The Bicentennial
by Emily Pinkel
It’s safe to say I didn’t miss Grayson Hollow. The faded sign on the edge of town is enough proof that it’s a huge time capsule, from which decade I’m still not sure. When I first got there on Sunday, driving in at an excruciating 25 miles an hour after previously driving 55, I saw the same mom-and-pop stores that’ve been there since the 50s, probably run now by their grandchildren. The service station still stands at the corner, although the owner passed away before I was born. The signs from the 60s Civil Rights Movement still sit in the windows, and the beat-up 55 Thunderbird is still parked in front.
Although the rest of the town was decorated for the bicentennial, the park where the party was going to be held hadn’t yet. The town would come together on Friday morning and collectively decorate as a kickoff. The bicentennial was the whole reason I was there. Before I got my PhD in history, I needed to write a dissertation. My plan was to dive deep into Grayson Hollow’s history throughout the week. I was already planning to spend the majority of my time here in the library archives. All I brought with me was a backpack with the essentials: clothes, a notebook, my laptop, and my phone.
As I pulled up to my parents’ house, I took a second to look around the yard. Not much had changed, but something in our neighbor’s yard drew my attention. On the side of his old shed, he had painted a mural of sorts, a wooded area with what I assumed to be the first settlers based on their clothing. The man in the middle had a smile on his face that instantly made my spine crawl, seemingly handing something to a faceless, indistinct silhouette within the trees. I stared at the figure behind them for a few moments, and I could’ve sworn it moved. Quickly gathering my things, I headed inside, trying to forget about the mural. My parents were out helping the mayor get things ready, so I had the house to myself for a few hours. I got settled in my old room and started prepping for my trip to the library the next day, writing down a few things I was looking for, and reminding myself to look for photographs, too, if they were available.
An hour or so later, my parents got home from work. Mom and I made dinner together, which we haven’t done since I was eighteen, and we ate dinner as a family. Sitting at the dinner table next to them took me back to high school, and I could almost hear my younger self talking about who was seen kissing whom and how hard one of my Spanish tests was. It was nice, and part of me wanted to stay here for more than a week.
The next morning, I woke up early and decided to walk to the library instead of driving, throwing on a cardigan before I left. The fall air was crisp and cool, the leaves crunching as I walked down Main Street, watching all the restaurants and shops begin to open. Grayson Hollow’s population was mostly elderly, so almost everything in the town opened at 6:00 A.M.
The moment I opened the door, the pleasant smell of books hit me, and I walked in, notebook and pencil in hand, ready to start my research. As I made my way to the front desk, I was greeted by a familiar face. Mr. Lockwood, an elderly man with Buddy Holly-esque glasses, was sorting through a pile of returned books when he looked up at me, a smile lighting up his face.
“Well, I’ll be… if it isn’t little Gwen Abrams,” he said, his voice rough but warm. “I haven’t seen you in years! Last time I remember, you were in high school.”
I felt the weight of nostalgia pass through my mind. It was weird to stand again in the same place I used to come to study after school. I smiled back.
“Guess I’ve grown up a little since then,” I said softly.
“You here to study again?”
I hesitated for a second, glancing around at the shelves that I once had memorized before turning back to him. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me with a project I’m working on. I’ve been digging into the town’s history, and I was wondering if you still had those boxes of newspaper clippings?”
Mr. Lockwood seemed a little shocked, his glasses slipping lower on his nose as he tilted his head slightly. “The archives? Are you sure? It’s a lot of old records and town gossip.”
“Old records and gossip sounds perfect,” I replied, trying not to show my excitement. “I could really use any information, to be honest.”
He got up from his chair and made his way around the desk, motioning for me to follow him as we headed to the back. He set me up at one of the tables and disappeared in the storage room for a few minutes before bringing out a box and setting it next to me. I thanked him and quickly started on my background research. I sorted by decade and put the few photos that were included aside in their own pile.
I spent the majority of the following days at the library, sorting, reading, and making a timeline of events. My parents were busy getting the rest of the festival sorted, planning carriage rides that would take townspeople to the historic buildings scattered across town. From one of the articles I found, the bowling alley was built for the centennial celebrations in 1924. Most of it was the usual slightly boring history stuff. Most of the articles involved local elections, school fundraisers, and the occasional estate sale. But the deeper I dug, the more unsettling it became.
Articles written during the months leading up to and after the centennial were missing. Committee minutes had blacked-out or ripped-off areas. “Community unity” and “the importance of tradition” were recurring themes in various notes from grade schoolers’ homework during that year. The most disturbing artwork was a little girl holding hands with what looked like a tall, terrifying shadow. As I turned it over, I saw that it was drawn by a third grader, titled “Me & The Hollow.” That’s when I decided I was done for the day, gathering my things and heading home.
