Beneath Hollow Creek

Lena Vail stood at Sergeant Bolan's desk inside the Hollow Creek police department, clutching her sister's photograph in her rain-soaked hand. Her red hair darkened with the rain and clung to her cheeks in uneven strands, while water dripped from her soaked jacket onto the tile floor as she paced back and forth. Mara, her twin sister, had been missing for thirty-one hours, and the sergeant who was taking her report kept telling her that adults were allowed to leave home without telling anyone.

Lena kept shaking her head, causing the rain from her hair to drip into her eyes. She hastily wiped her eyes and said, "Not Mara. She doesn't leave the house without telling me, and if she's going to be late, she calls."

Sergeant Bolan eased himself back in his chair, the vinyl groaning under the weight of his broad, heavy frame. His big belly pressed against the edge of the desk as he folded his atop it, his thick fingers interlacing with the slow, deliberate patience of a man who spent decades talking people down from a panic. "Miss Yeil, I understand how worried you must be. All I am saying is this may not be what you fear it is."

"Sergeant, two girls disappeared last year near the lake." Her voice trembled. "Mara wouldn't just leave. Not with that history."

"Please, Lena," he said gently. Have a seat.

Lena walked to the chair and slowly lowered herself into it, still clutching the photo like a lifeline. Her fingers trembled around the edges, smudging the glossy surface where her twin's smile had seemed unshakeable.

The Sergeant had known the Yeil girls their whole lives. Two inseparable friends who finished each other’s sentences and swapped clothes in the middle of the school day to confuse their teachers. Even when they left for college, one chasing stories, and the other chasing colors and canvas, they still came home every year for holidays and their mothers' birthdays. Last year, though...last year changed everything.

His eyes softened, remembering the wreck and the ravine. She'd been on her way to a conference out of town, driving before sunrise, the sky was still a dull gray curtain. The highway curved through the mountainside, narrow and slick when it rained, bordered by steep drop-offs that locals warned newcomers about. Somewhere along that stretch, her car had skidded. Maybe she swerved to miss a deer. Maybe the rain was heavier than she expected. Whatever happened, the guardrail hadn't been enough to stop her car. Her sedan broke through and vanished into the ravine below, swallowed by brush, mud, and the thick tangle of undergrowth. You could drive past a hundred times and never know anything, or anyone, was down there.

And for two days, no one did.

The Sergeant’s gaze drifted as the memory replayed in his mind, as clear as if it were yesterday. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he murmured, more to himself than to the sisters. “Your mama wasn’t due at work until later that morning, and she lived alone. Around here, we don’t keep track of each other the way folks in big cities do.”

That was the truth of Hollow Creek. People minded their own business and assumed everyone was fine.

The twins had been visiting that weekend, staying at a friend's place across town. They'd spent the first day catching up, running errands, never thinking to check in with their mother because she would always check in with them first. When she didn’t call that night, they figured she’d made it home, was worn out from the trip, and had gone straight to bed. But by the next evening, they got worried when they stopped by her house and found she wasn’t there. A quick call to the conference revealed she’d never even arrived. They called her cell, but every time it went straight to voicemail.

It took a volunteer search team to find the car, half-buried in mud and brush. The twins stood at the edge of the ravine, clinging to each other, watching as their mother’s car—and her body—were airlifted out. By then, she was already gone. Ever since that day, they’d promised to let each other know where they’d be and if they’d be late getting home. But now, Mara had broken that promise.

The sergeant looked past her. "Hart."

A young detective stood up from a desk with no nameplate, bare except for a few scattered items and a cardboard box containing a stack of notebooks and a chipped mug. Beside the box sat a detective's badge, still pristine and so shiny the fluorescent lights glinted off of it.

"This is Detective Owen Hart. He'll be taking over the missing persons report," the sergeant introduced.

Detective Owen Hart was tall but not imposing. His shirt was crisp and his tie notted with careful precision. His hair was neatly trimmed, but a few strands had fallen loose, giving a look that was halfway between professional and overwhelmed. His eyes held the sharp focus of someone eager to prove himself and brimming with anticipation.

But when he looked at Lena, rain-soaked and clutching her sister's photos, something in those eyes shifted. Concern, yes, but something else. Something familiar.

"Yes, sort of," he answered. "At least to the area."

