Black Hollow – Present Day
The Greyhound bus hissed to a stop at the edge of town, its doors groaning open like an old man stretching after a long nap. Jake Carter stepped onto the cracked pavement, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his jaw set tight. The air smelled like wet asphalt and something else—something sour, like rust and rotting wood.
Black Hollow hadn't changed.
The town clung to the edges of the Black River, a skeletal thing of boarded-up storefronts and flickering streetlights. The old tannery still stood at the end of Main Street, its broken windows staring down like empty eye sockets. Jake had hoped never to come back.
But then the call came.
"Liam's gone."
His little brother—eighteen, reckless, but not stupid. Not the type to vanish without a word. The cops had already written it off. "Kids run away all the time," the sheriff had said, voice thick with disinterest. But Jake knew better. Liam had been texting him for weeks before he disappeared—rambling messages about the bridge, about the thing that watched him from underneath.
Jake had ignored them. Now guilt sat heavy in his gut.
The Diner
The Hollow's End Diner was the only place still open past sundown. The bell above the door jingled as Jake stepped inside, the scent of stale coffee and grease hitting him like a memory. A few tired-looking locals glanced up, their eyes lingering just a second too long before dropping back to their meals.
Jake slid into a booth near the back. The vinyl seat crackled under him, split open in places, foam poking out like exposed flesh.
A waitress with tired eyes and a name tag that read "Darla" wandered over. "Coffee?"
"Yeah. Black."
She nodded, pouring from a pot that had probably been brewing since morning. "You're the Carter boy, ain't ya?"
Jake stiffened. "Yeah."
"Thought so. You got the look." She wiped her hands on her apron. "Heard about your brother. Real shame."
Jake's fingers tightened around the mug. "You know anything about it?"
Darla hesitated, then leaned in, her voice dropping. "Folks say he was out at the railroad bridge that night. Bad place to be after dark."
"Why?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she reached into her apron pocket and slid something across the table—a faded Polaroid.
Jake picked it up. It showed the bridge, its rusted beams stretching over the river. But something was wrong. In the shadows beneath it, barely visible, was a shape—too tall, too broad, its limbs bent at angles that made Jake's spine prickle.
"That was taken last summer," Darla whispered. "Camera guy disappeared the next day."
Jake's throat went dry. "What the hell is that?"
Darla's lips pressed into a thin line. "You know what it is. Everyone in this town does."
Then, before Jake could ask more, the diner's door jingled again.
A woman walked in.
The Podcaster
Rachel Mears didn't look like she belonged in Black Hollow. Her boots were too clean, her jacket too stylish, her dark hair pulled back in a sharp ponytail. She carried a heavy-looking satchel and a demeanor that screamed "outsider."
Jake watched as she scanned the diner, her gaze landing on him for a fraction of a second too long. Then she smiled—a practiced, polite thing—and walked over.
"Mind if I sit?" she asked, already sliding into the booth.
Jake scowled. "I do, actually."
Rachel ignored him, pulling out a voice recorder and setting it on the table. "Jake Carter, right? Liam's brother?"
Jake's muscles tensed. "Who the hell are you?"
"Rachel Mears. I host Dark Echoes—a podcast about urban legends and unsolved cases." She tapped the recorder. "I'm here about the Big Man Under the Bridge."
Jake's stomach dropped.
Rachel continued, her voice low and urgent. "I've been tracking similar disappearances for years. Always near bridges. Always at night. And always—always—there are stories about something big lurking underneath." She paused. "Your brother isn't the first. And if we don't figure this out, he won't be the last."
Jake wanted to throw her out. Wanted to tell her to take her conspiracy theories and shove them. But then he thought of Liam's texts, of the thing in the photo.
He exhaled sharply. "What do you know?"
Rachel's smile turned grim. "More than the cops. Less than the old-timers." She nodded toward the window. "And I think it's time we talked to one."
Outside, through the grimy glass, an elderly man shuffled past, his cane tapping against the sidewalk.
Old Man Hargrove.
The last person who'd seen Tommy Mercer alive.
The Old Man's Warning
Hargrove's house smelled like mothballs and mildew. The walls were covered in yellowed newspaper clippings—decades of missing persons reports, all from Black Hollow, all near the bridge.
The old man sat in a rocking chair, his gnarled hands gripping the arms like he was afraid it might buck him off. His milky eyes fixed on Jake.
"You look like your daddy," he rasped. "Same stubborn set to your jaw."
Jake ignored that. "You knew about the disappearances. About the… thing under the bridge."
Hargrove let out a wet chuckle. "Ain't no thing, boy. It's the Big Man." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And he's been here longer than this town."
Rachel turned on her recorder. "What is he?"
Hargrove's gaze flicked to the device, then back to Jake. "Hungry."
A silence settled over the room, thick and suffocating.
Jake clenched his fists. "Did he take my brother?"
Hargrove didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached under his chair and pulled out a small wooden box. Inside was a single item—a child's shoe, crusted with dried mud.
Tommy Mercer's.
"He takes 'em," Hargrove said softly. "And if you listen real close at night, you can hear 'em laughing under the bridge."
Jake's blood ran cold.
Rachel leaned in. "How do we stop him?"
Hargrove's smile was a cracked, broken thing.
"You don't."
The Bridge at Dusk
That night, Jake and Rachel stood at the edge of the railroad bridge, the wind howling through the steel beams like a chorus of whispers. The river below churned, black and endless.
Jake's flashlight cut through the dark, illuminating the graffiti-scarred wood and rusted nails. And beneath it—shadows that moved just wrong.
Rachel adjusted her bag, her voice steady but tight. "We should go back. Come prepared."
Jake didn't move. Somewhere, deep down, he felt it—the weight of being watched.
Then, from under the bridge, a sound:
A low, wet clicking.
Like something opening its jaws.