Page 11 of Where The Devil Kneels

A ripple passes through Officer Peck’s stance, shoulders drawing up, spine straightening. His fingers find the buttons of his uniform jacket, fumbling to close them as tiny bumps pepper the skin of his forearms. His eyes narrow at the impossible cold.

His breath catches, visible now in the air separating us. “Christ almighty,” he whispers, scanning the corners of the room like a man who’s just felt something brush against his ankle in deep water.

My own surprise mirrors his, but I force my expression into careful neutrality. How dare you come into my home and accuse me of… what? Murder? Kidnapping? “Happens sometimes,” I lie, watching his breath crystallize in the suddenly frigid air. Fuck you and your small-town suspicions. “Old houses have… quirks.” My fingers clench around the leather journal I don’t remember picking up, my knuckles bleached with strain. I hope you feel it too. This house is choosing sides.

His boot heel catches on the rug as he retreats a step, his jaw working beneath stubbled skin. Frost forms on the edges of his mouth when he finally speaks. “This isn’t over, Miss Hale,” he says, each syllable floating in the air like tiny ice crystals. “People don’t just vanish without someone knowing something.”

I nod, eager for him to leave, to take his suspicions and his questions with him. Fuck you and your small-town paranoia, I think, watching frost melt from his moustache. Who appointed you the Disappearance Detective anyway? “Of course,” I say with practised politeness. " I want to help howeverI can.”

We walk to the front door, and with each stride away from the library, the air warms. By the time we reach the porch, Officer Peck isn’t breathing out visible clouds anymore, but he’s watching me more carefully than before, eyes narrowed and suspicious.

He pauses at the threshold, one hand on the door frame. “I’d keep everything locked up tight if I were you,” he says, his voice holding an edge that suggests he’s not concerned for my safety. “We’ll finish this conversation tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry about me, Officer,” I reply, my smile not quite reaching my eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

From the doorway, I watch him march to his cruiser like he’s got a stick up his ass. Just before getting in, he turns and stares at the house—at me—like I’ve got “SERIAL KILLER” tattooed across my forehead. Great. Officer Small Town thinks the new girl is snatching his neighbours. Three whole people gone, and somehow I’m suspect number one despite barely knowing where the grocery store is.

As his cruiser disappears down the driveway, I slam the door and bang my head against it. Great. Just great. Three people have gone missing since I’ve moved in, and now I’m the town’s prime suspect. Add that to my growing list of problems: a house with secret passages I didn’t ask for, some invisible roommate with OCD who can’t stop touching my things, and apparently the ability to turn rooms into freezers when I get pissed off. What’s next? Spontaneous combustion when I’m horny?

It’s all jumbled in my head,the missing people, the freezing room, my stuff being moved around, but I know they fit somehow together. Like I’ve ended up in the middle of someone else’s story. And whoever’s hiding in these walls watching me, following me, rearranging my desk… what if they’re not trying to scare me? What if they’re trying to keep me safe from whatever’s happening in this town?

What scares the absolute hell out of me isn’t wondering if someone’s hiding in my walls. It’s the thought that Officer Stick-Up-His-Ass might be onto something, that maybe I’ve stumbled into some twisted shit just by taking the keys to this place, and now I’m neck-deep without even knowing how I got here.

I roll over for the hundredth time, punching my pillow into submission. Three a.m. glows red on the bedside clock, mocking my attempts at unconsciousness.Moonlight slides across the ceiling, turning water damage into archipelagos I could name if it would help me drift off. Every time I close my eyes, I see Peck’s face, hear his accusations. My brain cycles through the evidence: books straightened at perfect right angles, the dust-free outline where my lamp had been, that unmistakable shadow I saw on the roof line during last night’s downpour. I’ve had enough, enough wondering, enough pretending, enough lying awake while someone or something stalks the hallways in my home. If they want to protect this house, protect me, they can damn well do it to my face.

I kick off the covers and hiss as the cold air hits my bare legs. My feet find my slippers, and I grab the ancient cardigan I found in one of the closets, which probably belonged to some great-aunt who died in this very room. The candle beside my bed springs to life with a soft pop when I light it, the flame wobbling like my courage as I pick it up. Hot wax splashes onto my fingers and hardens in seconds, just enough pain to remind me I’m really doing this, that I’m not dreaming.

The hallway stretches ahead, each shadow and secret dancing on tattered wallpaper as my candle wobbles with each step. Moonlight drips through windows in weird patches, making silver puddles on the ratty carpet runner. The house is different at night, like it’s actually awake, ready to spill its guts when darkness hides how much it’s falling apart. Every damn floorboard squeals under my feet, basically announcing “Hey, she’s coming!” to whoever might be hiding in the walls.