Lena handed him the photograph. The photograph showed a young woman who looked almost identical to the one sitting across from him. Her red hair gleamed in the sunlight and blew against her cheek in a playful sweep. Her bright green eyes sparkled with anticipation. Behind her loomed an abandoned factory. Its broken windows caught sunlight like a row of watching eyes. The whole structure is sagging with age and neglect.

"She sent me this photo yesterday, "Lena told him, her voice tightening. " It's the last time I heard from her."

She hesitated, fingers curling against her palm. “I didn’t go out there myself. Not at first. I thought she was already on her way home. I called her… a lot. Texted. Waited. It wasn’t until hours later — when it got dark, when the rain started — that I realized something was wrong.” Her gaze dropped to the photo. “And that place… It’s dangerous. Everyone knows it. I wasn’t going out there alone.”

Owen sat forward with the photo in his hand, elbows on the table. The photograph had clearly been taken on a cell phone. The overhead lights glinted off the photograph's glossy finish.

"What can you tell me about it?"

Thrown by the question, Lena asked, "What do you mean?"

He didn't look up right away. Instead, he focused on the factory in the background. "I mean," he finally said, "Why would she send you this? Why there?"

"Oh, I don't know. Why?"

"Does the location hold any kind of significance?" He asked.

"Not really. I mean, she did a mock story on it when we were in high school."

"A mock story?" he repeated.

"A fake story, in other words. It was a school project for career day." Lena explained, a small wispy smile tugging at her lips. Mara had been so excited over the project. She was up before dawn, brimming with ideas, pacing the kitchen with her camera hanging from her neck as if she were already a pro." She wanted to make it look real," Lena continued. "Said if she was going to pretend to be a journalist, she was going to do it right. Interviews, photos, background research, the works." Her fingers tightened on the arm of her chair. "She picked the old factory because she said old abandoned buildings always held secrets."

The detective didn't interrupt her. He sat patiently and listened, with the photo held tightly between his fingers. As Lena spoke, his expression shifted again. It took on the expression of slow dawning seriousness. He glanced down at the photo again. "Was she alone?"

"I believe so. If you're wondering if someone took the photo, I just assumed she used her camera's tripod and timer."

"I don't believe she's posing. I think she's reacting to something behind the camera." He told her.

He leaned in, tapping the photo. "See the way her shoulders angle slightly? She's turning. " His voice stayed low, almost thoughtful. "Something caught her attention.

He straightened. "If this was the last place she was seen, we need to go have a look, now."

Lena watched him as he stood. "And if she's not there?"

"Then we’ll get her phone logs and talk to any witnesses who might have seen her." He studied her for a moment, noticing the pale skin and the dark circles under her eyes. His voice softened as he said, "Go home, Miss Yeill. I’ll call if I find her."

Lena's face tightened the moment he said the words. She blinked once, slowly, as if she hadn't heard him correctly. Her brows drew together, wrinkling the small space between them. "Absolutely not. I'm going with you," she demanded.

"Miss Yeil..."

"Lena, please. Stop calling me miss."

"Alright. Lena, it's not a good idea. "

When she had first walked in, Lena had been a mess of rain and tears. Her shoulders were hunched, her breath shook, her eyes red and swollen from crying. But now, after the detective’s questions and being pointed toward a place to begin, something shifted. The sadness still lingered, and the fear hadn’t left. Yet beneath it all, something stronger began to rise. Determination had settled in, and it couldn’t be ignored.

"I'm not going home to wring my hands. I want to help."

"Miss...Lena," he corrected himself, "It's dangerous. You said so yourself."

"I can either go with you," she said, voice steady now, "Or I can follow you."

Hart froze for an instant, studying her face. Her chin was lifted, her shoulders squared. And her eyes locked onto his with a stubborn clarity of someone who didn't plan to go home. The muscle in his jaw tightened as he exhaled through his nose. "You're not following me," he said at last.

Lena's heart kicked, "Then,..."

"You're staying where I can see you." He snatched his keys from the still-empty desk and headed for the door, Lena trailing close behind.

The cruiser rolled down the narrow road that hugged Blackwater Lake, the water dark and as unmoving as glass. Lena watched it from the window. A sheet of black swallowing the left of the daylight. The closer they got, the thicker the air became, heavy with the scent of damp leaves and decaying wood.

When they rounded the final bend, the factory came into view, looming ahead. A hulking, eerie silhouette of rust and broken windows crouched at the edge of the treeline. The shattered panes caught the fading light, glinting like rows of watchful eyes. Beside it, slumped against the shoreline, stood the old millhouse, its boards warped and sagging, the roof bowed, and the moss-covered waterwheel half-submerged and frozen in place.

