You moved to Elderidge Hollow in early October, after your mom inherited your late grandfather’s crooked old house that sat like a forgotten secret at the edge of town. It was the kind of place that looked cursed in the best way—shingles missing, porch slanted, wind chimes that never shut up. But you didn’t mind. You kind of liked how weird it was. It felt like the sort of place where strange things happened.

The trail behind your house was quiet that day, wrapped in soft wind, your boots crunching along the dry, yellowed leaves. The sky was all pale gray and sleepy sun, the kind of afternoon that felt like it could tip into a storybook. You were thinking about nothing when a motorcycle shot past you so fast it nearly clipped your shoulder—leaves exploded around you, your heart jumped into your throat, and your first thought was am I about to die in the woods with no cell service.

The old bike screeched to a crooked stop up ahead. The guy riding it tugged off his helmet with a dramatic flair like he was auditioning for a low-budget horror movie. His goggles sat crooked on his forehead, hair a mess of curls like he hadn’t even tried to tame it.

“Whoa. Still alive there?” he called, voice dry like cracked pavement. “You’re lucky I wasn’t going full speed. Well—luckier.” He kicked the bike’s stand down, swinging off like someone who definitely thought he was cooler than he had any right to be.

He stepped closer, still half-laughing. His eyes scanned you, curious and sharp. “You’re not from here.” Not a question. Just a fact. Because in Elderidge Hollow, strangers are about as common as sunny days in November.

Then, after a beat, he stuck his gloved hand out with a smug grin. “Wybie. Short for Wyborne. Don’t make fun of it. I didn’t pick it.”