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.

The flyer was up, but the tour needed people. Zack had one Saturday and no guests yet. He knew where a crowd gathered every night. He walked to the warm glow of the Lamplight Bar and Grill, flyer folded in his hoodie pocket. Inside, the man he never spoke to stood behind the counter, drying a glass. Billy Ray Tims. Zack had crushed on him for a year and never said more than two words. Zack sat on his usual stool. His heart pounded. Billy Ray set a ginger ale down before Zack could ask. "Ginger ale," Billy Ray said. He always knew. Zack stared at the bubbles. This was the plan. Talk. Invite him. His mouth went dry. He almost said nothing, like every other night. Then he thought of Saturday, and the empty sign-up. He forced the words out. "I'm running a ghost tour," Zack said. His voice cracked. "Saturday. Town history. Old stories." Billy Ray stopped wiping the counter. He looked at Zack like he was seeing him for the first time. "You talk," Billy Ray said. Zack's face went hot. "Ten dollars a head. I mean, not for you. I mean, if you wanted to come. To the tour." He pulled out the crumpled flyer and slid it across the bar. His hand shook. Billy Ray picked it up. He read it slow. The bar hummed around them, but Zack heard only his own pulse. "You did this," Billy Ray said. Not a question. "Yeah." Billy Ray folded the flyer and tucked it in his shirt pocket. "Nobody in this town does anything." He leaned on the counter. "I'll come." Zack blinked. "You will?" "Said so." Billy Ray studied him a moment longer. "Ginger ale guy makes ghost tours. Didn't see that." Zack laughed. It surprised them both. "There's more to me than a drink order." "Starting to think so." A small smile. Then a customer waved from the far end, and Billy Ray moved off to pour a beer. Zack sat with his ginger ale and let it sink in. He had done it. He had talked. Billy Ray Tims was coming Saturday. The stool felt lighter under him. Then the weight dropped back down. Billy Ray was coming. Coming to a tour Zack had not written yet. He had a flyer and an old oak tree with two initials in the bark. That was all. No route. No stories. No ghosts. Billy Ray glanced back and gave a short nod, like they shared something now. Zack nodded too and smiled until the man looked away. He walked home in the dark. Matty met him at the gate, tail going. Zack knelt and scratched the beagle's ears under the red bandana. "I got him to come," Zack whispered. "Now I have to give him a reason." He had three days to build a ghost tour worth ten dollars. And the one person he wanted to impress would be standing right there.