Owen slowed the car, gravel crunching under the tires. Lena’s stomach muscles tightened. He cut the engine, leaving a silence so thick it felt like the entire clearing was holding its breath. The lake whispered behind them, the sound muted, swallowed by the stillness.

Lena stepped out of the car, the cold hitting her like a warning. Owen came around the car, eyes scanning the factory and the millhouse for any threats. Lena's pulse jumped.

"For the record," he said in a low voice. "This is a terrible idea." She knew he didn't mean being here to search for her sister. He meant being here with her.

"Noted, Detective," she told him. "But I'm not sitting at home on my hands when my sister could be lost, or hurt, or worse."

"Just stay close," he said to her, adding casually, "And you might as well call me Owen."

Inside, rain tapped through holes in the roof in thin drips that echoed through the building. Their flashlights swept across ruined machines slumped in the dark, their metal ribs eaten through by time. Weeds pushed through the cracked concrete, splitting the floor into jagged seams as if the earth was trying to reclaim the place. The air carried the scent of damp wood and oil. Each step kicked up clouds of dust and grit. Somewhere deeper in the factory, water dripped steadily in a low, rhythmic beat.

"Well," Owen began, his voice echoing through the dark. "Someone has definitely been here before us," he finished.

"Why, what do you see?"

He moved the beam of his flashlight across the dusty floor, revealing a pair of fresh tire tracks etched into the dust. They led toward the far wall, where a heavy basement door sat half swallowed by shadow.

Lena’s breath hitched as she moved closer, her flashlight trembling in her hand. Beside the door, a splintered board jutted out, a single nail bent upward like a hooked finger. A silver chain caught on the nail glinted faintly in the beam, with a tiny crescent moon charm dangling from it. Lena carefully scooped it off the nail and stood, staring at the bracelet as if it could tell her where her sister was. “This is Mara’s,” she finally said. “She’d never just leave it here on purpose. Our mother gave it to her on our sixteenth birthday.” Then, holding up her wrist, she shone her flashlight on her own. “I have one just like it. "

Owen didn’t answer, too focused on the basement door. He tried the knob—locked. Stepping back, he scanned the area: rusted machines, cracked concrete with weeds pushing through. No one had probably been in this building for twenty or more years. Then he noticed the fresh tire tracks—and Lena, pale-faced, clutching her sister’s bracelet.

He turned toward the door, squared his shoulders, and slammed his boot into its center. A deep, splintering crack echoed as the frame shuddered, and a thin cloud of dust drifted down. Owen kicked again, and the swollen frame groaned low as it finally lurched inward.

Cold air spilled out, stale and heavy, carrying the faint scent of mold and stagnant water. Lenas flashlight cut through, trembling in her hand. Behind the broken door sat a narrow staircase leading into the darkness.

"Remember that mock story I told you Mara wrote on this place in high school?"

"Yeah," Owen replied, sweeping his flashlight down the staircase into the darkness.

"Well, she was given the blueprint as "evidence" for her story."

"And?" he said, still not looking at her.

"And this," she emphasized, pointing a finger at the stairs and whatever lay waiting below, "wasn't on it."

He looked at her then. "Stay behind me," he said and took a step into the dark.

The steps were pale wood, worn with scuffs and stains, their edges darkened from years of damp air. At some point, someone had sanded them, maybe even swapped out a few boards, but only just enough to keep them functional. The walls were no longer fresh drywall; patches peeked through, seams exposed beneath careless coats of paint, as if the person doing the work had run out of materials or motivation. Water stains spread along the base, blooming like dark bruises.

"This isn't on the blueprint," Lena repeated, sweeping her flashlight over the dirty walls. None of these rooms should even be here," she whispered. "What is going on?"

The first room they came to was small, cold, and cramped. The air smelled stale, as if it had been trapped for quite some time. Owen's flashlight swept across the room and landed on an old desk shoved into the far corner. The desk was battered, with one leg propped up by a brick and a crooked drawer. The surface of the desk was cluttered with papers, torn notebooks, and a scattering of photographs. Some were curled at the edges, others smeared with fingerprints. A few had been pinned to the wall above the desk, held there by rusted thumbtacks.

