Between Then and Now (Hallow’s End #1)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

T HE ROAD TO HALLOW’S END was winding and narrow, each twist and turn flanked by towering trees dressed in vibrant autumn colours. Golden leaves fluttered down like confetti, carpeting the road in a mosaic of amber, crimson, and russet hues. As I drove closer to the town, apprehension and hope churned within me.

My hands tightened around the steering wheel, the leather cool and familiar under my fingertips. The small, old hatchback car—my pride and joy—rattled and hummed with each bump in the road. I had named her Betty, and she was a comforting companion through thick and thin. She wasn’t much to look at, with her faded paint and occasional sputter, but she symbolized something far more valuable than luxury—my independence.

I bought Betty a year ago, at twenty-three, using money I had painstakingly saved from selling my art online and working as a waitress during college—pursuits I had to keep secret from my parents, who would have dismissed them as distractions beneath our status. They had offered me a state-of-the-art luxury car, but I wanted nothing to do with their money. Every dollar I saved was mine, and was a small but significant step toward the independence I craved. Betty, with her quirks and occasional rattles, became more than just a vehicle. She was a reliable companion through late-night drives, long diner shifts, and countless moments of reflection—a tangible symbol of the life I was building on my own terms.

A sudden ring jolted me back to the present. I glanced at the phone mounted on the dashboard, where Sebastian’s name popped on the screen. I groaned. It had been three months since we broke up, yet his calls and texts hadn’t stopped. They had slowed down, sure, but there was always the occasional message to remind me of the lingering threads of our past. With a sigh, I focused back on the road, ignoring his call. I wasn’t ready to dive into that emotional quagmire, especially not while driving.

As I checked the GPS map for directions, I took a right turn onto a winding road, and the scenery shifted, revealing the stunning beauty of Massachusetts in autumn. The air was crisp and fresh, carrying the earthy scent of fallen leaves and the faint aroma of woodsmoke from distant chimneys.

The engine sputtered slightly as I glanced at the GPS one more time before the signal cut out completely. Only the rhythmic crunch of tires over fallen leaves, and the occasional creak of the suspension, filled the silence that followed. I sighed and muttered to myself.

“Welcome to the middle of nowhere, Vinnie.”

The picturesque town of Hallow’s End appeared before me as my car emerged from the dense forest, bathed in the gentle glow of the late afternoon. Cobblestone streets wound through clusters of quaint houses and shops, each one decorated with pumpkins and cornstalks, embracing the season’s festive spirit.

As I drove through the town, I marvelled at how charming everything looked. The residential area was picture-perfect, with white picket fences surrounding well-kept lawns, vibrant flower beds, and cozy porches adorned with seasonal wreaths. It felt like I was stepping into a classic movie set. The kind of small town where everyone knew each other’s names, and life moved at a slower, more deliberate pace. I couldn’t believe I had lived so close to something this beautiful for so long—if you could call a two-and-a-half-hour drive close.

Eventually, I turned onto a narrow, dead-end street called Evergreen Way, which led to my new home—a rustic, ivy-covered cottage that seemed plucked from another era. Nestled at the lane’s end, it was framed by towering pine trees, with rolling hills stretching out to the horizon beyond. The sight was both comforting and intimidating.

This was supposed to be my fresh start. My escape from the chaos of Cresden—and the memories of Sebastian Sterling. As I sat in my car outside the cottage, I couldn’t shake the notion that I was an outsider in this tranquil, tight-knit community. Driving through the town, I had noticed a few townspeople glancing my way with mild curiosity, like they could instantly tell I was new here, their lives so intricately intertwined that a stranger’s presence was an unusual occurrence.

I’d half-expected people to step out of their homes, waving and offering a warm welcome, as if in some heartwarming story where newcomers are embraced with open arms. But that moment never came. Instead, the people of Hallow’s End continued their routines, subtly acknowledging my presence, but keeping a respectful distance. The picturesque streets and peaceful atmosphere were exactly what I had hoped for, yet now, sitting in my car, the silence felt more isolating than comforting. It was a stark contrast to the anonymity of Cresden, where blending in was easy. Here, in this perfect small town, people noticed every unfamiliar face, and every unfamiliar car stood out.

