The Forgotten Coordinates

My Dearest Eleanor,

If you are reading this letter, then I have failed. I have failed to return, failed to keep my promise, and failed to unravel the tangled threads of this mystery without losing myself in the process. I write to you now in the faint hope that my words will reach you even if I do not, that they may serve as some small beacon in the darkness that has swallowed me whole.

You must understand that I did not embark upon this journey lightly. When I first discovered the journal hidden within Grandfather’s old trunk, I thought it no more than the ramblings of a senile man grasping at lost memories. But as I delved deeper into his words, a pattern emerged—names and places, events that should not have intersected, a conspiracy whispered through time. I had to know more. I had to see for myself whether the impossible was indeed real.

I followed Grandfather’s trail through dusty archives and forgotten letters, each clue leading me further down a path that no one else seemed to have trodden in years. The closer I came to the truth, the more I sensed that I was being watched. At first, it was only a feeling, a chill at the back of my neck when I lingered too long over an old map, a shadow flickering in the corner of my vision. Then came the letters—unsigned warnings scrawled in ink that faded as soon as I touched it, pages that turned to dust the moment I tried to preserve them.

By the time I arrived in Black Hollow, I knew I was no longer alone.

You have never heard of Black Hollow, Eleanor, because it does not exist on any map. It is a town that time has chosen to forget, nestled between cliffs that no cartographer has dared to mark. I only found it because Grandfather’s notes contained coordinates—not an address, not a name, just numbers that should have led to an empty expanse of forest. But when I reached the place where nothing should have been, there it was.

Black Hollow is wrong, Eleanor. It should not be, and yet it is. The houses lean at angles that defy logic, their windows gazing out like vacant eyes. The streets are paved with cobblestones that shift beneath my feet, rearranging themselves when I look away. The air tastes stale, tinged with something metallic, and the trees surrounding the town are gnarled and lifeless, their twisted limbs reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The town is shrouded in an eternal twilight, the sun a dim, sickly glow that never fully rises nor sets.

The people—if they can even be called that—move like whispers through the mist, their faces blurred, their voices hushed. They know I am here. They have been waiting. When I pass them in the street, they stop and stare, their expressions vacant yet full of something I cannot name. Some of them, I think, are not real. They flicker in and out of sight, as though caught between moments in time, their movements too smooth, too unnatural.

I tried to leave. I truly did. But the road I came by is gone, swallowed by the fog that thickens whenever I turn my back. No carriage comes through the town, no birds take flight from the trees. The sky is always the color of twilight, neither night nor day, as if time itself hesitates to touch this place. I have walked the perimeter of Black Hollow more times than I can count, yet no path leads outward. There is no escape. And yet, there is something here, something Grandfather sought and never found. I must find it.

There is an old house at the heart of Black Hollow, older than the town itself, its stones worn smooth as if countless hands have touched them over centuries. The building itself seems to breathe, shifting in the fog, its shape never quite the same when I look at it twice. The door is cracked and splintered, the iron knocker rusted over with time. They say no one lives there, but I have seen candlelight flickering behind its warped glass windows. I hear whispers in the walls, voices that call my name in a language I do not know but somehow understand. It is there that I must go. It is there that I will find the answer to the question that has haunted my family for generations.

I have explored every alley, every crumbling ruin that lines this forsaken town, yet all roads lead back to that house. It calls to me, beckoning with its silent, insidious pull. I hear footsteps outside my window at night, though no footprints remain in the dirt when I wake. The townsfolk—the ones who appear, at least—watch me without truly seeing, their expressions frozen in something that might be dread, might be pity. They never speak my name aloud, yet they know it, just as they knew Grandfather’s before me.

Last night, I heard the creak of the house’s front door opening on its own. It should not be possible; I had not set foot inside, had not dared to touch the rusted iron of its handle. And yet, when I stood before it this morning, the door was ajar, darkness spilling forth like an invitation. My name echoed from within, spoken in a voice both familiar and impossibly distant. Eleanor, I swear to you—I heard my own voice calling me inside.

I hesitate even now, knowing that whatever lies beyond that threshold is not meant for mortal eyes. But I cannot turn back. There are answers hidden in the bones of this place, secrets Grandfather sought to unearth and never did. I fear that he, too, found his way to this house, and that it welcomed him just as it now beckons me.

The walls whisper at night, Eleanor. I can no longer tell if the voices come from within the house or from the town itself. There is something beneath Black Hollow—something old, something waiting. I dreamed of it last night, of a presence that stretched through the ages, watching, yearning, beckoning. Its fingers brush against my mind when I close my eyes. It knows me. It has always known me.

The townspeople avoid me now, crossing the street when they see me, their gazes downcast. The few who remain in the open whisper behind their hands, and I swear I heard one murmur, "Another one." How many before me have come here, chasing ghosts of their own pasts? How many have been lost?

I saw a figure standing outside my window last night. It did not move, did not blink, just watched, a dark silhouette against the shifting fog. When I finally gathered the courage to move toward it, to fling open the window, it was gone. But something was left in its place—a single page, torn and yellowed with age. A page from Grandfather’s journal. Eleanor, how did it get here? How did it find me?

I am running out of time. The candlelight behind the windows of that house burns brighter now, a pulsing glow like a heartbeat. I hear footsteps echoing behind me when I walk, though no one is there. The air grows heavier with each passing moment, thick with the weight of something unseen. It is watching. It is waiting.

Tonight, I will go to the house.

If you receive this letter, Eleanor, know that I walked willingly into the dark. Do not come for me. Do not search for Black Hollow, nor trace my steps as I traced Grandfather’s. Burn this letter, forget my name, and let me fade as all those before me have. But if you cannot—if the same insatiable hunger for truth takes hold of you—then heed my final warning: the house at the heart of Black Hollow does not open for those who knock. It opens for those who are already inside.

I fear that by the time you read these words, I will already be lost.

Yours, always, Nathaniel