Witchwood Hollow

Chapter 1: The Arrival


The dirt road unspooled before him. A rough ribbon of red-brown earth. Miles of nothing but scraggly bushland and defiant eucalyptus trees piercing the horizon. Gravel spat beneath his tyres. Ethan swerved--another pothole. Red dust bloomed in his wake, claiming his windscreen.
Cold air hissed from the vents, stirring his dark hair. His shoulders carried weight. More than just the badge of a constable. More than they should.
Water hit glass. A mistake. The blazing December sun transformed dust to clay, and his wipers painted war paint across his view. Through the red streaks, he glimpsed the fenceline. Rusted wire. Crooked posts. Time's slow surrender.
The air told stories. Dust. Dry grass. Eucalyptus, sharp as memory. Above, galahs traded insults with cockatoos, their squabbles cutting through the gravel's endless song.
Shadows deepened. Trees pressed closer. His knuckles bleached white on the wheel. "Get a grip, mate." The words fell flat. Sunlight strobed across his face, marking time.
Elderwood's sign emerged from the heat haze. He'd seen a hundred towns like this: high street, Commercial Hotel, pocket-sized post office, Bank of NSW standing watch. Familiar as breathing.
Then--
Something shifted. The sign passed.
Electricity crackled through his bones.
His hands locked on the wheel.
Warning.

* * *

The tarmac appeared like salvation. Gone were the eucalyptus trees, replaced by weathered buildings that held their secrets close.
Ethan downshifted onto Elder Street. History whispered here. Victorian cottages stood shoulder to shoulder, their pastel faces faded by sun and time. Iron verandahs dripped with wisteria. Shop signs creaked, their faded letters promised homemade treasures. Bright wildflowers fought through ancient timber. Somewhere, bread baked.
Red brick sentinels lined the street. Pride in their weathered faces. Ghost signs haunted their walls. Shadows danced through filigree. Time had worn the cornices to lace. Every crack in the paint, every chip in the stone spoke of iron-shod wheels and centuries passed.
Through the red maze of his windscreen, Ethan caught glimpses: produce baskets spilling their bounty onto worn pavements; a cafs lazy hum; steam rising from ceramic mugs clutched by morning regulars.
His car crawled past. The town held its breath. Shopkeepers. Pedestrians. All frozen. All watching. Their smiles careful. Too careful.
The pub crowd set their schooners down as one. Silence fell like a blade. Cold fingers of unease traced Ethan's spine. He'd expected curious glances--he was new, after all. But this? This was hunger.

* * *

"Bloody hell," he muttered, gaze ping-ponging between road and locals. "You'd think they'd never seen a car before." A pause. "Not even my patrol vehicle."
Questions settled like dust in his mind. These old buildings held stories. Those wary gazes guarded secrets.
Outside the sandstone library, an elderly man cradled a leather-bound book. Their eyes met. The man's smile unfurled slowly, green eyes steady.
The grocery shop appeared. Ethan eased to a stop, killing the engine. His muscles complained as he stepped into wall of warmth, the car's artificial chill already a memory.
He stretched, working out the kinks. Faces watched from windows, between cars. Waiting.
Elderwood's reputation nudged his memory--a town where only gay men could live. Some arsehole at the station had mentioned it. He'd dismissed it then. Homophobic bullshit.
A breeze stirred the leaves. Despite the heat, Ethan shivered. The town felt... different. Like a record playing slightly off-speed.
He reached for his duffel. Turned. Found an audience--a middle-aged couple materializing nearby. Their conversation evaporated as they studied him.
Auburn beard, neat trim, wide smile. His companion: silver-touched hair, quieter welcome. Ethan managed a half-wave.
"G'day." His voice came rough with dust.
They nodded. Kept smiling. Kept watching. Friendlier than expected, at least.
Small towns ran on gossip. Five hundred people, everyone's story known. Except one--their missing man.
Rowan. If that was even his name. Three days gone, wrapped in small-town silence. The kind that turned simple cases complex.
His phone showed nothing. Not even Telstra bothered reaching here. No public phones either--extinct as the rest of the past. His bladder twinged in protest.
The watchers waited. Questions hung unasked, ready to spark the moment he turned away. Their attention prickled across his skin.
He opened his mouth to break the silence. A gust swept down Elder Street, carrying words: "Welcome home, Ethan." He turned, searching. Found only those same patient smiles.

* * *

Ethan's focus shifted to a stocky figure striding towards him. The man's salt-and-pepper hair caught the waning sunlight, eyes crinkling.
"G'day there, mate! You must be the new bloke," the man called, his voice gravelly. "Name's Merrick O'Connor. I run the Elderwood Inn just down the way."
Ethan nodded, reaching out his hand. "Ethan Ward. Great to meet you, Merrick."
Merrick's grip was firm and calloused. "Welcome to our little slice of paradise." He gestured around. "You'll find Elderwood's got its own charm. Though I reckon you've already noticed we're not the typical country town, eh?"
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "How's that?"
Merrick chuckled, a deep rumble that filled the space between them. "Oh, you'll see soon enough, mate. Elderwood's got its quirks, just like any small town, right?"
"Right," Ethan said. "I don't suppose you'd care to elaborate on those quirks?"
Merrick's eyes crinkled. "Where's the fun in that? Some things you've got to discover for yourself, mate. Speaking of which, I hear you'll be staying at Cedar Cottage."
Ethan blinked. "That's right. How did you--"
"Small town, mate. News travels fast." Merrick grinned, pointing down the street. "Next left, then follow the road till you hit the motel. Can't miss it--the white wooden cottage. Although that makes it sound nicer than it is."

