Knox Hollow: Little Bunny

Stories

### Chapter 1: Chapter 1

When Beatrice Foster returns to the isolated town of Knox Hollow to settle her grandmother’s estate, she plans to stay only long enough to renovate and sell the house she inherited, but the towns sheriff has other plans.

Complete Chapters 21

Rating 4.4 ( 7 reviews ) Age Rating mature

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Chapter 1 - The Shadow

The trees parted as the road curved downward revealing a glimpse of a town. Just rooftops at first. The driver squeezed the steering wheel as she surveyed the landscape. She was filled with a sense of triumph and pride. She made it. She was finally there. After all the whats and ifs had been somewhat cleared, this was still a crazy idea after all.

She passed the sign reading Welcome to Knox Hollow: Population 303 . Someone had crossed out the number three and written a two she noted.

A faded church steeple came into view. A squat gas station with a neon sign that must have hung there since the 50s.

The people silently glanced her way as she drove past them and just as silently turned their heads back to their regular lives. Knox Hollow didn’t greet her, it simply noticed her.

She followed the directions until the road narrowed. Asphalt changed to gravel that crunched underneath her tires.

Then: the house. Edith Foster’s house.

Two stories. White, or what used to be. Now the paint was flaking. Ivy curled around the windows. One shutter was hanging crooked. She made a mental note to fix that as she parked.

She stepped out with her overnight bag packed with essentials. Just enough to get through the first few nights. In the trunk, cardboard boxes sat taped and labeled, some half-crushed from the rush of packing. She hadn’t looked back when she slammed the trunk shut that morning and drove off. She silently prayed there was a working washing machine inside.

The air smelled like pine and old soil. She was halfway to the porch when she heard the low crunch of another set of tires. A sheriff’s cruiser rolled up and stopped at the end of the drive. The door opened.

Dark boots stepped out first, then the rest of him. Tall, broad shoulders, lean uniform, confident gait. A straight nose and sharp jaw was framed by the brim of a dark Stetson.

His face was unreadable, expression calm but firm like he carried the weight of responsibility without complaint. He adjusted the hat slightly and studied her.

“Sheriff Kade Mercer.” He said “You the granddaughter?”

Beatrice straightened. “Yes. I’m Beatrice Foster-” then, more from habit than upbringing she added “-sheriff.”

At the word something altered almost imperceptibly in his face. A tightening of the jaw. Not irritation but not approval either. He didn’t correct her. He also didn’t seem to appreciate the title.

He nodded slowly, his eyes steady on hers. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Not even when another car drove by behind him.

He stepped a bit closer. “You planning to stay long, miss Foster?”

“Just long enough to get things in order. Then I plan to sell it” she replied.

“Mm. That house won’t go easy.” He nodded to the building that would now be her home. “Folks around here avoid it. Bad insulation, creaky floors... long history.”

He glanced down at her hand holding the bag then back up. He met her eyes again.

“You’ll want to keep your doors locked. People tend to think nothing happens in towns like this.” His tone was even. “They’re wrong.”

He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and held it out.

“If something... anything feels off, you call me. Not dispatch. Me . Understand?”

Beatrice nodded, taking the paper slowly.

He gave a final look. Long enough for her to register the colour of his eyes. Green. Then he turned and walked back to his cruiser.

Beatrice let out a breath. He wasn’t hostile. He wasn’t cold. He was just... intense. The kind of man who didn’t have to raise his voice to get the attention of a room.

The front door creaked open with more effort than Beatrice had expected. “Come on” she muttered under her breath as she leaned her shoulder into it. The wood groaned in protest before finally giving way.

She let her bag fall with a soft thud . The silence that followed was thick enough to breathe in. No humming appliances. No murmuring radio. Just her and the stillness of the house.

Dust and old wood mingled with a floral scent that still clung to the walls. Must’ve been some stubborn trace of her grandmother’s perfume.

This is yours now , she thought. At least until it’s not.

She closed the door behind her, the latch engaging with a whimper.

The meagre groceries were the first to be unpacked. Earl grey. Instant oats. A few canned goods. Honey. And then the mug with bugs-bunny she’d brought from home. It felt right in her hands. A familiar weight and warmth in all this unfamiliarity.

By the time the kettle whistled the kitchen had grown darker with the fading afternoon. She poured the water over her tea watching the steam curl upward around her face like a comforting little sigh.

