From The Journal of Lillian

I do not know how to set down what came to me last night, only that it did not feel like a dream. The vision came upon me with the same weight and clarity that sometimes settles over a place before a storm, when the air turns heavy and the world seems to hold its breath.

I was standing by the creek as I often do when the house is quiet and the night air presses warm against the trees. The water moved slow and dark beneath the bridge, and the pines along the bank stirred though I felt no wind upon my skin.

Then the sound began.

At first I thought it thunder, though the sky above the trees was clear. The noise came low and steady from the road beyond the hill, a strange grinding growl unlike any wagon or carriage I have ever heard. As it drew nearer, a curious machine came into view along the bend of the road. It moved without horse or mule to pull it, carrying its own terrible noise with it as it rolled toward the creek.

Two bright lights burned from its front, steady and pale like lanterns that never flickered. They shone across the trees and water in a way that felt unnatural, casting long shadows along the bank. I could not understand what sort of carriage it might be, nor how it traveled without any beast to guide it.

The machine came to a stop near the bend of the creek, and the noise faded into a quiet hum that hung strangely in the air.

A woman stepped out.

Her clothing was simple, yet fashioned in a way I did not recognize. The fabric seemed thinner than proper garments should be, and her hair fell loose around her shoulders as though she had no concern for the expectations of polite society. Still, there was something about her that felt familiar in a way I cannot rightly explain.

She stood for a long moment looking toward the house.

Yet it was not the house as it stands now. The porch stretched wider than ours, and the windows shone with a steady light that was neither candle nor lamp. The house felt older and newer all at once, as though time had shifted around it.

The woman walked slowly toward the yard. When she reached the fence she stopped and turned slightly, her eyes lifting toward the place where I stood on the bank. I knew she could not truly see me, yet for the briefest moment it felt as though she sensed something there.

Her lips moved then, and a single word drifted across the water so softly I nearly missed it.

Clara.

I woke before dawn with the sound of the creek still running through my ears and the uneasy feeling that time itself had folded strangely upon that place. The image of the girl lingered in my mind with a clarity that no ordinary dream has ever carried.

I do not know who she is or from what time she comes, only that she stood on this land as though it belonged to her just as much as it belongs to us. There was no fear in her, only a quiet determination, as if she had come searching for something long hidden.

One day she will come to Hollow Creek. Of that I am certain, though I do not yet understand why the vision was given to me or what it means for this family or this land. But I feel it as surely as the water moving beneath the bridge.

When she arrives, Hollow Creek will not remain the place it has always been.