With a deep breath, I stepped out of the car and stretched my stiff limbs. The crisp autumn air filled my lungs, carrying with it the scents of pine, rain, and burning wood—a welcome change from the exhaust fumes and constant hum of the urban environment I was used to.

I approached the front porch, finding the key right where the owner had promised—in a small, rusted tin hidden under the welcome mat. I couldn’t help but smile at the simplicity of it all. Only in a small neighborhood like this, would people consider it normal and safe to leave a key out in the open. In Cresden, the very idea would be laughable. Cresden was a city where everyone double-locked their doors, installed security systems, and looked suspiciously at strangers. There, the pace of life was fast, and trust was a rare commodity, guarded as closely as one’s belongings.

This charming town was another world—one where the air was cleaner, the pace slower, and the sense of community stronger. The idea that someone could feel safe enough to leave a key under a mat spoke volumes about the trust and simplicity that permeated this place. It was a charming anachronism, a relic of a more innocent time that still lingered here, far removed from the cynicism and hustle of city life.

I unlocked the door, and the hinges creaked as I let it swing open, before heading straight back to the car and popping the trunk to unload the few boxes I had brought along. It wasn’t much—just enough for a short stay. This trip had been a spontaneous decision, and I wasn’t sure how long I’d remain here. I’d rented the cottage for just a couple of weeks, hoping to figure out my next steps during this brief escape.

I’d packed only the essentials: a few changes of clothes, my art supplies, and some personal mementos I couldn’t bear to leave behind. It was a bare-bones setup, perfectly reflecting my uncertainty, and the transient nature of this decision. The minimal luggage contrasted sharply with the weight of the life I had left behind in Cresden, where I’d felt so entrenched and suffocated.

Carefully balancing the boxes, I made my way back to the front porch. Lanterns lined the stone pathway, their flickering lights promising warmth and welcome. As I reached the door, a gust of wind kicked up, sending a stack of art supplies tumbling from my arms and across the yard. Brushes, canvases, and sketchbooks scattered like fallen leaves.

“Great,” I muttered, chasing after the runaway items, frustration bubbling up as I struggled to gather everything. My mind drifted back to the neatly organized studio I had left behind in Cresden. The spacious loft had been a haven of creativity and order, with its large windows letting in natural light, pristine white walls covered with my favorite pieces, and shelves meticulously organized with every brush, canvas, and tube of paint in its proper place. I remembered the comfort of my ergonomic chair, the smell of fresh coffee from the Starbucks downstairs wafting through the open window, and the soft hum of urban life that provided a constant, familiar backdrop to my work.

In Cresden, I had a sense of control, even amidst the chaos of my personal life. Here, in this unfamiliar and unpredictable place, everything was already seeming to slip through my fingers—both literally and figuratively.

A worn photograph slipped free from one of the sketchbooks and fluttered to the ground. I paused, staring at the picture of Sebastian and me from a few months into our relationship. We were on a crowded street in Cresden, the city lights twinkling like stars behind us.

I had taken the selfie, capturing us in a moment of pure joy. Sebastian’s arm was wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me close. He held an ice cream cone in his other hand, and we both were laughing, our smiles wide and genuine. I had just turned twenty, and my gray eyes were still full of hope, a soft smile playing on my lips. Sebastian, three years older, looked down at me with a playful glint in his emerald eyes. A smudge of ice cream marked his chiselled jawline, his blonde hair messy from the windy day.

Looking at the photograph now, a pang of nostalgia struck me. We were so happy then, so full of life and dreams. But those carefree days felt like a lifetime ago, overshadowed by the reality of our breakup, and the weight of everything that had followed.

