Whispers of Willowbrook 002 ←
By Thursday, the white gown had faded entirely into a memory, replaced by a different kind of haunting.
Your mother didn't appear by the cabin anymore. Instead, the edges of your vision began to blur with frantic, fleeting shapes. You would catch the flicker of a silhouette from the corner of your eye while washing dishes, or the distinct impression of someone standing just behind your shoulder as you swept the porch. Each time, you spun around so fast your head spun, only to find empty space, polished hardwood and the unchanging glare of the afternoon sun. The silence of the house felt louder, heavier, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for you to completely snap.
The air in Willowbrook grew thick with the approaching festival. Bunting in shades of mint green, pale lavender, and lemon yellow was strung meticulously from every lamppost, casting soft, sugary shadows over the gray pavements. It was the annual parade, a celebration of the town's founding fathers and their historical triumph over the "dark wilderness" that once threatened the valley. To anyone else, it was a charming display of civic pride. To you, the bright pastel decorations felt like a mask stretched too tight over a rotting face—a picturesque nightmare designed to bury the town's true, witchy history under layers of tulle and icing.
"We have to get him to come," Seraphina was saying, her fingers twisting a length of pale blue ribbon as the three of you walked back from the schoolhouse. Your brother hopped along the curb, oblivious, trying to balance on the concrete edge. "Can you imagine Hollis at the festival? He’d completely ruin the aesthetic, which is exactly why he needs to be there. I’m going to invite him."
"Seraphina, leave it alone," you muttered, your eyes scanning the dense line of trees flanking the road. Your pulse quickened just looking at the foliage. "He made it pretty clear he doesn't want anything to do with this town."
"Oh, please. He’s just brooding. Men like that love an audience."
A sudden sharp rustle of leaves cut her off.
Before you could even turn your head, a lanky figure stepped out from the shadows of the overgrown brush, dropping directly into your path.
You gasped, stumbling back a step as your hand automatically flew out to grab your brother’s shoulder, pulling him behind you. Your heart leaped into your throat.
Hollis stood there, a lazy, amused smirk cutting through his moody features. He wore the same unbothered slouch, his hair slightly tangled from the brush. The sharp, bitter scent of smoke seemed to cling to his clothes like a second skin, completely out of place against the sweet, floral breeze of the meadows.
"Going somewhere?" he asked. His voice was low, a raspy drawl that sounded like it hadn't been used all morning. His gaze bypassed Seraphina entirely, locking onto your face with an intensity that made your stomach twist.
"You scared the life out of us," you breathed, trying to steady your shaking hands. You gripped your brother's hand tighter, your instincts screaming at you to move. "We're just heading home. We're in a rush."
You tried to step around him, keeping your eyes fixed on the safe, lined street ahead, but Seraphina instantly planted her feet, her face lighting up with reckless excitement.
"Hollis!" she cried, completely ignoring your panic. "You're exactly the person I was looking for. We were just talking about you."
Hollis didn't break his stare from you, though his smirk widened, turning slightly wicked. "Is that so? Didn't think y/n here cared enough to talk about me. She ran out of my place pretty quick."
"Well, she's shy," Seraphina dismissed easily, stepping closer to him, entirely blind to the evil aura radiating from him. "Listen, the town festival is this weekend. Big parade. Everyone wears their finest, there’s a pageant about the founding fathers overcoming the dark forces of the woods...it’s a whole tradition. You have to come with us."
Hollis let out a dry laugh, the sound hollow. He finally tore his eyes away from you to look at Seraphina, the sun casting dark shadows on his cheekbones. "A pageant about evil? In a place that looks like a candy shop? Sounds like a riot."
"It is," Seraphina pressed, matching his energy with her own stubborn enthusiasm. "Say you'll come. It starts at sunset on Saturday."
You stood there, trapped between the candy-colored ahead of you and the unpredictable man in front of you, the shadows in the corner of your eyes flickering violently in the shifting afternoon light.
Hollis’s eyes drifted back to you, tracking the way you held your brother a little tighter against your side. He tilted his head, a heavy silence settling over the three of you while Seraphina waited on his answer, her hands clasped together in eager anticipation.
"Sunset," Hollis repeated softly, the word rolling out like a slow threat. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his posture dipping into that familiar, unbothered slouch.
"Alright. I'll play along. Show me how this town handles its demons.”
Seraphina practically beamed, clapping her hands together. "Perfect! We’ll meet you by the town square. Don't be late.”