Lena stepped closer. her stomach turning. The photos showed girls, young, much younger than Mara. Teenagers. Each girl had dark hair, long and straight, hanging in tangled sheets around their bruised heart-shaped face. Their skin was pale, nearly sallow. They all had small frames, petite figures, and narrow shoulders. They were unclothed, but the photos centered on their terrified expressions rather than their nudity, as though the photographer was more interested in capturing their fear than their bodies.

A pattern so clear it made Lena's stomach turn.

Owen swallowed hard. Jaw tightening.

Lena’s eyes drifted over the desk, and there, resting on the old, battered surface, was Mara’s camera. “Oh, God.” She picked it up and held it tightly to her chest. “What’s being done to you?”

“I don’t think she was taken for the same reason as these other girls,” Owen said.

“What? What do you mean?”

“All of them look alike—same body type, same hair.”

“So?” she asked.

“So, Mara doesn’t fit.”

“Then where is she? And why is she here?”

He suspected Mara had discovered something about the missing girls, come to investigate, and accidentally crossed paths with whoever was behind it. He kept that to himself and gestured for Lena to keep moving.

The next room had a lone cot pushed up against the far wall, the metal worn and rusted at the joints. The mattress was thin and dented in the middle, the sheet rumpled and stained with something Lena didn't want to think about. A blanket lay crumpled at the foot, its fabric worn thin from use. Beside the cot sat a small table. Atop the table sat a small, half-full water bottle. The air in this room smelled thick of sweat, mildew, and something sour.

Owen slowly scanned the room. Without a word, he crouched over the pillow, studying a long red hair, when a faint sound floated down the hallway, followed by a gentle thump.

Lena froze, her head snapping toward the doorway. Owen rose slowly, every muscle tightening. He didn't speak. The sound came again. A low, strained grunt, followed by the unmistakable sound of feet being dragged on concrete. Someone was coming down the hallway, and they didn't sound alone. Lenas pulse hammered. Owen's hand went to his holster.

The footsteps grew louder, bouncing off the narrow walls. A tall, broad-shouldered shadow moved with purpose, and beside it, a smaller figure was being half-dragged, half-pushed—a barefoot woman with her wrists tied. Her head hung low until the man yanked her upright, revealing her face for a brief moment. Red hair, freckles, and a hand-shaped bruise spreading across her cheek. Mara. Alive. Terrified.

And fighting.

The assailant hadn’t noticed Owen and Lena, his attention fixed on keeping Mara under control. She twisted sharply and kicked back, prompting him to curse under his breath before yanking her harder.

Owen stepped into the hallway, gun raised. Lena, inside the doorway, couldn't see the man's face. Only Mara.

"Police, Freeze!" Owen demanded.

The man froze. Maras head lifted. Her eyes, wide and terrified, locked onto Lena's.

For a moment, Lena’s brain refused to process what her eyes were seeing. The face she’d seen a hundred times at the station. The man who had cared for her and Mara after their mother died. It couldn’t be.

“Don’t move, Sergeant,” Owen demanded, though the shock in his voice was unmistakable.

Lena's breath left her in a single, sharp exhale. The same man who had comforted her when her mother died, the same man who "investigated" the missing girls. The same man who had taken every report, every concern, every clue, and quietly buried them.

He wasn't protecting the girls.

He was hunting them.

"Bolan," Owen said, "Let her go."

Bolan froze, his eyes wild, darting from Mara to Owen to Lena. In a sudden move, he shoved Mara into Owen, spun around, and bolted. Owen caught Mara, passed her to her sister, and without wasting a moment, took off after Bolan.

The basement corridors twisted like a maze—narrow, dim, and lined with old machinery and storage rooms. Bolan moved quickly despite his size, toppling crates and stacks of wood as he barreled through.

Owen’s footsteps pounded after him. “Bolan, stop!”

Bolan didn’t slow. He rounded a corner and darted into a loading bay with a single exit door at the far end. He grabbed the handle and pulled. Nothing. Panic rising, he yanked again, but the rusted metal door had been sealed shut for years. As the footsteps closed in, Bolan turned and faced Owen.

Bolan's chest heaved. Sweat streaked down his temples. His eyes darted around the room, looking for a way to escape.

"You weren't supposed to be here," he said. Voice low and shaking."None of you were. If she'd just left this place alone..."

Owen kept his gun trained on him. "You hurt those girls." Disgust laced his voice.

Bolan's jaw tightened. "They were already lost," Bolan said. "Nobody cared about them. Nobody looked for them. Nobody even remembered their names. But I remember them all."

Owen stepped closer. "I saw the photos. I saw what you did to them. You're sick."

