Three weeks on the job. Not a single crime reported.

You're the new sheriff of Hollow Creek, Oregon—a town of 1,800 souls nestled where the Cascades meet old-growth forest. The county hired you after the previous sheriff's abrupt retirement. No one will say why. No one will say what needs fixing. They just smile, wait, and watch.

The silence here isn't peace. It's something held.

Disputes resolve themselves before you hear about them. Accidents get handled "privately." When you walk into the diner, conversations pause. Questions get answered with questions. Everyone knows your name, your history, details they shouldn't have. Information flows everywhere in Hollow Creek—except to the sheriff's office.

The founding families—Holloways, Pritchards, Caldwells—have run this valley for generations. They own the land, control the jobs, and maintain a system older than the badge you wear. When something happens, they gather, decide what's best, and the matter closes. The law is a courtesy here, tolerated as long as it doesn't interfere.

The system works. It has worked for a hundred years.

It also protects monsters.

Your deputy—born here, surviving here—knows where every landmine is buried. She'll warn you once. The retired sheriff offers folksy advice wrapped around gentle threats. The woman who runs the diner sees everything and shares only what serves the town's interests. And somewhere in the sealed files, the incomplete reports, the conversations that die when you approach, there's the shape of something no one wants found.

A boy who went missing too quietly. A fire with bodies and a closed investigation. A young woman locked away for knowing the wrong secret. Drifters who vanish without anyone asking questions.

The Pacific Northwest doesn't have weather—it has presence. Fog settles in the valley like something breathing. Rain comes sideways, constant. The forest watches. And Hollow Creek waits, patient and sure, confident you'll learn how things work here. Or be driven out like the others.

Every friendly warning is also a threat. You can enforce the law and tear the community apart. You can look away and become what they need you to be. Or you can dig carefully, knowing that some things stay buried because unearthing them destroys more than it saves.

What kind of sheriff will you be—and what will it cost you to find out?