She didn’t even get the first sip before the doorbell echoed through the house.

Her footsteps were soft and soundless on the old wood as she made her way back through the hallway. She hesitated at the door before drawing in a breath, fingers brushing the lock as she twisted it slowly and pulled it open just enough to see who it was.

A woman stood on the porch. Mid fifties maybe, lavender cardigan, neat gray-blond hair. Her hands clasped around a tin covered dish. She just stood there, waiting. Then in a sudden shift she smiled sweetly.

“Hi there” the woman said, her voice an octave to high “Sorry to drop in so soon. I live nearby and just wanted to say welcome.”

The woman stepped back a little, that same smile still plastered over her face.

“I’m Martha. I live just a bit down the road. White house with the roses and lavender out front.”

She glanced toward the street, then back.

“I heard about your grandmother. I didn’t know her well, really. No one did. But I wanted to stop by and offer my condolences. Bring you something warm.”

She held the dish up slightly, like an offering. It steamed invitingly under the layer of tinfoil.

“You are the granddaughter, right?” she asked, tilting her head, creating a crease in the flesh where her chin and neck joined.

Beatrice nodded and opened the door a little wider.

“Yes. I’m Beatrice. It’s nice to meet you, Martha” she said. “Thanks for coming by… really.”

“Of course, dear.” Martha’s tone softened even more. “I know how strange it can feel, walking into a house that’s suddenly yours.”

Her gaze drifted past Beatrice into the hallway.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but… are there any arrangements? For your grandmother? A service?”

“Yes. A funeral will be arranged. I’m meeting with the director tomorrow.”

Martha nodded slowly. “That’s good. That’s the right thing to do.”

She didn’t press further, but her eyes lingered a little too long in the hallway behind her before they drifted back to Beatrice.

“Well… if you need anything I’m just a few minutes down.” She smiled again, but something in it felt rehearsed.

“And if you need help with the house, or… anything else just ask.”

Beatrice hesitated. Then - “Would you like to come in for some tea? I just made a cup.”

Martha’s smile deepened to a wrinkled grin. “I’d love that, dear. Thank you.”

She stepped inside without hesitation, wiping her shoes on the mat like it was routine. Her eyes greedily swept through the space, up the stairs, toward the kitchen, over the walls where paintings hung.

She followed Beatrice into the kitchen and took a seat at the small table folding her hands in her lap like someone raised to be still in strangers home.

“It’s strange seeing the place” she said. “I never came inside while she was alive.” She continued to look around. “She never invited anyone in.”

Beatrice poured the tea and slid a cup toward her. “Did you have to travel far to get here?” Martha asked as she gripped the handle.

“Not too far. Just a few hours” Beatrice answered. “I was the only one left to take care of things.”

“I’m not planning to stay long” Beatrice continued. “Just enough time to fix the house up and sell it. I needed a break from home, anyway. This… came at the right time. In a strange way.”

She took a sip of her own tea keeping the rest of her thoughts tucked away.

“Funny how life does that” Martha murmured. The words lingering too long in the air. “Are you sleeping upstairs?” she suddenly asked.

Beatrice looked at her over the rim of her cup. “Yes… I unpacked in the guest room” she said. “That’s where I used to sleep when I visited her as a kid.”

Beatrice’s eyes flicked toward the staircase. “It would feel strange… taking her room. To be honest, the whole place still feels like it’s hers. Like I’m just a guest passing through.” she set her cup down slowly.

“That feeling might not go away, not completely” Martha said genuinely. “Some houses don’t let go of people easily. I still imagine my husband sat in his recliner. Sometimes I swear I see him in the corner of my eye.”

She finished her tea, smoothed over the fabric of her cardigan and stood. “Thank you for the tea, Edith.”

Beatrice blinked “It’s Beatrice.”

Martha paused, then smiled. The kind of smile that did not reach the eyes. “Of course. Forgive me.”

She moved toward the front door as if she’d always known the way. Beatrice followed.

“If you need anything” Martha reminded “you let me know.”

Beatrice locked the door behind her. The warmth of the tea was already gone.

The house felt still again. But not empty.

She climbed the stairs slowly, her fingers grazing the banister, the creak of each step soft and hollow in the quiet. At the top, she turned into the bedroom. The curtains were hanging open just enough to let in the last of the light through the window.