With a sigh, I tucked the photograph back into the sketchbook and stooped to gather the scattered art supplies. As I picked up the sketch pencils and pads, I thought back to how much had changed since that photo was taken. Sebastian had finished college a year into our relationship, and his carefree, fun-loving side gradually gave way to the pressures of long meetings and responsibilities. He started working for his father, putting his business degree to use.

I understood the need for him to take things more seriously, but I felt the distance grow between us. While I was still in college, enjoying the freedom and creativity it afforded, Sebastian became absorbed in his new job. He tried to make time for me, and our families being so closely connected helped. We still had weekends at home, and family dinners, but it wasn’t the same. It had felt like he was slowly leaving behind the part of himself that I had fallen in love with—the spontaneous, joyful side.

As I carried the boxes to the door and set them down with a soft thud, I thought back to the occasional glimmers of his old self that would still emerge. Every now and then, that carefree, fun-loving Sebastian would resurface, surprising me with an impromptu date night, or a spontaneous road trip. Those fleeting moments reminded me of the man I had fallen for, and they kept me holding on .

Despite the changes, those brief glimpses of our past happiness made me believe we could rekindle what we once had. For years, I had clung to that hope, convincing myself that the man I loved was still there, just buried under the pressures of his new responsibilities. It was those moments, rare and precious, that made me stay, hoping they would become more frequent, and that we could find our way back to each other.

“Need a hand?” a bright voice interrupted my thoughts.

I looked up to see a woman with dark-blue hair and a whimsical smile standing at the gate. She looked to be about my age, perhaps a year or two older at most.

As she approached, her outfit caught my eye—a mix of sheer black lace and velvet that gave off a distinct Stevie Nicks vibe. Layers of fabric flowed around her, and a fringed shawl draped over her shoulders. Beneath it, a green dress, embroidered with intricate patterns of leaves and vines, shimmered in the sunlight.

“Yes, please,” I replied, grateful for the distraction. She stepped forward, her movements graceful and fluid, and handed me a brush she had picked up.

“I’m Ivy Hart,” she said, her smile warm and inviting. “Welcome to Hallow’s End.”

“Thanks,” I uttered, tucking the supplies in the box and returning her smile. “I’m Lavinia Carlisle, but everyone calls me Vinnie.”

As she stood closer, I noticed more details. Ivy was about five-foot-three, with a curvy figure that perfectly captured a girl-next-door charm mixed with a touch of mysticism. The charm bracelets on her wrists chimed softly as she adjusted her shawl. There was something undeniably enchanting about her whimsical ensemble and her striking blue hair, making her seem like a modern-day fairy .

Ivy’s blue eyes sparkled with curiosity. “I know who you are. Everyone does. We rarely have newcomers this early in autumn. Most people visit later in the year. There’s been quite a buzz about you staying for so long. Most only come for a week or two.” Her whimsical smile widened. “I run the bookshop, Enchanted Quill. Stop by if you need a good read, or some herbal tea.”

The thought that everyone already knew about me sent a flutter of anxiety and curiosity through my stomach. It was strange to be the center of attention in a place I barely knew.

“That’s . . . good to know,” I remarked, trying to maintain a smile. “I’ll definitely come by.”

As Ivy chatted with me, she reached into a large, bohemian-style tote bag, adorned with embroidered flowers and tassels, that was slung over her shoulder. She pulled out a small bundle of herbs tied with a delicate ribbon and handed it to me. The fragrant mix of lavender, rosemary, and basil filled the air.

“For new beginnings,” she said with a knowing smile.

I took the bundle, glancing at it curiously. Sensing my confusion, Ivy’s smile widened, and she explained, “These are herbs from my garden. Rosemary for protection, lavender for good luck, and basil for prosperity and abundance. Hang it by your front door to welcome all these blessings into your home while you stay here.”

As Ivy spoke, I thought back to my college days. While I had never been particularly interested in the witchy side of life, my college roommate Sandra was an enthusiastic believer in crystals and tarot cards. During a full moon, she used to place jars of water on the windowsill, claiming it was for making moon water , though I never quite understood what that meant. I had always found it odd, smiling politely at her explanations while secretly wondering if it actually did anything .

