Losing our innocence can be dangerous because our ignorance is a shield. - Dan Simmons

Food prep was only slightly more eventful than gym.

The kitchen was alive with noise: pots clanging, spoons rattling, timers beeping. Jon and I were in charge of desserts for an upcoming school event hosted by Mrs. Mack—our teacher who ruled the kitchen like Gordon Ramsay's long-lost aunt, minus the swearing but with equal intensity.

Jon and I made a great team in the kitchen. I mixed and measured while he focused on decorating and presentation.

The air smelled of warm vanilla and rich chocolate. Each stir of the batter felt oddly satisfying, like ASMR in real life. The counter exploded with colour—deep cocoa, carrot‑orange, and creamy whites topped with rainbow sprinkles.

Chocolate with caramel? Heck yes. Sprinkles? You bet.

Despite the chaos—clattering tools, shouted instructions, and the whir of the mixer—Jon and I moved in sync. I sifted the flour while he folded in the eggs. We tripled recipes, and soon trays of cupcakes, brownies, and cookies lined the counters.

After nearly an hour, we finally stepped back. The platters were stacked high, and every dessert gleamed under the fluorescent lights—frosting polished to perfection, sprinkles sparkling like tiny jewels.

The fridge door whooshed open, and the cool air hit my face as we tucked away our masterpieces. It felt a bit like finishing a long run—exhausting but oddly satisfying.

The temptation to sneak a taste was strong. I could almost taste the fluffy frosting melting on my tongue, but we knew better than to risk Mrs. Mack's wrath by indulging prematurely.

Bidding her farewell, we headed off to our last class of the day—English.

The hall was filled with the chatter of students, a mix of laughter and the rustling of backpacks. We descended the steps, the weight of our bags pressing against our shoulders, and the faint smell of food lingered in the hall.

Jon and I were always ahead of the curve, slipping into our usual seats in the middle row just as Mr. Haggerty entered. A warm smile flashed my way, and I returned it quickly before turning to Jonathan, who was already rummaging through his notes.

I approached Mr. Haggerty before the lesson began, my heart thumping in my chest. I hesitated, a chill running down my spine. Clearing my throat, I finally spoke, "Mr. Haggerty," my voice wavered slightly. "We were hoping to talk to you about our assignment after class."

Relief washed over me when he nodded.

I returned to my seat, the classroom buzzing with energy as students settled in. Mr. Haggerty announced we could work on our projects today. The hum of excitement grew, and I could hear keyboards clicking and paper rustling as he added, "You'll have access to the computer lab for further research later this week."

Jon and I wasted no time diving into our assignment. My laptop hummed to life, its screen casting a faint glow. I opened my rough draft of the introduction. We both leaned in, the scent of old books and chalk dust around us.

When you first looked at Willow Creek, Ontario, you'd swear it was straight out of some vintage postcard—Victorian-style storefronts, old iron lamp posts, a main street lined with weeping willows and the smell of my mum's cinnamon buns drifting from the bakery.

People smiled, waved, talked about the weather. But anyone who'd lived here long enough knew that the town's charm was mostly surface—like a coat of fresh paint covering rot underneath.

My grandparents used to say Willow Creek was built on hard work and good intentions, but if that was true, the foundation must've cracked somewhere along the way. Because beneath the small-town smiles and the "how-ya-doings," there was a history nobody wanted to face.

We hadn't meant to stumble onto the pattern; it started as research for our English project. But once we connected the dots—newspaper clippings, police records, old diaries—it felt like something inside the town shifted.

It started back in the 1840s, when the first girl went missing. Then another. Then another.

People back then blamed everything from wild animals to ghosts, until fear started turning friend against friend. And that fear never really left.

The stories got passed around until they disappeared too—like the girls themselves. Over the years, it became something people just didn't bring up. Too painful, too complicated, maybe too close to home.

By the time we were born, the town had learned to live with its shadows. We grew up playing by the creeks, not realizing how close we were to the places where others had disappeared. Our parents told us to be careful, but not why. Maybe they were trying to protect us. Or maybe pretending nothing was wrong was easier.

Even now, the streets looked normal — kids biking to the general store, parents sipping coffee on their porches — but once you noticed the pattern, the town didn't seem so friendly anymore.

