“I always wondered why the town hall stood so tall, so proud. Now I know the truth: its foundation isn’t stone, it’s bones. Every ceremony, every vote, every smile… all held up by the dead they buried to keep their power. Each year we stand above the people that were killed to keep this town running. We run on soil coated in blood. We follow society rules while the people of society follow the rules of the cult. It’s more than freedom, more than control, it’s a threshold. A doorway we were never meant to cross, but one our leaders stepped through long before any of us were born. And the town has been paying the toll ever since.The bones below aren’t just remnants, they’re arrangements. Stacked with intention. Bent into shapes that have purposes no architect would admit to. The smiles, the speeches, the applause all of it a distraction from the quiet truth humming beneath our feet; this town doesn’t run on law or order or community.It runs on obedience.
It runs on fear.”
-Skylar Hughes
Nicole Green
November 12,2025
Tuesday, 6:30pm
Some days I really hate my job, and some days I really love it.
Unfortunately, today isn’t one of the days I love.
I let my bag slide off my shoulder, dropping it onto the counter. It lands with a heavy thud louder than it should be in my tiny, quiet kitchen. Work days are always stressful when the CEO, Anders Whinler, is visiting the office… which, unfortunately, happens every two weeks.
Anders Whinler is a jerk.
Not the subtle kind.
The “intimidation is leadership” kind.
He yells about everything even at the smallest inconveniences; being two minutes late, being two minutes early, picking the wrong color folder, even the temperature of his coffee. He has this strict, absurd routine: his coffee must be heated for exactly two minutes and fifty-five seconds. One second under and it’s “lukewarm trash.” One second over and it’s “boiling sludge.”
The man wants perfection down to the second. It’s exhausting.
On days he’s not around, though, the office is almost… enjoyable. Almost. Being a corporate assistant isn’t glamorous, but I get to meet people from across the publishing world, see manuscripts before they’re printed, and learn how the industry breathes. When Whinler isn’t breathing down everyone else’s neck, the office actually feels alive, coworkers joke, talk, and take real lunch breaks without checking over their shoulders.
Luckily, I’m not his assistant.
I work for Candace Bolden, Executive Director of Whinler Publishing. And Candace is everything he isn’t luckily. Calm, confident, sharp in a way that inspires respect rather than fear. She’s been there over a decade. She knows how to handle Whinler better than anyone,smiling just enough to make him believe she’s listening, while quietly running the entire company behind the scenes.
I became her assistant this August, right after finishing my master’s degree in journalism. It wasn’t exactly what I envisioned, but after months of unanswered job applications and unpaid internships, a stable paycheck felt like salvation. During my interview, Candace told me she saw “potential,” and said I had an instinct for stories and a knack for noticing small details.
I didn’t know then how much that compliment would haunt me later.
Most days, my job is simple: emails, schedules, proofreading, making sure Candace’s day runs smoother than Whinler’s ego. But today… something felt off. Even before I left work. The office felt heavy like the air itself was bracing for something.
Maybe it was just because Whinler was back.
Or maybe it was something else, but I shrug the feeling off as me overthinking as usual.
I’ve always had a habit of overthinking. Since I was seven. My mom used to say I took things too seriously, that I carried too much on my shoulders. The memory makes my throat tighten.
God, I miss her.
She disappeared when I was thirteen, vanished, actually. The last time I saw her, she was dropping me off at school. She kissed my forehead, told me she loved me, and said she’d see me that afternoon.
I never saw her again.
My dad and older brother,Jordan filed a report the next day. A week later, her car was found abandoned in a grocery store parking lot, her phone and wallet still inside. The security footage for that entire day was mysteriously erased. Police told us she had probably died. But how can I accept that when there was never a body found? No answers? No truth?
She could still be out there.
Somewhere.
Suffering.
Waiting.
A familiar sting burns behind my eyes. I reach into my bag and pull out my phone, desperate for a distraction. The screen lights up and my stomach drops.
November 12.
That’s why today felt strange. Not just because of Whinler.
This date never stops haunting me.
Three years ago today, everything in town changed.
Three years ago today, Skylar Hughes disappeared without a trace.
She was my classmate in high school. Skylar was shy, sweet, brilliant in that quiet, unassuming way. She never bothered anyone. The kind of person who’d give a stranger who would give you the shirt off her back if she saw you struggling. And somehow… she vanished. Days later, her body washed up at the riverbank.
For weeks the town had wondered, how can a gentle, seventeen year old girl end up dead? The detective assigned to her case barely put any effort into solving who could have possibly killed her. It was like they truly didn’t care. No follow ups. No urgency. Nothing. Months passed, leaving the town in agony and shock, but why would they care? People had been going missing for years, some never found, others with evidence suggesting the worst, and law enforcement did nothing. People out there are suffering, maybe even dead. Families are waiting for closure.
People Like Me.
Victims Like My Mother.
I try to swallow the unease building in my chest, but it stays lodged there, heavy and cold.
Then my phone buzzes.
A new message.
From an unknown number.
Strange. Almost everyone in this town has my number. With a frown, I tap open the conversation.
There’s only one message.
A video.
A chill crawls up my spine.
The still frame freezes my blood.
It’s… Skylar.
Alive.
