Or the drunk guy—he seems to have been here since morning.
The barman, the only coherent person in the room, doesn't pay the drunk any attention. But he sure pays it to me.
"Oh, we have a visitor! Jack, look—when was the last time you saw such a pretty lady?"
I stagger, fighting embarrassment—I'm just too rarely called pretty. Jack jerks at the sound of his name, but instead of looking at me or the barman, just stares with bloodshot eyes at the void. Whatever he saw within must've been deeply disturbing, judging from his expression.
The barman, a lanky man in his mid-fifties, sighs and brushes his salt-and-pepper beard with a palm. "Sorry, lady. Jack has been like this ever since... Uhm. Hey, come on, don't stand over there. I'm Harold, though everybody just calls me Hank, the barman and owner of this pub, and the nicest guy in this entire town! You don't have to be afraid."
Hank's smile is missing a few teeth, but so wide I can't help but smile back. He makes me think that maybe the entire mystery around Willow Creek was some sort of mistake.
I glance at Jack. His eyes are now back to his bottle, but his lips are moving as if he's soundlessly muttering something.
My concerns come back. Something *is* wrong in this town.
I still smile as I approach the counter, but it doesn't reach my eyes.
"Hi, Hank. I'm Maya Alvarez... Well, you can just call me Maya. There are not many visitors in Willow Creek, I gather?" I ask, leaning on the wooden surface.
"No. There are just too few attractions. I had suggested to the town council that we make one ourselves, like stitching a few stuffed animals together... Can't imagine why they had refused." Hank shakes his head in mock dismay.
I chuckle. Yes, this guy is as funny as Jack is distressing. But my mirth fades quickly.
"Then you must've remembered a friend of mine visiting a month ago. Her name is Rose. Tall, blonde bombshell."
*Not like me at all.*
I'm short and thin, and my shoulder-long hair is plain brown, the most boring color of all hair colors. I've been dyeing it until I decided that... What was the point? Love was clearly not something the world had in store for me.
I couldn't remove the tattoo from my left wrist—a snake that bites its own tail, stylized and shaped like a bracelet. Not that I wanted to. Even when it's hidden under the long sleeves of my hoodie, it still makes me feel wiser and stronger. Right now, I need both.
Hank frowns. "Yes, of course, I remember her. She didn't return? Maybe something happened to her on the way back? She had left the city a long time ago—only stayed here for a few days. I saw her leaving myself."
I stare at Hank, trying to read his expression. As a writer, I am more used to reading books. Hank's face is open, and the concern in his eyes looks very believable. I force all thoughts out of my mind and listen to my intuition, but it's silent.
Fine. I will do like the detectives do—will ask witnesses until their testimonies contradict each other.
"Thank you, Hank." I nodded, worrying my lip. "One more question before I actually buy something to eat: do you know where Rose stopped during her stay?"