The latest to disappear was Miranda Hutchins. She was the kind of person people either loved or couldn't stand. She wasn't just popular—she was magnetic. Some said she was destined to leave town and make it big; others figured she thought she was too good for Willow Creek.

When she went missing, everything that had been buried rose right back up. The calm surface cracked, and suddenly everyone remembered what they'd spent generations trying to forget.

When they found her body in the woods last week, the whole town froze. People brought flowers, baked casseroles, said all the right words, but underneath their sympathy was fear. Because this had happened before. Over and over.

That's when Jon said it out loud, what we'd both been thinking: maybe the monsters weren't hiding under beds—they were walking among us. Maybe they always had been.

This town had lived so long beside its own darkness that it couldn't tell the difference anymore. Evil didn't just visit Willow Creek—it had taken up residence. And if the past had taught us anything, it was that pretending not to see something doesn't make it go away.

Jon once joked that if Netflix ever made a docuseries about us, it'd be called Pretty Town, Ugly Secrets. I laughed, but deep down, I knew he was right.

Maybe that's why we're telling this story—not to sensationalize it, but to finally say out loud what everyone's been afraid to admit. Willow Creek wasn't cursed by ghosts. It was haunted by history.

If Willow Creek ever wanted to heal—to finally be more than its ghosts—it had to face the truth about what really happened to those girls. Otherwise, we'd just keep telling the same story again, generation after generation.

Now, as we write this, it's hard not to wonder what that says about us—about how a town can smile on the surface while rotting underneath. Maybe it's not just about the girls who vanished. Maybe it's about the silence that lets it keep happening.

Willow Creek wasn't innocent anymore. Maybe it never was.

Jon's words cut through my insecurities like that first ray of sunlight after a downpour.

"This is amazing!" he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up.

Jon never lied to make me feel better—he was brutally honest, like lemon juice on a paper cut. It's why his approval meant so much more than any teacher ever could.

I felt a smile pulling at my lips before I could stop it.

"This is a bit random," I said, squinting at him, "but have your eyes always had those green flecks?"

He laughed. "Yeah, but, they show up more in the sun. Why?"

"No reason," I shrugged, suddenly aware that my heart was acting like it had downed a double shot of espresso. "They're just... kind of nice. Can't believe I never noticed before."

He blinked, caught off guard. "Oh."

Outside, the late afternoon sky deepened into that peculiar shade of storm grey—the kind that makes you wonder if the universe is just having a laugh. I muttered a quiet curse under my breath, realizing I'd left my umbrella at home. Typical me.

Jon caught the look on my face and chuckled. "You can hang out in the gym while I practise with the basketball team.. I'm sure Coach won't mind. Better than getting drenched, eh?"

Soon, the first drops began to fall, tapping against the window in a steady rhythm, almost like a lo-fi beat you'd study to.

Then, the school bell rang, signalling the end of another day. Jon and I lingered in our seats, watching as other students filed out. The light from the overcast sky filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the near empty classroom.

Jon shifted beside me. "You sure you wanna do this today?"

"If we don't, I'll just overthink it all night," I said, stuffing my notebook into my bag. "You know how my brain works."

He gave me a small smile, brushing his long dark hair out of his eyes. "Yeah, I know."

Only once the last student slipped out the door did we approach Mr. Haggerty.

He looked up when our shadows fell over his papers, eyes flashing with mild surprise. "Do you two need something?"

"We were hoping to speak with you about our history assignment," I said, my voice more confident than I felt.

"Ah, yes." He dropped his pen and leaned back. "You're not having trouble, are you?"

"No, no," I replied quickly. "We just wanted to ask a few questions."

"Fire away," he said.

I hesitated for a second, fingers fidgeting with the strap of my backpack. "As you probably know, I have a fascination—some might call it an obsession—with true crime."

Mr. Haggerty's mouth tugged into a faint smile. "Yes, I'm aware."

"Well, I decided to research Willow Creek." I inhaled. "And... I wasn't expecting what I found."

His expression shifted slightly, the tiniest flicker of recognition—or was it discomfort? "You were shocked by what you discovered?"

"Exactly," I said.

What followed wasn't at all what I expected.