Bolan's face twisted. "You shouldn't have come here. You shouldn't have seen."

Bolan lunged at Owen. Owen fired once, but Bolan barreled into him, knocking the gun aside. The shot cracked into the wall. Owen stumbled, and Bolan swung a heavy fist into his jaw. “You should’ve stayed out of this!” he roared.

Lena, who had followed with her siter behind, grabbed a metal pipe from the floor and swung it at Bolan's shoulders. He turned and grabbed her wrist. Hard. And shoved her backward. She hit the floor, breath knocked out of her.

Owen recovered fast. He tackled Bolan from behind, slamming him into the concrete. Bolan fought like a man possessed — elbows, fists, knees — wild, desperate, and furious.

Mara crawled toward Owen’s dropped gun.

“Lena!” she shouted.

Lena scrambled forward, grabbed the gun, and slid it across the floor toward Owen.

Bolan saw it. He lunged. Owen reached it first.

He fired.

The shot hit Bolan square in the chest. He staggered backward, eyes wide, breath catching in a wet gasp. He looked at Lena, then Mara. Slowly, his lips pulled back into a horrible, broken smile. Blood welled between his teeth, dark and slick, spilling over his lower lip. It coated his gums and streaked down his chin, turning the expression into something twisted and triumphant.

For a heartbeat, he held that grin. Bloody teeth bared, eyes bright with insanity. Then his knees buckled, and he hit the floor hard. The breath left his lungs in a wet, raspy gasp. His eyes stayed open and fixed on nothing; the last traces of that awful grin remained ghoulishly across his face.

Owen lowered the gun, breathing hard. Mara crawled to Lena, shaking, crying, alive. Lena wrapped her arms around her sister and held her tight.

Owen checked Bolan’s pulse.

Nothing.

“It’s over,” he said quietly.

Paramedics moved around them in a blur, radios crackling, officers shouting orders, the whole loading bay alive with frantic motion. But Mara sat on the back bumper of the ambulance with her blanket around her shoulders like a cape, jaw set, eyes sharp as ever.

Lena hovered beside her, one hand on Mara’s back, grounding her.

“You don’t have to talk right now,” Lena said softly.

Mara shook her head. “No. I need you to know why I came here.”

A paramedic tried to check her blood pressure. Mara held out her arm without looking at him, eyes fixed on her sister. She took a slow breath, steadying herself as officers carried equipment past them. “I’ve been following the missing girls,” she said. "Patterns, timelines, places they were last seen.”

Lena’s eyes widened. “You were investigating Bolan?”

“I didn’t know it was him,” Mara said. “But I knew someone was using this area. The factory is the only place in the area that made sense."

The paramedic tightened the cuff around her arm.

“I came here to take pictures,” she continued. “To see if anything matched the stories. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. I thought it was abandoned.”

Lena’s voice cracked. “And then he found you.”

Mara nodded once. “He came out of nowhere. I didn’t even hear him at first. He grabbed my camera before I could run.”

Lena’s hand tightened on her back. Mara glanced at the commotion, then back at Lena. “I’m not broken,” she said quietly. “I’m hurt. I’m exhausted. But I’m still me.”

Lena’s throat tightened. “I know.”

“And I’m going to finish what I started,” Mara added.

Footsteps approached from behind. Owen.

He looked exhausted, jaw tight, eyes still scanning the chaos like he wasn’t convinced it was over. But when he reached the sisters, his expression softened. “You two holding up?” he asked quietly.

Mara nodded once. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Lena said.

“I’m alive,” Mara countered. “That’s enough for tonight.”

Owen crouched beside them, lowering his voice. “They’re taking Bolan’s body to the coroner. CSU is processing the basement. You’ll both need to give statements, but not now. Not like this.”The lieutenant called Owen back over. He stood, hesitated, then said, “You did well, both of you.”

When he walked away, the noise of the scene rushed back in — officers murmuring Bolan’s name, paramedics loading equipment, the ambulance doors swinging open.

Mara looked at Lena again, eyes steady.

“I’m not done,” she said. “Those girls deserve the truth.”

Lena took her hand. “We’ll finish it together.”

Mara squeezed back. “Yeah. Together.”

The paramedics guided them toward the ambulance. Mara stepped inside first, then turned and held out her hand.

Lena took it.

And as the doors closed, shutting out the chaos behind them, one truth settled between them — quiet, solid, unbreakable:

Sisters' bond never falls.