Chapter One

The tires crunched across loose gravel as my rusty Corolla crept through the gates of Hollow Acres Trailer Park. It was barely evening, but the sky had already turned a burnt orange, the heat pressing down like a held breath. The car’s engine groaned, tired and overheated, as I rolled to a stop beneath a sagging wooden sign.

WELCOME TO HOLLOW ACRES- Affordable Living for All, it read, its paint sun-bleached and curling at the edges. One rusted chain held it aloft, the other dangled limp. Someone had once spray-painted a crude smiley face onto the sign’s corner. The paint had since bled, leaving behind a warped Rorschach stain that looked more like a scream.

I killed the engine and sat for a moment. The silence was total. No passing cars. No humming lights. Just the soft, dry rattle of cicadas starting their nightly song. My hand hovered at the ignition a moment longer, like I could still change my mind.  

In the backseat, my son, Jamie, unbuckled himself and scooted forward, his head resting against my shoulder as he peered out the windshield at our new surroundings. “This it?” he asked.    

 I swallowed. “Yeah,” I said, forcing cheer into my voice. “This is it.”

He didn’t reply. He hadn’t protested once since we’d left Atlanta two weeks ago in the dead of night, two duffle bags in hand and forty-three dollars in cash. He watched the city disappear through the rearview mirror with the same quiet solemnity he now stared at Hollow Acres.

Outside, trailers curved in a horseshoe formation, their frames rusted and crooked, like a mouth of old teeth. Some had saggy porches or broken latticework; other showed signs of life- weather-worn garden gnomes, plastic flamingos, or potted plants surviving out of spite. One had a swing set with a single dangling chain, flaky chunks of rust peeling madly.

A tall woman stood on the porch of the nearest trailer. Her grey hair was wound in a loose knot, and she wore a faded green nightgown and slippers. She waved as I stepped out of the car, the heat hitting me like an open oven. “That’s probably Mrs. Dunn,” I muttered.

Jamie climbed out slowly, dragging his battered backpack along the dirt. He looked past me towards the far end of the park, where a dense line of trees created a natural barrier. Their branched twisted skyward, skeletal in the fading light.

The woman made her way down from her porch, her slippers puffing up little clouds of dust. “You must be the Garners,” she said with a brittle smile. “Leah and little Jamie. You’re right on time.”

I forced a smile of my own. “That’s us. I hope we’re not to late- “

“Oh honey, you’re fine,” Mrs. Dunn said, grabbing my hand with fingers like dry twigs. “We don’t run on clocks around here. Hollow Acres is a good place. Quiet. Peaceful. Folks mind their business. That’s worth more than money these days.”

She bent slightly to peer at Jamie. “And how old are you, sugar?”

Jamie didn’t answer. His eyes remained lock on the tree line.

The old woman followed his gaze. “What are you looking at, sweetheart?”

Jamie tilted his head. “There’s someone under our trailer.”

I stiffened at the comment, my spine running cold.

Mrs. Dunn chuckled, a papery sound. “Kids and their stories. Trailer seven’s ready. Let’s go get the keys.”

—

Trailer seven wasn’t as bad as it looked on the outside. It was clean, if cramped- two rooms, a kitchenette, a peeling linoleum floor that creaked when you stepped on certain spots. The air conditioner was busted but a box fan buzzed weakly in the corner. A half-smoked cigarette sat in the kitchen sink like someone had left in a hurry and never came back.

“It’s…cozy,” I said, trying to stay positive.

“You’ll get used to it,” Mrs. Dunn replied, setting the keys on the counter. “No one really moves out of Hollow Acres. Not unless they must.”

I looked up, startled by her choice of words. “What do you mean?”

The old woman stayed quiet, already retreating for the door. “Dinner’s at six if you care to join us at the rec hall. Sometimes we play cards.” She gave Jamie one last look- something unreadable flickering across her eyes- then let herself out.

I sighed and opened our duffle bags, unpacking the few things we brought. Jamie had already kicked off his sneakers and sat cross-legged on the floor, humming softly to himself. I moved around him, hanging shirts on rusty hooks and toothbrushes in the battered bathroom cabinet.

When I passed Jamie again, he was whispering softly, a ghostly lilt I couldn’t understand at all.

I stopped, frowning down at him. “Hey, bud. What are you doing?”

He didn’t look up. “Talking.”

“Yeah? To who?”

He pointed to the narrow gap beneath the trailer’s warped floorboards.

I crouched beside him, trying not to let the unease crawl into my voice. “Who’s under there?”

He turned to me, his eyes wide. “He says it’s nicer here than it was before. He remembers you.”

I blinked, utterly bewildered. “Who remembers me?”

Jamie looked confused for a moment, like the answer had slipped just out of reach. Then he shrugged. “The man in the dirt.”