Now, standing in front of Ivy, I wondered if she did similar things. Her gift of the herb bundle, and her talk of blessings, had a charming sincerity to it, even if it was outside my usual realm of belief. Still, there was something comforting about the idea of welcoming positivity into my new space, even if it came in the form of herbs from a garden.

“Thanks,” I said, with a glimmer of hope. Perhaps this place, and these people, were precisely what I needed to move forward.

As we finished gathering the scattered art supplies, Ivy began chatting about the town’s upcoming Halloween festival. “It’s a really big deal around here,” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Everyone in the community gets involved. There are stalls, games, a costume parade, and a bonfire. We call it Spooktacular Hallow’s Eve, and it’s what attracts most of our visitors and tourists. The town can get pretty busy toward the end of October—it’s the perfect way to experience the town’s spirit!”

Her enthusiasm was infectious and, for the first time since arriving, I felt a flicker of excitement. “That sounds amazing,” I said, genuinely intrigued. “I’d love to check it out.”

“You definitely should,” Ivy replied with a warm smile. “And we’re always looking for volunteers to help with the setup. It’s a great way to get to know everyone, and really feel like part of the community.”

I nodded, feeling a sense of belonging start to take root. “I’d love to help out. Count me in.”

Ivy’s face lit up. “That’s fantastic, Vinnie! We could always use an extra pair of hands. It’s going to be so much fun!”

“Looking forward to it,” I said, genuinely excited about the prospect of diving into the town’s traditions and getting to know more of the locals.

Halloween was seven weeks away, and I realized it would be a perfect way to wrap up my stay at Hallow’s End. By then, I hoped I would have a clearer idea of where to go next and what steps to take in my life .

After Ivy left, I carried the last box inside and set it down in the living room. The cottage was modest but cozy, with wooden beams on the ceiling adding a rustic charm. The warm and inviting space featured walls painted in a soft, creamy white, and a floor made of polished hardwood.

Clearly targeting tourists seeking a picturesque getaway, the layout was open, and thoughtfully designed. The living room flowed seamlessly into a small but fully equipped kitchen, complete with quaint, vintage-style appliances. A comfortable-looking sofa was positioned in front of a stone fireplace, perfect for curling up on chilly nights. A wooden coffee table sat in front of it, adorned with a few carefully selected magazines, and a vase of fresh flowers.

To the left, a set of French doors led to a small dining area, which featured a round table and four chairs, all made of sturdy oak. Light, gauzy curtains draped the windows, letting in plenty of natural light and brightening the space. On the right side of the living room, a narrow hallway led to the bedroom and bathroom. The bedroom was simple yet charming, with a large, plush bed covered in soft linens and decorative pillows. A small TV sat on a low dresser opposite the bed, providing a touch of modern convenience in the otherwise quaint setting.

I stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by boxes, and took a deep breath. This was a temporary refuge, a place to pause and gather my thoughts away from the expectations and pressures of my old life. This cottage, with its perfect blend of comfort and quaintness, offered a peaceful escape where I could find some clarity and decide on my next steps. A quiet space to breathe, and figure out what I truly wanted for my future.

Yet, as I unpacked my things and tried to make the space my own, I couldn’t shake the sensation that something was missin g

Leaving Cresden hadn’t been easy. The city’s relentless pace, the constant pressure from my parents, and the suffocating way of a life I hadn’t chosen for myself, had all become overwhelming. But leaving Sebastian had been hard. Yet, our relationship had been a mess, and I’d finally reached a point where I couldn’t take it anymore. Even though I knew it was the right thing to do, the ache in my heart was still there, lingering and persistent.

