The grocery store is as small as the town. The choice of sweets is abysmal, but I pick a chocolate bar and a bottle of cold tea and bring them to the shopkeeper. While he counts the sum on a blocky old calculator, I examine him.
The shopkeeper doesn't look older than forty, but his hair already tries to run away from the frontal part of his head. His round face has an expression of a sad puppy permanently etched into its features, and the fingers which pass me the change are short and shaky. The man didn't greet me and didn't lift his eyes to me even once.
"Thank you," I say, accepting my purchases. "Mister, uh..."
There's an awkward pause as the shopkeeper just looks somewhere at my chest without saying a word. If my breasts actually showed in my hoodie, I'd peg him as a pervert. As it is, the man just appears terribly uncomfortable.
Another day I'd back off, but today I *need* answers.
"Mister, could you, please, answer a few questions? Have you seen or heard something about my friend Rose, who visited this town a month ago?"
"Miss," the shopkeeper finally says, shaking his head. "I don't... I can't. Just, please, stop asking. Leave! It will be the best for everyone, I swear. You can leave yet. It's not too late. I shouldn't be too late." His eyes finally rise to mine, and they are full of silent pleading and fear.
I swallow. First Rose, now this person? What's wrong with Willow Creek? I shake my head and try to show the shopkeeper a calming smile. He looks even more anxious than I am.
"Calm down, please, and tell me what's going on. Explain, why should I leave? Is this related to why Rose had disappeared?"
"No! I-I mean... I can't say. Leave, miss, leave this store, alright? They can't see me talking to you. I shouldn't be talking to you like this. Just leave."
The man walks around the counter, looking to be ready to push me out of the doors by force if I refuse to heed him. He's neither tall nor muscular, but still has more mass than I am, so I don't press my luck. Especially since the distressed shopkeeper is not very forthcoming.
He closes the door behind me with a bang and flips the plate on it on "CLOSED".
I sigh and open the tea bottle. Sugar in liquid and in solid form helps me to calm down a little, but overall, this attempt at digging for answers was a failure. Well...
I square my shoulders and keep walking down the street as I chew on my treats. I only asked three people yet. Two hundred and so many more to go.
Finding said people is still quite a task, though, but at least walking kills time until I could try to catch people in the pub. I also examine the city as I go. There's not much of it to look at, frankly. Fifteen minutes of brisk walking from one end to another, so I explore tiny alleyways and look at people's backyards.
Some buildings are clean and well-cared for. Some are dilapidated and ready to crumble. The only one that has three floors is the town hall. Its wooden walls are painted white, and the building appears to be taken straight from some Wild West movie.
There's an alleyway that circles around the hall, and I take it, suddenly curious. Admittedly, other sides of the hall are much less cared for, but it's the back wall that gives me pause.
A strange graffiti takes up a big part of the first floor. It's a good work, clearly from someone who had at least some art training, and was probably painted with brushes, not spray paint. My brain grasps on these details, because like me, it's afraid to think about the full picture.
It's eyes. A good hundred of eyes, not human but like birds', black and shining, on the background of a dark cloud that consists out of tiny black dots. But that's not what's so scary.
It's the fact that these eyes all *look* at me. They are alive.
I close my eyes shut and rub them for a minute before daring to look at the wall again. The illusion that crept me out so much is gone. The graffiti is weird and is a worst nightmare of people with trypophobia, but it's just a picture, and it doesn't follow me with its many-eyed gaze when I step to the side. It's not alive. It's just paint.
I chuckle and finish my tea bottle. God, this must all be stress. Losing Rose like this—it's difficult. There's a temptation to take a break and just sleep the day off, but the jittery feeling in my limbs tells me I won't fall asleep if I try.
There's still that feeling of urgency. I had already waited too late, hoping for Rose to return.
The hour shows seven in the evening. The sun goes towards the horizon, and I think it's time to go towards Hank's pub.
I hear the boisterous voices even before I enter the slightly opened door. The amount of people gives me hope. Surely there will be someone helpful? Like Hank. Though, Hank was not exactly helpful, and even if I didn't find Rose's car, I could have still lied.
It's like in detectives—everybody lies.
When I step inside, the conversations stifle like someone threw a blanket over them. The place is packed with people as much as it was empty the last time I went in—and everybody turned away from their food and drinks to look at me. Notably, Jack isn't here anymore.
"Oh, it's our pretty lady! Guys, stop staring at her like Marylin Monroe came back from the dead! Let Miss Alvarez eat in peace!" Hank exclaims and waves at me in greeting. The stools at the counter are all taken, but he still waves me over. "Come!"