Wednesday afternoon, Mr. Lockwood found a folder that fell out of one of the boxes. It looked older than anything else on the table, tied shut with twine. Inside were photographs, sepia-toned images of some of the founding families. When I first looked at them, they seemed like normal family portraits. But when I looked closer, something was in the background, blurred and indistinct, like the camera didn’t want to capture it. It had no face and looked similar to the figure from the barn mural. That day, I went home early, regrouping in my room and getting my notes together. That night, I had assembled a rough timeline of major events from 1824 to now, comparing the centennial to the bicentennial. Each article that came out the day before called it a “renewal festival.” But no one ever said what exactly was being renewed.
Thursday morning at breakfast, I asked my parents about the bicentennial. Mom laughed lightly, saying that what they had planned seemed weird but fun. Dad only said one thing.
“It’s important to remember where we come from,” he said, earning a weird look from Mom. It was as if she was silently telling him to stop talking about it.
I spent most of that day in my room, all the notes I’d taken spread out across my bed, and my phone open with some of the pictures I took of various articles. I couldn’t think straight, though. The blurred photo I’d seen the day before kept replaying in my mind, as well as the mural next door. I decided to go for a walk to clear my head. The streets were empty and quiet, the decorations almost finished.
When I came back, I saw the mural again. It looked different. It could’ve been my need for more than four hours of sleep, but the shadow in the back seemed closer. The faceless figure looked larger now, closer to the settlers, like it could reach out and easily touch one of their hands. A sudden breeze made me hurry back inside. For the first time, my childhood home now felt weird and foreign to me. Every creak in the wood floor made my pulse quicken, as if expecting someone to jump out of a closet or dark corner at any moment.
I got back to my room, exhausted and thoroughly creeped out. The walls, windows, basically everything in that house suddenly felt strange and unfamiliar. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring out the window at the mural on the neighbor’s barn. I couldn’t help but feel like it was a warning, but I didn’t know what for. The town’s secrets weren’t all in the past; they were still present, in the citizens of Grayson Hollow, I thought I knew. I had this sickening feeling that I wasn’t going to leave.
I started wondering if I should call one of my roommates, just to distract myself from the feeling of impending doom. When I unlocked the screen, I saw a text from my mom.
Mom: Honey, come to the barn. I need help with something.
A shiver crept down my spine, knowing that in the eighteen years I had lived here before college, my parents never asked me to help in the barn. I’d never been allowed in there. It was always locked except for when Dad got something out of the boxes stored in there. The more I thought about it, the creepier the situation got, but I felt like I didn’t have much of a choice. In every horror movie I had ever seen, the worst mistake you could make was going into a dark, old building that you’ve never been in.
Against my better judgment, I grabbed my cardigan and headed downstairs, tucking my phone into my back pocket. The house had never been that silent before, and the air felt suffocating. When I stepped outside, the cold air bit against my skin, causing me to shiver. The barn stood at the edge of the property, slightly out of reach of the back porch lights. I walked toward it slowly, keeping an eye on my surroundings. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I knew something was wrong, but I still kept walking.
As I pulled open the door, it creaked loudly. Whoever’s in there definitely knows I’m here now. The silence in there was worse than it was in the house. It was almost pitch black. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I reached for the light switch, but something made me stop.
A dark blur ran from one stall to the other in front of me and I knew, from the height alone, that whatever it was wasn’t human. I froze for a minute, trying not to move or make a sound. Something was definitely watching me. I decided I needed to know whatever it was that was most likely going to kill me, and I flipped on the dim lights.
My breath caught in my throat as I saw what stood in the shadowy corner of one of the stalls. A shadow, as dark as night and taller than both of my parents combined. I saw what I assumed to be eyes staring at me, daring me to run. It wasn’t moving, but I had a good idea that it could easily catch up to me. It looked identical to the mural, the photo, and the third grader’s drawing.
When the old fluorescents hanging above me finally warmed up, it was gone. The corner was empty, just a small pile of boxes left. I quickly searched the area, wondering if I had finally lost it or if it was really there. Before I could figure it out, my phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out.
Mom: Where are you? We need you now.
My eyes widened, hoping I misread that. Who was “we”? I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. I had hoped that it was all a nightmare. I’d wake up, and I’d be back in my dorm, and I’d never have learned that the founding fathers of Grayson Hollow made a deal with the devil. Or I guess the more historically accurate term would be “The Hollow.” Unfortunately, it wasn’t a bad dream. It was real.
I turned back towards the door to leave, but it was locked. From the outside. I’d never been in the barn before, so I didn’t know of any other exits or where they were. I had no choice but to walk further in. The feeling that something was seriously wrong got worse, and I started developing physical symptoms. My palms were clammy, and my heartbeat felt like a hummingbird’s.
As I turned the corner, the first people I saw were my parents. Then the town elders, followed by the mayor. All of their faces were expressionless, their eyes seemingly glossed over like they were in some kind of trance. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the figure from before next to me, his presence cold and threatening. I realized that earlier I had come face to face with the Hollow. I didn’t have to look at it to know that it was looking down at me, the sacrifice that would quench its bloodlust for the next hundred years.