Speaking into her camera.
Wearing the exact clothes she had on the day she went missing.
My fingers tremble. Part of me wants to delete it. Pretend it never appeared. But before I can talk myself out of it, I tap the video.
[Video Transcript]
*Recording starts. Skylar positions her phone upright. Her hands shake.*
Skylar:
“Hi… My name is Skylar Hughes. Most of you probably know me as Sky.”
She lets out a shaky laugh like she’s trying to make the moment lighter but can’t.
“There’s… something I’ve been hiding. A secret. I’ve gone back and forth about whether to say anything at all. Honestly, I’m still scared. But I’ve started to believe this is something everyone deserves to know. The truth.”
She glances off-camera, as if checking that she’s still alone.
“For years, we’ve all wondered about the strange things in this town. How people go missing without a trace. How things disappear. How the families with wealth and power seem to be protected, guarded, even. I used to ignore it. I didn’t want to look too closely.”
Her breathing becomes uneven.
“But that changed when I started digging for a school project. My intentions were to do a podcast about the history of our town. But as I started digging the truth turned rather twisted and disgusted. Here is the truth about Lakewood.”
She swallows.
“ You see, centuries ago, Lakewood wasn’t like it is now. Back then, it was a small vacation town. People visited… but very few stayed.”
Her eyes flicker with dread.
“But the deeper I went into the archives, the more I realized Lakewood’s history isn’t just strange. It’s rotten. Everything about this town, its luck, its growth, its perfect reputation was built on something sick.”
She grips the camera tighter.
“The families in power today, the ones with money and connections, didn’t just rise to the top. They clawed their way there. Through blood.”
My breath hitches.
“They formed a group centuries ago called The Order of the White Pines. On the surface, it looked like a volunteer society. But the original ledgers describe something else entirely. A circle of devotion. A cult. That were passed down to each generation by their families”
Her voice cracks.
“They believed Lakewood would wither unless it was fed. And what they fed it was… people. Innocent people.”
Skylar wipes a tear with the back of her hand.
“And the missing? The ones we’ve whispered about for years? I know where they went. I found old blueprints hidden behind renovation records. There are tunnels beneath Town Hall. And below those tunnels…”
Her voice drops to a whisper.
“…there’s a burial chamber.”
She shudders.
“A mass grave. All the sacrifices… every person they took… they’re down there. Buried under the building where we celebrate festivals. Where we vote. Where we take our kids for parades. Every year, we stand above their bones.”
She flips through papers off-screen.
“And it didn’t stop in the past. The logs show sacrifices continued up until—”
She hesitates.
Her lips tremble.
“…last year.”
Then Skylar leans close to the camera, whispering harshly:
“I found the list. I know the names of the people running this cult today. The ones still doing this. They’re—”
A sudden metallic clang erupts behind her.
Skylar jumps.
“Hello? Who’s… who’s there?”
Her breathing quickens.
“This isn’t funny. I’m almost done. Just—just give me a second—”
*Footsteps. Heavy. Getting closer.*
“No—no—please—just let me finish—”
The camera jerks violently. Papers scatter.
Skylar screams.
“STOP! GET AWAY FROM ME! PLEASE—”
A scuffle.
A choked cry.
Then.
BANG.
The gunshot shakes the speaker. Skylar’s body collapses out of frame. The camera falls sideways, showing only her outstretched fingers and a shadowy figure behind her.
A low voice growls.
“That’ll teach you to mind what pays you.”
The recording cuts to black.
Nicole Green
November 12,2025
Tuesday, 6:40pm
For a long moment, I couldn’t move.
I just sit there on the edge of my kitchen counter, phone still in my hand, the final frame of the video frozen on the screen. Skylar’s outstretched fingers. The shadow behind her. How did this even get out? Who sent this to me and that voice?
God.
That voice.
My ears ring like someone set off a firecracker inside my skull. I replay the last few seconds in my mind not willingly, but because I can’t stop. The words echo, deep and cold
“That’ll teach you to mind what pays you.”
I’ve heard that voice a thousand times.
Everyone in this town has.
I clamp a shaking hand over my mouth as the truth slams into me.
It was the mayor.
Mayor Colin Harrick.
The man who hands out scholarships at graduation ceremonies.
Who volunteers at charity drives.
Who kisses babies and smiles wide for the newspaper photographers.
The same man who gave a speech at Skylar’s memorial service with tears in his eyes.
I press the phone against my chest, as if I can force my heart to slow down. It doesn’t work. I feel like someone has poured ice water directly into my veins.
The mayor.
He killed her.
He killed Skylar.
And if Skylar was right about everything she uncovered the cult, the sacrifices, the tunnels then he wasn’t acting alone.
My breath shudders out of me. I stand on shaking legs and pace the tiny length of my kitchen. Once. Twice. Three times. Nothing makes sense and yet everything does. And that’s what terrifies me most.
I think about my mom.
Her smile.
Her soft voice.
The way she smelled like lavender and old books.
The way her car was left abandoned.
The erased footage.
The police shrugged at the “lack of evidence.”
My chest tightens until it hurts.
A thought forms.
A horrible, impossible thought.
Then I whisper it out loud, because some part of me needs to hear it.
“My mom was a sacrifice.”
