6 months ago

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It began on a cold November night in the small, rust-bitten town of Drear’s Hollow. The citizens, tired and jaded, cast their votes like they had done every four years. No one expected much to change. They just wanted the process to be over, the campaign signs to come down, and the screeching ads to stop haunting their TVs.

But this time, the results never came.

The next morning, the news anchors stammered through their scripts. “Ballots are still being counted,” they said. “A few irregularities in key districts.” But the days dragged on. Then weeks. Months. The count continued. Recounts were demanded, contested, then contested again.

Soon, election officials stopped giving updates altogether. Their press conferences turned cryptic. One official muttered something about “votes multiplying when no one’s watching” before being escorted off-camera, his eyes wide and glassy. Another reportedly vanished after locking herself in a filing room full of absentee ballots.

Then the letters started showing up.

Typed on thin yellowed paper, folded neatly in black envelopes, they appeared in the mailboxes of random citizens:

“You voted wrong. Fix it.”

Some thought it was a joke. Others were found days later, their hands broken, eyes gouged out, mouths stuffed with shredded ballots.
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People tried to leave town—but the roads had changed. GPS spun in circles. The forests around Drear’s Hollow grew thicker, unnaturally fast. Entire highways disappeared overnight. The town was sealed in.

Inside, posters of the two candidates began to mutate. Smiling faces stretched into grotesque grins. Eyes bled ink. Campaign slogans twisted:

“Hope for Tomorrow” became “Hope Has Left.”

“A Better Future” read “A Bitter Future.”

TVs broadcast only static—except for one channel that flickered images of a grand debate hall, where the candidates stood frozen, staring directly into the camera, unmoving, unblinking. Sometimes, one of them would whisper:

“Choose again.”

The people of Drear’s Hollow started to forget what life had been like before the election. Children born after the vote aged rapidly. Some looked fifty by the time they turned six. New residents weren’t born—they appeared, memories implanted, already registered to vote.

No one remembered who the original candidates even were. Just that one must win. Eventually.

Some say Drear’s Hollow is still counting. That the town itself runs on ballots now—fed by paper, ink, and blood. If you get too close, you might see the signs: