After dropping my bags in the small, musty room, I decided to explore the town. The streets were nearly empty. And the few people I saw hurried by with their heads down, avoiding eye contact. The town had an eerie vibe.
I found the diner Marissa had mentioned, The Pot. It was a small shop where the food was cheap, the coffee strong, and the gossip plentiful. If there was any place to start digging, it was here.
As I entered, the bell above the door jingled. Every head turned to look at me. Conversations fell silent, replaced by a thick tension that hung in the air. I felt like an intruder in a place where I didn’t belong.
Ignoring the stares, I took a seat at the counter. The waitress, a woman in her fifties with graying hair, approached with a tired smile. Her eyes lingered on me, trying to figure out my purpose.
“Coffee, please,” I said, forcing a smile.
She nodded and poured a cup. “You’re not from around here,” she mumbled, more a statement than a question.
“No, I’m not,” I replied. “I’m a journalist investigating the recent animal attacks.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. I felt their eyes on me. The waitress’s smile faltered.