The sun had long dipped below the horizon by the time Roland, Trench, and Lewis left the Iron Hill Sheriff's Station. A bitter chill clung to the air, and the streets were eerily quiet, as though the entire town was holding its breath. The team's car rumbled down the road, its headlights cutting through the darkness as they headed toward the only motel in town.
"No sense in interviewing anyone this late," Roland said, breaking the silence. "These people have been through enough. We'll start fresh tomorrow."
Trench grunted in agreement, his eyes scanning the empty streets. "If the parents even agree to talk. This whole case has bad vibes written all over it."
The Iron Hill Motel was a single-story building with flickering neon signage and a cracked parking lot. The trio checked in quickly, the clerk barely looking up from his old tube television playing reruns of a game show.
Inside her room, once Trench and Roland unpacked their bags in the next room over, Lewis dumped her own bag on one of the beds, her face pinched with exhaustion. "I don't know about you two, but I need food. Let's find that bar the sheriff mentioned."
The Rusty Anchor, a dimly lit bar on the outskirts of town, reeked of stale beer and fried food. A neon sign buzzed faintly over the entrance, and a jukebox in the corner played a country ballad that nobody seemed to be listening to.
The agents settled into a booth near the back, ordering burgers from a waitress who seemed more interested in getting back to painting her nails behind the counter than their presence. Because Trench and Lewis were still barely too young for alcohol, Roland was the only one to order a beer.
"So," Lewis began after a few sips of her drink, "what's the game plan for tomorrow? Start with the parents?"
"First light," Roland said, rubbing his temples. "But we'll need to tread carefully. This isn't just about asking questions; it's about getting people to open up about something they'd rather forget."
Trench leaned back in his seat, his coat hanging loosely on his wiry frame. "And don't forget the station. WCLV-TV 58. If the sheriff's right and they've got no record of this show, then someone's lying. Or hiding something."
Lewis pulled out the manila folder they'd taken from Dawson's office, spreading its contents across the table. "These drawings…" she murmured, tracing a finger over a child's depiction of Jawbone. The skeletal figure loomed large on the page, surrounded by jagged lines that seemed to radiate menace. "How does a puppet show like this even exist without raising alarms?"
"Because it didn't exist for the parents," Roland said grimly. "Just dead air. Whatever this show was, it wasn't normal. It must be an AWE."
A grizzled man at the bar turned to glance at them, his weathered face shadowed beneath a battered trucker hat. He eyed the folder with a flicker of recognition before turning back to his drink.
Trench noticed. "We might've found our first lead," he muttered, nodding toward the man.
Roland stood, approaching the bar with deliberate calm. "Evening," he said, sliding onto the stool beside the man. "Mind if I ask you a question?"
The man didn't look up, his fingers tracing patterns in the condensation on his glass. "Depends," he replied, his voice rough as gravel.
"You ever heard of a show called Candle Cove?"
The man froze, his grip tightening on the glass. Slowly, he turned to face Roland, his eyes dark and haunted.
"I heard it," he whispered. "And I saw it, too. But not on no TV."