House of Ink & Oaths

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Emery

The red light on my camera blink, blink, blinks like a tiny, steady heartbeat. I lock it onto the tripod, frame the old covered bridge behind me, step in front of the lens, and switch on my journalist voice.

“Hello, my curious crows. Emery here. For weeks now, my comment section has been begging—no, demanding—I come to Crowsbridge Hollow to investigate its so-called spooky happenings. You asked. I listened.”

I angle the camera toward Main Street.

“And here I am. Just in time for Creepy Christmas Season. This sleepy upstate New York town has absolutely committed to the aesthetic.”

I pause, scanning the street. “The carolers wear fangs, the fog rolls in like it’s a paid actor, and the coffee shop sells something called a Corpse Nog Latte topped with a chocolate skull.”

Phew. That was a mouthful.

A sharp breeze carries the river’s breath across my face. Cold pine. Wet stone. Smoke from a woodstove somewhere down Main Street.

I swing the camera around for B-roll footage.

The bridge stretches over the narrow creek, timber ribs dark with age, iron rosettes pitted and scarred.

Planters brimming with yellow and rust mums block either end.

A stern sign announces, “Pedestrians Only.” Across the planks, a tourist in a black-and-red cape gallops across the planks, a plastic sword raised in triumph.

At the mouth of the bridge, someone waits, phone held high as they film and laugh.

A pair of crows watch from a railing leading up to the bridge with bright, cynical eyes, as if finding the human performance disappointing.

Between two lampposts, a paper banner droops and flutters.

SEASON’S CREEPINGS—CELEbrATE WHAT HAUNTS THE HOLLOW.

In smaller type, almost an afterthought:

Please respect our bridge.

My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket to check the screen.

Wren: Filming yet? Don’t forget. Need 20 sec hook for shorts

I thumb back a reply.

Me: got it. Festive and freaky all over. I’ll try not to die of frostbite.

Three dots. Then another text pops up.

Wren: Please actually don’t die. Trend alerts popping bc of missing kid. Remember, keep tone compassionate.

I know. I know. Sheesh. Mason’s name repeats in my head like an uneasy whisper. Sixteen. Vanished after a dare at the cemetery. Police have no clue. Is he just a teenager doing teenage things or is something more sinister happening?

Maybe my opening was too flippant. Should I redo it?

I promised my followers no grief tourism.

No filming crying parents for clicks, no turning the living into gossip fodder for views.

That’s not journalism, it’s ghoulish. My byline used to run in a real newspaper, and even though the masthead’s gone, the training stuck.

I still follow the code to be curious and seek the truth.

Only difference is now I chase the stories legacy media has ignored—the ones that blur the line between folklore and fact.

I hit record again and step in front of the camera.

“Okay.” My voice remains calm, steady, and professional.

“Before we unwrap today’s small-town legend, a serious note.

A teenage boy—Mason Baker—disappeared last week.

He was last seen near Crowsbridge Cemetery.

If you know anything, contact Sheriff Bertram’s office.

Links in the description. Remember, we’re curious crows, not cruel clowns.

Mason has family who is worried about him, so be kind in the comments. ”

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and pivot toward Main Street.

Porches strung with quivering ropes of red-and-black garlands.

A bakery window stacked with gingerbread skulls, bone-white sugar cookies, and dark chocolate Yule logs.

Another shop advertises Krampus Keepsakes—Naughty List Approved.

Everything about this town screams, “empty your wallets, merry little tourists.”

Across from the bridge sits a narrow brick building painted black, the windows tinted dark, the door a slab of wood banded in iron.

Gold lettering on the glass window states House of Ink & Iron, with an extra-swirly ampersand.

I love a good ampersand. Instantly intrigued, the shop’s name hums in my head like sleigh bells hitting an enticing note.

I slip my camera into its bag, fold my tripod, and tuck it in the outside pocket.

“Note to future me,” I mutter for my audio notes, holding my phone up to my lips.

“Interview owner of Ink and Iron. Tattoos can carry more folklore than T-shirts and cupcakes.” Knowing I’ll probably forget to listen to the voice note later, I uncap a blue pen and flip open my notebook.

Blue ink smears my fingers. Of course it does.

My hands always look like I wrestled a rainbow-farting unicorn and lost. Sighing, I jot a quick note, then tuck the pad and pen away.