You didn't say a word. You simply pulled your brother along, finally breaking past Hollis's frame. As you brushed past him, the distinct, sharp edge of his tobacco smoke caught in your throat, a stark reminder of the dark room you had fled days prior. You didn't look back but you could feel his gaze burning into the space between your shoulder blades all the way down the block.
By Saturday evening, the sun had dipped below the horizon, bleeding a bruised purple and neon pink across the Midwestern sky. Willowbrook’s square was unrecognizable. The pastel banners floated under the glow of dozens of string lights, casting an artificial, sugary illumination over the swelling crowd.
Everyone was dressed in their Sunday best—men in sharp, pressed suits and women in perfectly tailored A-line dresses, their smiles wide and uniform. The high school marching band played a brassy, upbeat tune that sounded entirely too cheerful for the occasion, their instruments gleaming under the streetlamps.
"There he is," Seraphina whispered, nudging your elbow.
You followed her line of sight toward the edge of the square, away from the warmth of the lights.
Hollis was leaning against a brick storefront, completely detached from the festivities. He hadn't bothered to dress up; his dark attire stood out like ink on a clean napkin against the sea of seafoam greens and pale pinks.
"You actually came," Seraphina said as the two of you approached, your brother lagging slightly behind, fascinated by a vendor selling cotton candy.
"Wouldn't miss it," Hollis murmured. His voice was nearly swallowed by the crash of a snare drum as the parade officially began to move down the main strip.
A large float rolled into the center of the square, draped in layers of white and gold silk. On top, several prominent town elders stood dressed in historical robes, holding up silver lanterns. Below them, a group of actors dressed in grotesque, ash-covered rags crawled along the pavement, mimicking the "evil forces" being driven out into the wilderness.
The crowd erupted into practiced, rhythmic applause. It was theatrical, polished, and deeply unsettling.
You felt a chill run down your arms, the air suddenly turning frigid despite the mild spring evening. Out of the corner of your eye, the actors in the street seemed to distort. For a split second, the ash on their faces looked real, their movements too jagged, too desperate.
You blinked rapidly, your breathing catching in your throat as the world tilted. A heavy hand suddenly clamped down on your shoulder. You jumped, a small gasp escaping your lips as you looked up. Hollis had moved closer, his fingers gripping your fabric with a surprising, grounding weight. He wasn't looking at the float. He was looking entirely at you, his expression unreadable, watching the panic flicker across your features.
"Bit intense for a puppet show, isn't it?" he muttered, his thumb shifting slightly against your shoulder.
Before you could pull away or answer, a sudden commotion broke out near the front of the parade route. The brass band sputtered to a halt, a sharp, dissonant screech of a trumpet echoing through the square as a loud crash shattered the town’s perfect rhythm.
The applause died instantly, swallowed by a tense, breathless silence that rippled through the crowd.
Near the front of the gold-draped float, one of the large wooden wheels had splintered against the curb, causing the entire structure to tilt dangerously. The town elders wobbled in their historical robes, clutching the railings to keep from tumbling into the street.
But it wasn't the broken wheel that held everyone captive.
From the wreckage of the float, a dozen wooden crates had tumbled onto the asphalt, their latches bursting open upon impact. Dozens of pure white rabbits poured out into the pastel-lit street.
"Oh, the tradition," Seraphina whispered, her voice losing its usual upbeat bounce, replaced by a rigid, solemn tone. "I forgot they were doing the release early this year."
You watched, frozen, as the rabbits scattered in every direction. They were spotless, snowy white, their red eyes wide with terror as they darted blindly over the pavement, trapped between the towering walls of the crowd and the glare of the string lights.
"What's this part?" Hollis asked, his voice low and cutting through the quiet. His hand was still on your shoulder, his fingers steady, anchoring you to the spot while the rest of the world felt like it was spinning.
"The Hunt," you whispered, the word tasting bitter on your tongue. The actors dressed in ash-covered rags—the ones representing the dark forces of the woods—suddenly broke character. Their slow, theatrical crawling transformed into a frantic, aggressive sprint. They lunged after the white rabbits, their hands clawing at the pavement, trapping the small, trembling creatures against the curbs and stuffing them back into the dark wood of the crates.
It was a metaphor the town enacted every year: the pure, innocent inhabitants of Willowbrook being hunted by the wilderness, saved only by the strict walls and routines they built to keep the dark out. The rabbits never stood a chance. They were bred for this, kept in the dark until they were let loose just to be chased down for entertainment.
