Hollow's End was the kind of town that clung to its routines like a barnacle to a shipwreck. Nestled between skeletal pines and a river that smelled faintly of rust, its pulse beat to the rhythm of the cannery's midday whistle, the clatter of the lumber mill, and the slow creak of old Mrs. Voss flipping her diner's "OPEN" sign at 6 a.m. sharp. Most folks worked jobs that left grit under their nails—fishermen, farmhands, mechanics. Silas Quinn, with his narrow shoulders and paper-pale complexion, didn't fit in with the broad-backed men who gathered at the Crow's Nest Tavern. He hauled trash.
Six days a week, he'd climb into his dented truck at 4:30 a.m., thermos of burnt coffee in hand, and weave through Hollow's End's seven streets. The townsfolk barely nodded at him, though they relied on him like oxygen—rotten food vanished, broken toys disappeared, last night's regrets carted off before dawn. Silas didn't mind the invisibility. It was safer that way. His father, a steelworker with fists like anvils, had disowned him years ago for reasons that still curdled in Silas's gut: Too soft. Too quiet. Too much like your mother. Now, at 28, he rented a room above the pawnshop, its walls thin enough to hear the clatter of Mrs. Park's mahjong tiles every Friday. Just keep saving, he told himself, scrubbing engine grease off his hands each night. Another year, maybe two. Then you'll quit, move west, work a job that doesn't stink of decay.
But Hollow's End had secrets, and secrets festered.
Teens dared each other to sprint past the Devil's Well—a collapsed mine shaft at the forest's edge—where some swore they'd heard whispers in a language that crackled like fire. Old-timers muttered about the Gray Lady, a specter who trailed mourners at the cemetery, her voice a hum of forgotten hymns. Even the fog had lore: On Fullerton Street, it pooled unnaturally thick, and Bobby Haskins once swore he'd seen shapes moving inside it—"Like people, but… wrong." Most dismissed it as drunk tales or cabin fever. Silas did too. He'd seen enough real monsters in his childhood home; he had no patience for imaginary ones.
That changed on the third Tuesday of October.
His boss, a walrus of a man named Riggs, had cornered him after his shift. "Jenkins' kid's got the flu. You're on nights this week." Silas opened his mouth to protest—nights meant overtime, but nights meant… other things—but Riggs cut him off. "Quit whinin'. You need the cash, Stick."
Silas killed the truck's engine behind the old cannery, its crumbling brick walls blotting out the moon. The industrial lot was a graveyard of cracked asphalt and weeds, littered with rusted barrels and the skeletal remains of a forklift. He stepped out, boots crunching glass shards, and flicked on his headlamp. The beam cut through the gloom, catching motes of dust swirling like agitated ghosts.
The dumpster sat wedged between two sagging chain-link fences, its lid pried open by vandals long ago. Silas approached, the sour tang of rot thickening with every step. He'd done this a thousand times—grip the split black bag, heave it into the truck, repeat. Muscle memory. The first bag tore as he lifted it, leaking greasy liquid that reeked of spoiled meat. He grimaced, swiping his gloved hand on his jeans, and tossed the mess into the bed. Four more, he thought. Then coffee. Then bed.
The fourth bag was heavier, sloshing ominously. Silas dragged it out, sweat pricking his neck. That's when the smell hit him—not garbage, but copper and cloves, cloying and wrong. His headlamp flickered.
The corpse lay half-buried in the dumpster, one clawed hand dangling over the edge. Milky eyes stared, unblinking. Fangs glinted in the weak light. Around its neck hung a pendant: Hades' helm twisted into the horns of an Oni, the metal seething with faint, vein-like cracks.
Silas staggered back