Zack Carver's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Zack Carver counted his money three times, and it stayed the same. Forty-one dollars. That was every dollar he had toward a horror theater of his own. He sat on the porch of his cousin's dairy farm and stared at the number like it might grow. He was twenty. He had lived here twelve years, since his parents died. He wanted out. He wanted a dark theater with old monster films flickering on the screen, and his name on the door. Forty-one dollars did not buy a door. The beagle pup pressed against his leg and nudged the wrinkled bills. Zack scratched the dog's ears under the red bandana. "You got a job for me, Matty?" he asked. "Because I'm out of ideas." Matty barked and trotted toward the cow pen. Zack followed, because following the dog beat thinking. His cousin stood at the fence, hauling a bucket of feed to the small herd. She wiped her hands and looked at Zack the way she always did, half worried, half fond. "You've been counting that money all week," she said. "A theater. In Hollows Glen." She shook her head, but not unkindly. "There's no money for a shy kid in a farm town, Zack. Not the kind you need." He knew she was right. That was the worst part. He fixed people's laptops sometimes, twenty bucks here and there. It never added up. The whole town raised cows and mended fences. Nobody paid a nerd in a hoodie to dream about vampires. Zack almost went back to the spare bedroom to give up. Then Matty bolted. The pup shot across the yard and into the tall grass past the pen. Zack chased him, shouting his name. He found the dog beneath a huge old oak he had walked past a thousand times. Matty was digging at the roots. Zack knelt and saw the trunk up close for the first time. Someone had carved initials there long ago, T and S, inside a heart. The bark had grown around it. An idea hit him so hard he laughed out loud. The town had history. Old love stories. Old ghost stories, probably. People paid for stories. He pulled out his phone. His hands shook, but he opened a blank page and started typing. Haunted farm tours. Ghost walks. A horror show built from Hollows Glen's own forgotten past, run by the one kid who actually loved this stuff. That night he printed ten cheap flyers on his cousin's old printer. He pinned the first one on the town board outside the bar. His hand hovered near the door. Behind the counter, the bartender he'd never worked up the nerve to speak to was wiping glasses. Zack looked at his flyer. Ghost Tours. Ten dollars a head. First walk Saturday. He had no savings. But now he had a plan, and a deadline. Saturday would either fund his dream or prove his cousin right.