Despite the bad stuff, there were moments of pure, undeniable passion and connection. His intense green eyes, the way he could evoke a sense of vitality and invincibility with just a look, and the dreams we had once shared—all of it haunted me. I missed the thrill he brought to my life, and the excitement that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

The cozy nook, with its soft natural light, seemed perfect for setting up a temporary art station. As I unpacked my art supplies, the familiar scent of the paints, and the feel of brushes in my hands, brought back memories of our time together. As I arranged my canvases and paint tubes, I thought back to one, particularly vivid night.

Sebastian, in a rare burst of spontaneity, had suggested something daring—naked modelling. He’d proposed the idea with a mischievous grin, and I couldn’t resist the excitement it promised. We set up in my studio, the room alive with the scent of paint, and the soft glow of dimmed lights. As I sketched him, the air seemed charged with anticipation. His intense green eyes never left mine, and soon, he was behind me, his hands playfully smudging paint on my skin.

“Let me paint you,” he whispered, reaching for a brush. We laughed as he gently traced patterns on my body, the cool sensation of paint contrasting with the warmth of his touch. It became a game of distraction. Every time I tried to concentrate on the sketch, he’d kiss my neck, or lightly run his fingers along my sides, making me giggle and squirm. Before long, we were both covered in paint and tangled together on the floor, lost in a messy, passionate embrace.

The memory was bittersweet.

Despite the superficial aspects of our relationship, there was a genuine love between us. I loved how he made me feel alive and invincible, a feeling I hadn’t recaptured since. Those wild, carefree moments unveiled my hidden potential, allowing me to channel my creativity into something raw and beautiful. They were a reminder of the intense, unconventional love we shared, a love that was both exhilarating and fleeting.

Here, the calm was burdensome—almost stifling—enhancing the void left by Sebastian’s absence. As I put the last sketchbook away, the same photograph that had slipped out earlier caught my eye, its corner sticking out from the pages. It was a snapshot of a past life I was trying to leave behind, and I pulled it out, glancing at the familiar image one last time. The ache of those memories was still there, but I needed to move forward. Determined to bury the past, and the lingering presence of Sebastian, I tucked the photograph into a drawer, out of sight and, hopefully , out of mind .

This marked a new beginning, and I was determined to make it work. I just hoped that, in the process of finding myself, I wouldn’t lose sight of who I wanted to become.

Seeking further solace, I wandered into the kitchen and found a welcome basket the owner of the cottage had prepared. They had filled it with thoughtful items: a bottle of red wine, a loaf of freshly baked bread, a jar of homemade jam, and a selection of local cheeses. Tucked inside was a folded note. I opened it and read the warm message:

Welcome to Willow Cottage!

I hope you enjoy your stay, and that this place feels like a home away from home. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out. Just a quick note: the hot water in the shower does work, but it takes a minute or two to come through, so don’t worry if it seems cold at first! Also, please remember to secure the trash and recycling bins outside—raccoons can be quite the little bandits around here!

P.S. I’ve asked Ivy to pop by and welcome you, as I’m visiting family at the moment. Hope to see you around our charming town soon!

Best, Margie.

Smiling at the personal touch, I poured myself a glass of wine and felt a bit more settled. The warmth of the fire, and the simple pleasures from the basket, eased the tension in my shoulders. Taking the glass, and a piece of bread and cheese, I settled onto the comfortable sofa, sinking into its plush cushions. The long drive had left me weary, both physically and emotionally, and it felt good to finally relax.

As I nibbled on the bread and cheese, I chuckled to myself, thinking about how this was such a typical girl-dinner—wine and snacks, the perfect end to a tiring day. It was a small indulgence, but one that felt right in this quiet, cozy setting.

The bundle of herbs Ivy had given me sat on the coffee table, their subtle fragrance filling the room. I made a mental note to hang them up tomorrow—perhaps they really would bring in some good luck. God knows, I could use a bit of that right now.

The sun was setting out the window, casting a warm, golden hue over the landscape. The sky was a canvas of vibrant oranges, pinks, and purples, each color blending into the next in a breathtaking display. And with that, I felt a small spark of hope. Maybe this place, with its quaint charm and quiet comfort, was exactly what I needed to find my way again.