Where the Hour Began

Chapter 13: Where the Hour Began

The woods surrounding Hollow's Edge grew darker and denser as Ian Wren, Sheriff Evelyn Cross, and Clara Montgomery pressed deeper into the unknown. Clara led the way, her steps hesitant yet determined. The silence was unsettling, broken only by the occasional snap of a branch underfoot. The dense canopy above blocked most of the moonlight, leaving the flashlight beams to cut narrow paths through the shadows.

"This is the farthest I've ever been," Clara whispered, her voice barely audible over the crunch of leaves. "She said this place wasn't safe for anyone… not even for her."

Ian's jaw tightened. Eleanor's fears had proven to be well-founded, but now they were walking straight into whatever danger she had tried to protect her daughter from. He could feel the weight of Eleanor's notebook in his pocket—a heavy reminder of the secrets they still didn't understand.

"How much farther?" Evelyn asked, her tone clipped and cautious.

Clara paused, turning back toward them. "It's just beyond this ridge," she said, pointing to a steep incline covered in overgrown roots. "There's an old cabin there. She told me it was built long before the town, but she never explained why."

Ian exchanged a glance with Evelyn before nodding. "Stay close," he said, leading the way up the ridge.

The climb was slow and grueling, the damp earth slippery beneath their boots. Ian's flashlight revealed gnarled roots protruding from the ground, almost resembling claws grasping for the surface. When they finally reached the top, the air seemed colder, heavier, as though they had crossed an invisible threshold into a place untouched by time.

The cabin came into view, its silhouette barely discernible against the dark woods. It was ancient, its wooden walls warped and decaying, and its roof partially caved in. Vines crept up its sides, as though nature itself sought to reclaim it. The windows were dark, and the door hung slightly ajar, swaying gently in the breeze.

"This is it," Clara said, her voice trembling. "This is where she said it all started."

Ian's flashlight swept over the cabin's exterior, his heart pounding as he approached the door. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and something sharper, metallic. He motioned for Evelyn and Clara to stay behind as he pushed the door open with his shoulder.

Inside, the cabin was a chaotic mix of old and new. Dusty, moth-eaten furniture was scattered across the room, but the walls were adorned with newer symbols—the same spirals that had appeared on the mirror, the altar, and Eleanor's notes. They were drawn in dark, erratic strokes, some overlapping, as though painted by someone in a frenzy.

At the center of the room was a stone pedestal, similar to the altar they had found in the woods. It was cracked and worn, but the spiral symbol etched into its surface glowed faintly, as though alive. Ian's breath caught as he stepped closer, his flashlight illuminating the strange object resting atop the pedestal—a small black box, its surface smooth and unmarked.

Evelyn entered behind him, her gun drawn. "What is that?" she asked, her voice low.

Ian didn't answer immediately. He reached out cautiously, his fingers brushing against the box. It was cold to the touch, almost unnaturally so. As he lifted it, he felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of dread, as though the weight of the object was far greater than its physical form.

Clara gasped, her eyes widening as she stepped into the room. "That… that's what they were looking for. She said it could break the hour."

Ian turned to her sharply. "What do you mean?"

Clara hesitated, her hands trembling. "She said the society's power comes from the hour—the moment they make their sacrifices, the pact they uphold. But this… this is what binds them to it. If it's destroyed, the hour breaks, and so does their control."

Ian's mind raced as he stared at the box. It was no ordinary object—this was the heart of the Crimson Hour Society, the source of their influence and their fear. But as he held it, the faint glow of the spirals on the pedestal began to intensify, casting eerie shadows across the room.

"We need to get out of here," Evelyn said, her voice urgent. "If they find us with that, we're as good as dead."

Ian nodded, tucking the box into his coat. "Let's move."

But as they turned to leave, the sound of footsteps echoed from outside the cabin. Ian's flashlight flicked to the doorway just as a figure stepped into view. The man's face was obscured by a hood, but his presence radiated authority.

"Detective Wren," the man said, his voice calm but chilling. "You've gone too far."

Ian's grip tightened on the flashlight as he recognized the voice. It was Mayor Henry Blackwell.