Outside the yard lingered in the last rays of stubborn sunset. The trees at the edge of the property swayed gently in the breeze. Their long shadows stretched toward the gravel road.

Hadn’t it been for the sudden faint glint of something, something smooth and reflective, she wouldn’t have seen it.

There one second, gone the next.

Just enough to catch her attention.

It was too far away to see clearly. Just the suggestion of a shape, taller than the fence posts, but darker than the trees.

She didn’t move from the window, just stood there. Heart ticking a little faster in her chest, watching the figure.

Very slowly Beatrice stepped back. Not all the way from the window. Just far enough that the edge of the window frame hid her from view.

Then, finally, she reached up and drew the curtain closed in a swift motion. She didn’t look out again.

That night, sleep didn’t come easily.

She lay curled beneath the unfamiliar comforter. Her hand rested against her stomach, her face turned toward the wall. The house settled around her with creaks and sighs that felt almost alive. Every sound pulled at her nerves. The groan of the floorboards, the sudden thump she told herself was just the wind.

At one point, she thought she heard a car door close, but when she strained to listen, the silence pressed back harder. Eventually, sleep took her.

Last nights ghosts had been chased away by the first rays of morning sun.

Beatrice sat in the kitchen. The same mug from yesterday cupped between her hands. Crumbs from her breakfast lay scattered on the table.

The tea had gone lukewarm, but she hadn’t noticed. Her laptop glowed softly, the screen open to job listings:

She stared at the number a moment, then reached for her phone and tapped its screen.

A woman’s voice answered flat and detached. “General Store, this is Janine speaking.”

“Hi” Beatrice said, clearing her throat. “My name is Beatrice Foster. I saw the listing for part-time help and wanted to ask if the position is still open.” There was a pause.

“…Uh-huh. Yup, still up.” Silence stretched between them. No welcome, no encouragement.

Beatrice pressed gently “I can come by today if that helps?”

“Guess that’s fine if you want to swing by.”

The line went dead. No name. No time. Just a door cracked open. Hopefully.

Beatrice furrowed her brows and stared at the phone in her hand for a second, then pushed back from the table. She grabbed her keys and headed into town.

The bell above the door gave a soft chime as Beatrice stepped inside and collided with something. Someone.

She gasped, stumbling back slightly, but a hand reached out and caught her by the arm. Steadying her with surprising ease.

She looked up to meet Sheriff Mercer’s amused smirk.

No bags. No clipboard. No apology. Just him standing like a fixture in the doorway as if he’d been waiting for her. His eyes studied her face, not curious, not surprised, but like he was confirming something. His hand still lingered on her arm.

“Looking for work?” he asked. His voice was low.

Beatrice blinked, she hadn’t told anyone that. Mercer nodded his head to the help wanted sign on the window like he could read her thoughts.

“Yes” she finally said. “I called this morning.”

His hand eased off her with unbroken control. Like the moment still belonged to him. “Good” He gave a single nod. Said nothing more. Then he stepped past her with the same unhurried ease he always seemed to carry.

The bell chimed again as he exited. She didn’t look back, but she felt his gaze linger on her even after the door clicked shut.

The inside of the store was quiet. Behind the counter stood a woman with both hands braced flat against the laminate surface. Her hair was brown, cut in a short bob. Lips red and a hint of blue eyeshadow blended together with the line of her eyebrows. She didn’t smile but she didn’t look unkind. Like someone waiting for a second shoe to drop.

“Yes, Ms. I called earlier about the job.”

The woman, Janine if she remembered correctly, glanced toward the front door. Not a long look, but long enough to make Beatrice wonder if she was expecting someone to walk through. Then she grabbed a sheet of paper from beneath the counter. A form. She didn’t hand it over straight away.

“It’s part-time” she said briskly. “Mornings and afternoons, depending on what we need. Stocking. Cleaning. Sometimes register.”

Her voice carried the tone of someone repeating a script she didn’t much care for.

“You can start tomorrow if you want. Or today. Doesn’t matter.”

No smile. No questions. No real interest.

She shoved the form across the counter. Her fingers trembled, just slightly, then withdrew like the paper had burned her.

Beatrice glanced at the sheet. It was basic information: name, number. Nothing unusual.

When she looked back up Janine’s eyes weren’t on her face anymore, they were fixed on the door again. Her fingers tapped a quick and unconscious staccato rhythm on the edge of the counter.