—

That night, after Jamie had fallen asleep in his little alcove bed, I laid in the larger bedroom, staring at the ceiling. The box fan coughed weakly, casting slow-moving shadows that warped as they shifted. Heat clung to my skin. Outside, the cicadas had given away to frogs, and farther off, a low croaking call rose from the woods.

I dozed for a while, slipping into a shallow, uneasy sleep. But sometime after midnight, I woke with a start.

Something had changed.

It wasn’t a sound exactly- more of a sensation. The subtle vibration of something brushing beneath the floor. Not a rodent. Not pipes.

A dragging.

I held my breathe and listened.

Scratch. Pause. Scratch-scratch.

It moved slowly, like fingers raking through the undercarriage. My heart pounded and my mind at once went to my son. I sat up, heart racing even faster, and tiptoed to Jamie’s room.

He was asleep as he should be, arm tucked under his pillow, breathing steadily. Then his lips moved.

I leaned closer.

He whispered, “He’s almost here.”

—

I didn’t sleep after that.

I sat at the kitchenette booth with a cold cup of coffee in my hand and watched the sun come up. Outside, the park looked deceptively normal. A dog barked from a few trailers down. Someone hosed off their porch. Mrs. Dunn waved to all from her usual perch like everything was fine.

Nothing was fine. My head hurt.

Jamie woke up groggy, but cheerful. He didn’t remember talking in his sleep. He didn’t remember the man in the dirt. When I asked him gently about it, he just shook his head.

“I was dreaming of dinosaurs.”

—

Later that afternoon, a knock rattled the screen door. I opened it to find a

woman in her late thirties with tired eyes and a toddler balanced on her hip.

“You must be the new folks,” the woman said. “I’m Tessa. Trailer four.”

“Leah. Nice to meet you.”

The toddler squirmed. Tessa adjusted her grip. “You planning on sticking around?”

I gave a noncommittal shrug. “That depends. Is this place as peaceful as advertised?”

Tessa barked a short laugh. “If peaceful means the power flickers during the full moon and something keeps digging holes behind the trailers, sure. Peaceful.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Digging holes?”

“Raccoons, supposedly.” Tessa shifted the child to her other hip. “But I’ve lived here six years. And I’ve never seen a raccoon dig symbols.

My stomach dropped, the cold coffee inside souring immediately. “Symbols?”

Tessa gave me a long look. “You’ll see. Or you won’t. Just keep your boy close.”

—

Night fell swiftly. Tessa’s words lingered in my mind, stirring restless thoughts. Symbols? This must be a prank, hazing the new resident. I probably looked like an easy target.

I grabbed a flashlight, telling Jamie to stay put, and went outside. The air was cool, carrying a hint of damp earth and pine. Shadows danced around me as I stepped carefully across the gravel path. The flashlight’s beam sliced through the darkness, revealing nothing but the ordinary. I leaned down shining the light in the space under the trailer.

Nothing greeted me- just loose dirt and insulation hanging from rusty floor joists. I sighed and leaned back up, feeling a little foolish. I was too jumpy for my own good, falling for any ghost story that came my way.

I supposed that came from going on the run from your ex. Looking over your shoulder, knowing trouble was always three steps behind you. I wasn’t excited for this life, wanted no part of it, but I did what I had to for my son.

I would always make that choice.

Yet, something still didn’t seem quite right. The night felt off and I couldn’t explain it. A pressure in the air, maybe. Like standing too close to a live wire.

Jamie was already asleep when I came back in, curled around a tattered stuffed lion. His face was peaceful once again.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, brushing his hair back from his face and wondered just how much trauma he’d swallow without ever speaking it aloud.

He stirred, murmuring softly, “He likes it here.”

My fingers froze in the locks of his hair. “Who, Jamie?”

He smiled faintly, even though his eyes stayed firmly shut. “The man with the wrong mouth.”

—

I finally fell asleep, after eons of tossing and turning, the fan’s whirring a gentle companion, and dreamed of roots.

They twisted through the bedroom walls, pulsing like veins, wrapping around my ankles and wrists until I couldn’t move. In the distance, someone was whispering -a voice I almost recognized. A lullaby in a language I didn’t know.

The roots tightened their grip, and the whispering grew louder, more insistent. I tried to call out, but my voice was lost in the suffocating tangle of roots. The lullaby morphed into a chant, its rhythm echoing through my mind like the beat of a drum.

Without warning, the roots released me, and I fell to the floor with a thud. As I looked up, I saw a figure standing in the doorway. It was the man with the wrong mouth, just as Jamie had described. His features were distorted, his mouth twisted into an unnerving, permanent grin.

He stepped closer, and I could feel the chill emanating from him. “You don’t belong here,” he said, his voice a discordant melody. “This is our home.”

I awoke with a start, tangled in a mess of sheets and sweat. The darkness was suffocating but I was aware of two things.

The fan was turned off.

And the scratching was back.