The library door stands ajar, a rectangle of deeper darkness against the gloomy hallway. I pause at the threshold, suddenly aware of my racing pulse, the shallow tempo of my breathing. What if he’s in there right now, this watcher? What if he’s been waiting for me to acknowledge him, to seek him out? My fingers tighten around the candlestick, its bronze base chilly against my palm.

I nudge the door open wider with my hip, wincing at the tiny squeak from one stubborn hinge. Moonlight pours through those massive windows, stretching weird shadows spanning all the fancy leather books and dark wooden shelves. The air feels charged with something I can’t name, that electric heaviness right before lightning cracks open the sky. I set my candle down on the big table in the middle, watching how its flame bounces back at me from the window glass like some answering beacon from miles away.

I fish out the creased note from my pocket, smoothing the paper's edges against my thigh. God, I’d rewritten the damn thing so many times my trash can overflowed with discarded versions. In the end, I went with the simplest truth: “Iknow you’re here. Show yourself.” My handwriting looks tiny and exposed on the fancy cream paper I found in the desk drawer, like a confession I can’t take back. I set it next to the candle where the light catches every pen stroke, a challenge impossible to ignore.

I flop into the wingback chair facing the table, tucking my feet under me like some Jane Austen heroine waiting for her creepy mansion ghost to show. The leather’s chilly against my bare legs, of course, I didn’t think to put on pants for this midnight seance, but it warms up fast, like it’s had plenty of practice cradling the asses of people dumb enough to wait in the dark for things that go bump. The shadows past my sad little candle seem to throb with… something. Expectation? Or maybe that’s just me projecting because I’m so damn sure I’m being watched right now.

Hours drag by while the candle shrinks to a sad puddle and the house keeps up its geriatric moaning, popping and whining like it’s got arthritis in its beams. My brain won’t shut up, just keeps circling the drain with the same stupid questions. Who the hell is this creeper? What’s his deal with the whole invisible man routine? Is he some kind of self-appointed guardian angel or just another weirdo with boundary issues? And Christ, what about those missing people? Three vanish right when I show up, and I’m supposed to believe that’s a coincidence? Yeah, right. Welcome to town, here’s your complimentary stalker and murder investigation.

My eyelids keep trying to close on me, the little traitors. The candle’s almost a puddle now, just a sad flickering thing drowning in its own wax. Outside, the moon’s halfway gone, stars doing their sparkly thing without a care in the world. I pinch my wrist hard for the twentieth time. “Stay awake, Elara,” I mutter, but God, the house sounds like a calming lullaby tonight.

Old floors sighing like they’re tired too. Water is dripping somewhere from the storm. Wind brushes along the windows like it’s asking to be let in. I’m so screwed if I fall asleep, but my body’s fighting a losing battle here.

My chin hits my chest, and I jerk awake, heart pounding loudly like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. The candle flame wobbles all over the place, making the shadows do this freaky dance on the walls. Shit, how long was I out? Five minutes? Two hours? This night’s dragging on forever, as time got stuck in molasses. My arms and legs feel like they’re filled with wet cement, and my brain’s screaming “stay awake!” while my body’s giving it the middle finger.

The candle sputters like it’s fighting for its life. I try to keep my eyes open, but my lids feel heavy enough to break diamonds. One last bright flash, and thendarkness. Nothing but pale blue moonlight passing through the windows now. I should get up, find the matches, and keep my vigil going. But my limbs won’t listen. They’re sandbags, securing me to this chair while exhaustion pulls me under like a riptide I can’t fight anymore.

As consciousness slips away, I can’t help but think he’s beaten me at my own game, waiting in the gloom until exhaustion dragged me under. The darkness rushes in like an eager tide, lifting me from the shores of wakefulness into a sea of nothing.

I jerk awake with a “What the—?” Light hits my face from a weird angle. Morning already? Shit. Sunlight’s crawling across the library floor like it’s looking for something. My neck screams bloody murder when I try to sit up straight. God, sleeping in chairs should be illegal. For a second, I’m totally lost. Why am I not in bed? Why does my mouth taste like I’ve been licking the bookshelves? Then it hits me: the note. The waiting. The whole stupid plan that apparently ended with me passing out like an idiot.

My eyes land on the table, and everything inside me freezes mid-beat.

Where my note had been, there’s nothing but empty space.

In its place sits a small wooden box, carved with vines and these weird little faces that seem to watch me when I’m not looking directly at them. I move closer, heart pounding in my ears. The wood’s completely smooth and worn, like someone’s been touching it for years, running their fingers over every detail. I glance at the dust on the table, completely undisturbed around the box. No footprints, no nothing. Someone put this here while I was literally three feet away, dead to the world and drooling on myself.

My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for it, half-expecting it to evaporate into thin air the moment my fingertips brush it. But the box remains solid, touchable, its weight reassuring as I lift it from the table. The wood feels warm against my skin. Like whoever had set it down was here just a heartbeat ago. A small brass clasp holds it closed, unlatched, as if it's inviting me to open it.