Eager to interview some locals, I head toward Main Street. A woman at a folding table sits beneath an awning strung with flickering red bulbs and paper snowflakes shaped like skulls. The sign behind her reads Crowsbridge Artisan Market—Handmade for the Damned and the Divine.

Cute.

She offers glossy brochures about tours of the cemetery.

The back of one brochure features an image of a veiled bronze statue of a woman on a snowy hill.

Icicles drip from her fingers, the patina streaked down her face in green tears.

The text reads “The Legend of the Weeping Widow” in an elegant serif font.

“The Weeping Widow, huh?” I tilt the brochure, one brow lifting.

“The Weeping Widow,” the woman repeats softly, as if saying the name in a normal voice might conjure trouble.

My gaze drops to her long, sharp nails painted metallic crimson.

She reaches forward and taps the picture with one curved talon.

“Even in death, she mourns her beloved husband. Never sit in her lap, honey.”

“Wasn’t planning to.” Not unless I have to. For research purposes, of course.

She frowns at my black velvet dress, tights, and tall black boots, then adds, “You from the city?”

“I’m from the Internet.” I deflect, keeping my tone easy.

She squints. “You’re that YouTube girl,” she says, a slow, mocking smile spreading across her face. “I knew you looked familiar.” She lowers her voice. “If you investigate the Weeping Widow, bring iron with you. A nail, a knife, something small. Old iron’s best.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. How perfectly on brand for this morbidly merry little town. “Why old iron?”

“Because new iron doesn’t remember,” she says, like it should be obvious. “Old iron does.”

“Interesting.” I flip through another brochure. It lists lots of different events for Creepy Christmas Season, including a Haunted Slayride through the town’s historic district and Carols from the Crypt on Christmas Eve.

The slick edge of the brochure slices the pad of my thumb.

“Ow!” I jump and stare at the mean little cut. The sting flares, then fades under the chilly morning air. I dab it with a tissue. In the awning’s shade, the smear shines too dark, almost metallic. A shiver rattles the paper snowflakes overhead. I bury the brochures deep in my bag.

“Careful, dear,” the woman says.

“Thank you,” I respond.

And thanks for the hazardous reading material, lady.

I stroll away, heading back to the covered bridge.

I pull out my camera again.

“Folklore primer,” I say, angling the lens toward the bridge.

“Crowsbridge Hollow is best known for the legend of the Ironbound Rider—the headless cavalryman who terrorizes the town and takes a bride every generation to satisfy some ancient pact.” I drop my voice into a fireside-story tone.

“But he’s not the only ghost who haunts this town.

Locals whisper about the Weeping Widow. Supposedly, the bronze statue weeps green tears.

And if you whisper your love’s name in her ear after midnight, she whispers back your worst fear. ”

Damn, that’s good. I need to thank Wren for digging up the Widow’s story. As far as I know, no other YouTube channel has ever done a deep dive on the Widow. My best friend/producer is the reason I don’t get lost in research rabbit holes.

The toe of my boot bumps the bridge threshold. I glance down. Time has rubbed the iron rosette to a shine. Does this qualify as “old iron?” Will I get in trouble if I pry one loose and take it home as a souvenir? Probably.

Shaking off my larcenous fantasies, I crouch and press the microphone closer to capture the scrape of shoe on plank, the murmur of the river under the boards, the faint jingle of distant sleigh bells bleeding through fog.

When I’m confident I’ve recorded enough ambient sound, I straighten and tuck my camera away.

A few feet away, a little girl in a bright red coat and an Ironbound Rider hoodie peeks around her mother’s legs, sipping from a glittery red water bottle.

“Hey,” I say softly, crouching to her level. “Nice hoodie. I bet you’re brave enough to ride across the haunted bridge?”

She shakes her head, eyes wide. “No way. He waits for liars.”

Her mother laughs under her breath. “The Weeping Widow, the Rider—this whole town’s obsessed with ghost stories. A statue that cries,” she adds, her tone pure can-you-believe-this-shit.

Ah, a fellow skeptic.

“They do have clever holiday marketing,” I say lightly. “Scare tourism wrapped in tinsel.” I wink at the girl. “Stay on the nice list, okay?”

She grins, showing a gap between her teeth, then hides behind her mom again. There’s a pang in my chest—nothing painful, just hollow. I take a breath and let it pass.

We murmur polite goodbyes, and I turn toward the bridge.