You felt a sudden, suffocating weight in your chest. You looked at the rabbits, their tiny hearts beating frantically against their ribs as they were cornered, and you saw yourself. You saw the girl cracking under the weight of a dead mother, trapped in a town that demanded you smile and pretend everything was perfect while you were slowly being consumed by your own mind.
Hollis shifted beside you, his grip tightening just enough to pull your attention away from the street. You looked up at him, the realization hitting you like a physical blow.
He wasn't watching the rabbits with horror. He was watching the actors hunt with a cold, detached amusement. With his dark clothes, his rejection of their rules, and that dangerous, quiet energy, he wasn't part of the pastel nightmare.
He was the wilderness they were so afraid of. If you were the rabbit, he was the thing waiting in the bush, watching you run until you had nowhere left to turn.
"Pathetic," Hollis murmured, his eyes finally dropping down to meet yours. The slow, wicked grin returned to his face, but this time, it felt heavier, more intimate. "They make a game out of catching things that don't know how to fight back.”
His intense gaze locked onto yours, as if he were reading every terrified, chaotic thought racing through your head. He knew you were afraid of him. He knew you felt trapped. And it clear as day that he liked it.
"Don't worry, y/n," he whispered, leaning down just enough so his voice was a private scratch against the loud thumping of the marching band trying to restart its tune. "I prefer a chase."
A collective, breathless cheer went up from the crowd as the last of the white rabbits was swept back into its dark box, the latch clicking shut with a finality that made your stomach drop. The marching band struck up a lively, brassy anthem to cover the mishap, and just like that, the pastel facade snapped back into place. Smiling faces turned back to the remaining floats, completely unbothered by the frantic display they had just witnessed.
But the coldness in your veins wouldn't thaw. Hollis’s words hung in the air between you, heavy and close, refusing to be washed away by the town's cheerful music.
"I think we should go," you said, your voice tighter than you intended. You reached down and grabbed your brother’s hand, finding comfort in his small, solid reality. "The parade is moving toward the bonfire at the edge of the park anyway. It's getting late for him.”
Seraphina groaned, her shoulders dropping in disappointment. "Oh y/n, come on! The bonfire is the best part. That’s when they burn the effigy of the old forest witch." She turned her bright, hopeful eyes up to Hollis. "You’re coming to the bonfire, aren't you?"
Hollis kept his hand resting on your shoulder for a beat longer than necessary, his thumb brushing against your collarbone before he finally let his arm drop.
He stepped back into the shadows of the brick storefront, his frame melting effortlessly into the dark. "Nah," he drawled, his voice a detached scratch. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. "I've had enough of the local theater for one night. Think I'll head back to the woods.”
His brown eyes flicked to you, glinting under the distant glare of the pastel string lights. The look he gave you felt like a string tying itself around your wrist, tugging you toward the cut-off part of the trees. "See you around, Seraphina," Hollis murmured, turning his back on the crowded square. He walked away slowly, striking a match against the brick wall as he disappeared down the unlit alleyway, leaving only a faint trail of bitter smoke behind.
"Well," Seraphina sighed, watching the space where he had been with a mix of awe and frustration. "He certainly knows how to make an exit. Are you sure you don't want to stay, y/n?”
"I'm sure," you whispered.
The walk back to your house was entirely different from the walk there. The further you got from the square, the more the music faded, replaced by the deep, oppressive silence of Willowbrook's residential streets. The houses stood in perfect, neat rows behind their white fences, completely dark, their lace curtains looking like spiderwebs in the moonlight.
As you walked, the shadows in the corner of your eyes began to stir again.
You saw a figure standing by a lamppost. You spun around. Nothing. You saw a silhouette sitting on a neighbor's porch swing. You looked directly at it. Just an empty cushion. The paranoia was a physical ache in your forehead now, a pulsing rhythm that matched your footsteps.
The town wasn't protecting you from the dark; it was isolating you in it.
When you finally reached your porch, your father’s old truck wasn't in the driveway. A note on the kitchen counter in his rough, cramped handwriting told you everything you needed to know: Working the night shift at the mill.
After putting your brother to bed and ensuring he was fast asleep, you walked into the quiet kitchen. The house felt massive and entirely suffocating. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a whisper. You stood by the window, looking out past the backyard toward the dark, jagged line where the lawn ended and the forbidden woods began.
You were cracking. You knew it.
The vision of your mother was gone, replaced by a ghost of a different kind—a blonde man with an evil grin who told you he preferred a “chase”.
