Mira Hunt

The bell above the door to Harland’s Old Books gave its usual tired jingle as Mira Hunt flipped the sign to Open. The shop smelled of yellowed pages, wood polish, and the faint ghost of pipe smoke—old Mr. Harland’s scent lingering long after he’d retired. Sunlight crept through dusty windows, catching in the motes drifting between leaning shelves that seemed to groan under the weight of their contents. Mira liked mornings here. The slow rhythm, the silence only broken by the creak of floorboards, gave her time to think. She started her usual ritual—brewing tea, checking the register, and making sure the local history section was tidy. Most customers headed straight for the new releases by the window, never sparing a glance for the cracked-spined volumes in the back. That suited her fine. When the shop was empty, she slipped into the archive room behind the counter, where stacks of unsorted donations sat in precarious towers. Here, she hunted—not ghosts, but the paper trails they left behind. A ledger from 1893 hinted at the collapse of a mining tunnel and the “restless sightings” that followed. A half-burnt diary described strange blue lights at the harbor. Mira scribbled notes in her leather journal, each entry feeding her growing map of Hollowford’s hauntings. Around midday, a regular wandered in for a newspaper and coffee-table travel book. Mira handled the sale with polite efficiency, never revealing the thrill buzzing under her calm surface. To anyone watching, she was just the quiet shop clerk who preferred reading to conversation. When the final customer left, she returned to a stack of brittle scrapbooks. One photo caught her eye—an arcade, thirty years ago, before the neon faded and the plaster peeled. In the background, barely visible, was the same claw machine she’d battled the week before. Its glass was clouded even then, and behind it, a shadow that didn’t belong. Mira closed the book, lips curving in a private smile.