* * *

Cedar Cottage materialised like a punchline--its weathered face blank as an alibi against blood-red gravel. Ethan killed the engine. The place looked like it had died years ago.
Perfect spot to disappear, he thought, climbing out. The setting sun stretched shadows like question marks across the yard, everything washed in the colour of old case files.
"Right. Let's see what you're hiding."
The windows watched through cataracts of grime. Paint peeled from the walls in long strips, like something trying to escape. His boots hit gravel--each step another chance to tell Missing Persons they could find their own lost soul.
The wind stirred at the bottom of the veranda steps, carrying earth and age and something deeper. Something that whispered, People vanish for a reason.
He gripped the railing, collecting splinters like bad omens. The steps creaked a confession beneath his weight. Just old, he told himself. Like whatever secrets are buried here.
The cottage waited, patient as a liar. Ethan pushed the unlocked door--because they're always unlocked--wincing at its protest. Musty air wrapped around him like guilt as he stepped inside, his boots marking paths through dust thick enough to hide evidence.
The living room stretched spare as an explanation. Water-stained wallpaper. Furniture that had witnessed too much. Sepia photographs lined the walls, their subjects frozen in judgement, as if they knew exactly where the missing bloke had gone. He dropped his duffel on a tired armchair, dust rising like buried truths.
"Bloody hell," he breathed. "This place makes cold cases look welcoming."
He stored his clothes in the wardrobe, half-expecting to find answers--or worse, more questions. Silence settled around him like doubt. He opened windows, trading stale air for a breeze that carried earth and eucalyptus and probably the last known whereabouts of his target.
His hand found the mantelpiece, steadying him against the rush of then and now. Dust caught sunlight, dancing around him like scattered clues.
It's only a few days, he reminded himself. Breathe. The answers are here somewhere.
Somewhere.

* * *

Ethan stepped out of Cedar Cottage, the cooler evening air a welcome relief from the musty interior. He had barely taken two steps when, "woah!"
"Oi! Watch it!"
Ethan sprang back, avoiding a collision with a young man who'd appeared from nowhere.
"Sorry, mate," he said, flashing a grin. "You must be the cop looking for Rowan, yeah? I'm Danny. Danny Nolan."
Ethan blinked, momentarily stunned by his enthusiasm. "Ethan Ward," he replied, shaking the offered hand.
"Welcome to Elderwood!" Danny bounced on his toes. "How're you finding it so far?"
Ethan nodded, unsure. Danny's vibrant energy was a refreshing change from the dusty silence of the cottage.
"It's... interesting," Ethan finally managed. "Not what I expected."
Danny's smile widened. "Oh mate, you haven't seen anything yet. You're just in time for the festival--gonna be a blast!"
"Festival?"
"Yeah, the Midsummer Rite," Danny said, excitement glowing in his eyes. "It's the biggest event of the year. Everyone gets involved--music, food, dancing. And at midnight, we gather in Witchwood Hollow for the--"
His cheeks flushed. "Well, you'll see. It's pretty special."
Ethan opened his mouth, but Danny was quicker.
"Hey, how about I show you around? There's heaps to see, and it'll be great. Honest."
Ethan hesitated. Why not? Nice bloke and better than going solo. "Alright, lead the way," he said, gesturing for Danny to take the lead.
Danny's face lit up. "You're gonna love it. Promise!"

* * *

Danny's enthusiasm pulled Ethan along the winding path to town, his chatter filling the spaces between Elderwood's mysteries. Stories tumbled out, colouring the gaps in Ethan's first impressions.
"That old oak?" Danny gestured to a gnarled giant at the crossroads. "The Whispering Tree. Press your ear to it at midnight, they say you'll hear secrets."
"Bit of local folklore?" Ethan kept his tone light.
"Maybe." Danny's eyes sparkled. "But I've heard things, mate. Proper spine-tingling stuff."
They wound through narrow alleyways that seemed to shift with each turn. Ethan noted the symbols carved into doorframes, weathered by time but still watching.
The sandstone library appeared ahead. Danny bounded to its dark door, striking a pose. "My workplace," he announced. "With Carl. Dead clever, teaches me all the history."
Ethan smiled at the lad's simple joy.
As afternoon light softened, Danny's tales took on darker shades. He spoke of festivals where celebration became ritual, of hidden places in Witchwood Hollow where reality wore thin.
"Magic lives here." Danny's voice dropped low. "Not like the movies. Something older. Something in the earth itself."
Ethan glanced toward the Hollow, where eucalyptus trees swallowed daylight. Something tugged at his awareness, an invitation in shadows.
Danny's brightness dimmed near the forest edge. "Look, Ethan," he said, suddenly serious. "The Hollow isn't for mucking about. Just Rites and..." A shy grin. "You know."
"So apart from--"
"Shh." Danny flushed pink. "Only behind trees. Makes it... special."
The wind stirred leaves and whispers. Ethan studied the darkness between trunks, searching for movement.
"Rites," he echoed, testing the word.
Walking back, Ethan weighed possibilities. Maybe Elderwood was just another refuge for aging hippies chasing dreams. Though he hadn't spotted a single crystal shop or tie-dyed banner yet.