Page 15 of Where The Devil Kneels

Dr.Rao’sclinicstandsbefore me, a Victorian townhouse with gingerbread trim and windows that seem to watch me as I get closer. Perfect. My day has gone from 'someone tried to burn me alive' to 'let’s go ask the town’s only doctor about my haunted house.' I pause at the bottom of the porch steps, fingers brushing the folded map in my pocket, my stomach in knots. The brass door knocker, a creepy lion with a ring in its teeth, almost dares me to use it. I want to bolt, but remembering that footprint in the mud keeps me here. Time to see if my mysterious guardian angel has been watching more than just me.

The waiting room puts me on edge. Antique Victorian sofas with velvet cushions sit beside modern exam tables, and high-tech medical gear hides behind mahogany bookcases. My boots sink into a Persian rug that probably costs more than my car as I walk up to the empty reception desk. Of course. Nothing is creepier than an empty doctor’s office. Should I just call out 'hello' into the void or—

“Hello?” Dr. Rao materializes from a side door, her white coat striking against her deep blue dress. Her face gives nothing away, though her eyes track me with the careful assessment of someone who weighs risks for a living. “And you are…?”

“Sorry, I didn’t make an appointment,” I admit, straightening my back against her stare. “I had hoped you might have a few minutes to talk. I’m Elara Hale.”

Her eyes narrow at the name before she checks her watch, an expensive-looking thing with far too many dials. “About a medical issue?”

“About the estate. My estate.” I emphasize the possessive, claiming ownership of a house that somehow feels like it’s the one who owns me instead.

Something flickers across her face, caution, maybe, or calculation. “I see.” She gestures toward a door I hadn’t noticed. “Perhaps we should speak privately.”

Her office feels more like a library than a doctor’s office, with bookshelves up to the ceiling and leather chairs that smell like money and secrets. She sits behind a big desk piled with patient files and medical journals. I perch on the edge of a chair that’s too comfortable for serious talks, trying not to let myself relax or show how tired I am.

“I’m not sure how I can help you,” she says, rearranging pens on her desk. “I’m a doctor, not a historian.”

“You treat people here,” I counter, leaning forward. “People from all over town, including former residents of my estate.” My heart hammers against my ribs as I push forward. “I think you know things about the house that nobody else does.”

Dr. Rao’s fingers stop moving on the desk. Silence grows between us, disturbed only by the ticking of the antique clock on the mantel. At last, she sighs, letting down her guard just a little.

“What exactly are you looking for, Miss Hale?”

“Information.” I meet her stare directly. “About the people who lived in my house before me. About their experiences there.”

“Patient confidentiality—”

“I’m not asking for names or medical details. Just patterns. Experiences.” I hesitate, then decide to risk the truth. “Someone’s been watching me since I arrived. Documenting my every move. I need to know if I’m the first.”

Her posture shifts, not exactly relaxed, but her shoulders drop a little. She looks at me for a moment, then stands up quickly, making me hold my breath. Instead of telling me to leave, she goes to a filing cabinet in the corner. She types a code into an electronic keypad I hadn’t seen before, which is odd for a small-town doctor’s office.

“What I’m about to show you,” she says without turning around, “is not something I share lightly.” The cabinet slides open with a quiet hiss, and she extracts a thick folder bound with a string. “These are my private research notes, separate from official medical records.”

She returns to her desk and unties the folder with careful fingers. Inside, yellowed papers and more recent printouts intermingle, all filled with handwritten observations. She selects several pages and slides them toward me.

“For decades, residents of your estate have reported unusual experiences,” she explains, her voice dropping slightly. “Not hauntings, exactly. Something more… protective.”

I scan the pages of clinical notes documenting incidents in which estate residents felt inexplicably saved from harm. My fingers tremble slightly as I read accounts that mirror my own experiences: objects moved to prevent accidents, sudden cold spots warning of danger, the persistent sense of being watched by something benevolent rather than malicious.

Dr. Rao’s finger taps a particular page. “A gardener working on the grounds in 1998 reported a man pulling him away from a rotting balcony seconds before it collapsed. When he turned to thank his rescuer, the man was already moving away, tall, broad-shouldered, moving with unusual grace.” She meets my eyes. “The gardener described feeling the man’s grip on his arm for hours afterward, the pressure of five distinct fingers, firm but careful, like someone who knew his own strength.”

My mind jumps to those footsteps inside my walls, that dark shape on my roof during the storm, the shadow-man scaring off the jerks with gasoline on my lawn. Not me being crazy. Not random luck. Someone’s actually there, watching over everything.

“Were they afraid?” I ask, surprised by how small my voice sounds.

Dr. Rao shakes her head, a hint of wonder breaking through her clinical reserve. “Quite the opposite. Most described feeling… protected. Watched over.” Her fingertips trace the edge of one document. “Some even became distressed when they had to leave the property, as though they were losing a guardian.”

I think about that tower room again, the journals tracking where I go, when I sleep, what I eat. All those small changes to my things, like someone unseen is making sure everything’s okay. It doesn’t feel like a stalker; it feels more like someone trying hard to keep me safe. The truth settles inside me, heavy and strange, like swallowing a stone that somehow fits.

I study her face for a moment, choosing my words with care. “People around town have been telling me to stay away from the estate. That it’s not safe. That something… unnatural… lives there.”

Dr. Rao’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “Small towns run on gossip just like your estate runs on secrets.” She hesitates, her fingers knocking once against her desk. “In twenty years of practice, I’ve never treated a single serious injury from anyone living in that house. Not one broken bone. Not one concussion.” Sheleans back, the leather chair creaking beneath her. “That old place should be a death trap, Miss Hale. Instead, it’s the safest property in my records.”

“You think something—or someone—is preventing accidents.”

“I think,” she says with careful precision, “that data doesn’t lie, even when it suggests impossible things.”

I slide the papers back across the desk, my fingertips lingering on their edges as if they might disappear. “I appreciate your trust,” I say, meeting her eyes. “Most people in this town would rather I stayed in the dark.”