Without entirely realizing what you were doing, your fingers moved to the lock on the back door. You turned it, the sharp click echoing through the empty kitchen. You stepped out onto the porch, the cool night air hitting your face, your eyes immediately found the narrow, overgrown path leading into the dark.
The breeze wrapped around your ankles, pulling at the hem of your dress like a gentle, insistent hand. It didn't push you toward the dark, tangled woods. Instead, the wind seemed to usher you back out toward the edges of the town, guiding your steps down the empty, moonlit sidewalks until the stark white steeple of St. Jude’s Church loomed ahead.
The church was the only building in Willowbrook that didn't wear the pastel bunting. It sat in a pool of amber light, its heavy oak doors slightly cracked open, offering a sliver of warmth to the quiet night.
You slipped inside, the heavy scent of melted beeswax and aged wood immediately wrapping around you. The grand sanctuary was empty, the rows of polished pews stretching out beneath the stained-glass windows.
"It's a bit late for a stroll, isn't it, y/n?”
A soft, steady voice broke the silence. From the shadow of the altar stepped Sister Cordelia Campbell. She was a younger nun, her habit neat but her posture completely devoid of the rigid, mechanical perfection that plagued the rest of the town. Unlike the elders who preached about the "pastel triumph over evil," Cordelia had always looked at Willowbrook's grand traditions with a quiet, knowing skepticism. She didn't buy into the founding fathers' fairytales.
You sank into the nearest wooden pew, your knees finally giving out under the weight of your own exhaustion. "I don't think I can go home yet, Sister," you whispered, your voice cracking in the vast empty space.
Cordelia walked down the aisle with a quiet grace, sliding into the pew beside you. She didn't immediately launch into prayer or reach for a Bible. She simply sat there, offering a grounding presence that you hadn't felt since your mother died.
"The house is too quiet," you confessed, the words pouring out before you could stop them. You rubbed your temples, where the dull ache still throbbed. "And out there...in the streets...I keep seeing things. Out of the corner of my eye. Shadows that disappear when I look. I feel like I'm breaking down, Sister. Like I’m losing my mind.”
Cordelia listened intently, her expression softening with genuine empathy. She reached out, placing a warm, gentle hand over your trembling fingers. She knew you came from a broken home, that you were carrying a family on your young shoulders, and she had no intention of scaring you away with heavy theological lectures.
"You are carrying a massive grief, y/n," Cordelia said softly, her voice a soothing balm against your frantic thoughts. "When the mind is tired and the heart is heavy, the world around us can start to look distorted. This town...it forces everyone to pretend that pain doesn't exist. But it does. It's okay to not be fine. You aren't losing your mind; you're just exhausted from pretending.”
For the first time in days, the tight knot in your chest loosened just a fraction. You let out a shaky breath, letting her words anchor you.
Cordelia offered a small, comforting smile, but then her expression shifted, a look of quiet curiosity entering her eyes. She leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting toward the high arched windows that looked out toward the town square.
"Though, I did notice you weren't entirely alone in the crowd tonight," Cordelia remarked casually, her tone conversational but observant. "During the pageant. There was a young man standing right beside you.”
Your breath hitched slightly at the mention of him.
"I haven't seen him around Willowbrook before," Cordelia continued, her eyes dropping back to yours, noting the sudden tension in your posture. "He carries a very heavy restless shadow around him, y/n. Be careful with people like that. Sometimes, when we are looking for a way out of our own darkness, we are drawn to someone else's storm.”
The warning from Sister Cordelia hung in the quiet sanctuary, settling over you like the heavy scent of incense. You didn't answer her. You couldn't. To admit that Hollis’s storm felt like the only real thing in this plastic town would be admitting that you were already caught in his orbit.
"Thank you, Sister," you whispered instead, sliding your hands out from beneath hers. "I think I should get back before my father gets home.”
Cordelia gave you a long, searching look, but she didn't press. She simply nodded, her expression a mix of maternal warmth and lingering worry. "These doors are always open, y/n. Remember that.”
The next afternoon, the festival had officially ended, leaving Willowbrook in a state of quiet exhaustion. The streets were empty, save for a few crumpled pieces of lavender ribbon tumbling down the gutter.
You were sitting on your front porch, a bowl of fresh, wild strawberries resting in your lap. They were that same hyper-vivid, almost violent red you had noticed before—the only real color in a neighborhood of muted whites, browns, and occasional pastels. You picked one up, staring at the tiny seeds, when a sudden shadow fell over the porch steps.
