Static hisses against my ear. A rhythmic, wet thumping follows. Then his voice—thin, shredded, impossible. "Evelyn, don't come back." But I'm already here. The bus lurches, tires screaming against the slick coastal road. Outside, Black Hollow is a bruise on the shoreline. The fog doesn't just hang; it coils. It breathes. I press my forehead against the cold window. The glass vibrates with a low, humming thrum that feels like a heartbeat. Or a warning. The driver watches me through the rearview mirror. His eyes are milky, fixed, and he hasn't blinked since we crossed the county line. My father's house is waiting. And so is whatever took him.