His fifth-great-grandfather, William Haggerty, had actually discovered Willow Creek in 1815—not Arthur Ingram. William had fled England under mysterious circumstances and stumbled across this place by accident. He'd named it after the willows lining the creek he camped beside.

He hesitated, then added, "There have always been whispers about my family. Rumours of... unusual practices. A supposed cult, some said."

I raised an eyebrow. "So, like, candlelit rituals and goat sacrifices, or the lowkey, book-club kind of cult?"

Jon shot me a look—half amused, half warning—but Mr. Haggerty didn't seem offended. He just gave me a small, almost sad smile.

"Neither," he said softly. "But close enough to make people afraid."

"So, they erased all evidence of your family from the town founding?" I asked.

Mr. Haggerty smiled faintly, but it was the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Erased, rewritten, sanitised — take your pick."

It made sense, in a twisted way, why they'd rewrite history. No one wants to live in a town founded by a family accused of running a cult. You'd rather name the founder after someone squeaky clean—Arthur Ingram, pioneer extraordinaire. Makes for better tourism posters.

"Why tell us this?" Jon asked.

He exhaled. "Because I know what you're researching. The disappearances. You're not the first to look into them."

My throat went dry. "What do you mean?"

He gathered his papers and avoided my eyes. "Just be careful," he said. "Not everything is as it seems."

I looked over at the clock, and my heart sank.

Shoot. Jon's basketball practice was starting any minute.

I smacked his arm to get his attention. "Your basketball practice!" I hissed.

Jon's head shot up like I'd just told him his hair was on fire. "What—oh crap!" He jumped to his feet, panic written all over his face. Books, notes, and pencil shavings went flying. Papers fluttered down like sad confetti as he tried to cram everything into his bag.

"Hey," I said, reaching for one of his notebooks before it hit the floor. "I've got this. Go, before Coach eats you alive."

"Thank you, thank you!" he said breathlessly, leaning down to press a quick peck on my cheek before bolting out the door. His sneakers squeaked against the tile as he vanished down the hall.

I froze. My cheek tingled. Not that it meant anything. He did that sometimes—Jon was affectionate by nature. Probably due to the lack of it he received from his parents.

As I gathered his papers, I couldn't help but chuckle at the tornado he left behind. Doodles in the margins, half-written sentences about old Willow Creek legends, and one particularly aggressive note to himself that just said RESEARCH MISSING GIRLS. I traced the messy ink with my finger. We'd been writing our English project—a "creative nonfiction" piece for Mr. Haggerty's class that had somehow become a full-blown investigative deep dive into two centuries of disappearances around our town.

I slipped his last notebook into his bag, straightened up, and was about to leave when something nagged at me.

Right. Mr. Haggerty.

He was still at his desk at the front of the room, gathering his things.

"Um, Mr. Haggerty?" I said, approaching.

He looked up, blinking as if coming out of a daydream. "Yes, Harley?"

"Just wondering—did you ever tell Mr. Killian that I get distracted in your class?"

His brow furrowed. "No. Why do you ask?"

I shifted my weight. "Because today in biology, he mentioned moving my seat away from Damon. He said you told him I talk too much with friends."

Mr. Haggerty let out a low chuckle that didn't quite sound amused. "I don't recall saying that. Perhaps he just wants to keep you close so he can keep an eye on you."

The way he said it made a chill creep up my spine.

Then—snap.

His pen broke clean in two, black ink bleeding like veins across his papers.

"Whoa," I said, startled. "You okay?"

He blinked, like he'd forgotten I was there. "Sorry," he murmured. He grabbed tissues, moving fast, almost frantic, blotting at the ink while avoiding my eyes. "Clumsy of me. Is that all you wanted, Harley?"

"Yeah," I said slowly, still watching the tension in his jaw. "That's all."

"Good. Enjoy your friend's practice." His tone was flat.

I forced a smile. "Thanks. Bye, Mr. Haggerty!"

As I turned to leave, I caught one last glimpse of him. He wasn't cleaning anymore. He just sat there, staring at the stained paper, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. For a moment, he looked almost... haunted.

In that split second, it became clear—Mr. Haggerty was one of many, carrying secrets and stories that had yet to be told.

The thing about small towns—they always look peaceful. Until you start turning over stones.

And Jon and I? We were getting really good at turning over stones.