Hollis was standing at the edge of your manicured lawn, his hands shoved carelessly into his pockets. He looked entirely out of place against your father’s neatly trimmed hedges, his dark attire a stark rebellious smudge on the picture-perfect afternoon.
"Nice place," Hollis drawled, his voice a lazy scratch that instantly sent a familiar prickle of panic down your spine. He didn't wait for an invitation; he walked right up the wooden steps, the floorboards groaning under his weight and sat down on the top step just inches from your feet.
His bitter, familiar scent immediately pushed the sweet smell of the strawberries aside.
"What are you doing here?" you asked, your voice tight as you pulled the bowl closer to your chest. Your heart was already restarting its frantic rhythm. "If the neighbors see you—“
"Let 'em look," he interrupted, leaning his elbows back against the step above him, tilting his head up to look at you. His eyes flicked down to the bowl in your lap, then back to your face. "They're too busy pretending I don't exist anyway. Just like they pretend you're doing just fine.”
The comment cut through your defenses so sharply it made you flinch. You stared at him, your lips parting but no words coming out.
Hollis reached out, his long fingers casually dipping into your bowl. He picked out a particularly large, dark red strawberry, turning it over in his hand. "I kept looking out the window last night. Thought for sure a little rabbit would run straight to my door.”
You swallowed hard, your throat incredibly dry. "I told you. I had to take my brother home.”
"Sure you did," Hollis murmured. He didn't sound angry; he sounded amused, like he knew exactly how much your mind had been racing since the parade. He lifted the strawberry to his lips. A bit of the dark red juice stained the corner of his mouth as he took a bite, looking remarkably like blood against his pale skin.
He stood up and leaned in a little closer, his gaze locking onto yours with an unblinking, predatory focus that made the rest of the world melt away.
"You're shaking, Y/N," he whispered, that slow, wicked grin creeping onto his face. "Why are you so afraid of me? I told you...I like the chase. But you can only run around in circles for so long before you get tired.”
You gripped the porcelain edge of the bowl, your knuckles turning white as you fought to keep your hands from trembling any further. His proximity was overwhelming, a heavy, chaotic presence that made the neat lines of your father's porch feel entirely unstable.
"I'm not running in circles," you lied, your voice barely carrying over the gentle rustle of the hedges.
Hollis let out a soft mocking huff, his gaze tracking the slight rise and fall of your chest. He swallowed the rest of the strawberry, his thumb casually wiping the dark red smudge from the corner of his lower lip. "Whatever you say, sweetheart. But those shadows under your eyes tell a different story. You look like you haven't slept since you stepped into my place.”
He leaned back onto his elbows again, his posture relaxing against the bench, yet those intense brown eyes never left your face. "You know, the nun was watching you last night. The one in the clean habit. She looked at me like she wanted to exorcise the clothes right off my back.”
Your heart did a sudden, violent flip. "You noticed Sister Cordelia?"
"Hard not to notice someone staring at you like you're the devil himself," Hollis murmured, a dangerous streak of genuine malice flickering behind his smile before it smoothed back into his usual pouty indifference. "She’s like the rest of them. Thinks if she prays hard enough, the dark parts of this valley will just dry up and blow away. But you know better, don't you?”
He reached out again, but he didn't go for the fruit this time. His long, calloused index finger hooking behind a stray strand of hair that had escaped your gingham cotton headband. The contact sent a jolt straight up your spine. It was a cold, grounding shock, entirely different from the soft comfort of Cordelia's hand in the church. Hollis's touch felt like a claim.
"You're rotting inside this pretty little house, y/n," he whispered, his voice dropping into a low, raspy cadence that seemed to vibrate through the wooden porch. "And you're terrified because I'm the only one who can see it.”
You wanted to push his hand away, to stand up and slam the screen door in his face, but your body refused to move. You were pinned under his stare, a rabbit caught in the high grass, listening to the rustle of the predator getting closer and closer, completely paralyzed by the thrill of the danger.
"Get off my porch, Hollis," you whispered, though there was no real conviction behind the words.
Hollis’s grin widened, his sharp cheekbones cutting a striking silhouette against the afternoon light. He stood up in one fluid motion, towering over you as he stepped off the porch and back onto the grass.
"See you soon, little rabbit," he said over his shoulder, turning on his heel and walking away with his usual slow, dragging stride, leaving you alone with the bleeding red strawberries and a heart that wouldn't stop hammering.
