Page 16 of Where The Devil Kneels

Dr. Rao sweeps the papers together, her fingers moving like she’s done this a thousand times before. “Just be careful, Miss Hale.” She glances at the door, then lowers her voice. “Folk around here get real unsettled about things that don’t quite fit their version of normal.”

She walks me to the door, but first her eyes flick to the street outside, checking for anyone watching. In the hallway, she stops at the filing cabinet and enters another code. Her fingers hover over the keypad when she’s done, making damn sure those files about my house stay locked up tight. Not just filed away, but hidden. And not from me.

I glance at the cabinet, then back at her. “Those aren’t the only files people in town would rather stay locked up, are they?” The words emerge softer than I intended, almost conspiratorial.

Her eyes narrow, knife- sharp. “This town runs on buried truths, Miss Hale. Your estate simply has deeper graves than most.” She tugs her white coat into perfect alignment. “And what sleeps beneath your floorboards? That’s the secret worth protecting.”

The sun is bright as I step onto the porch, my eyes still adjusting after Dr. Rao’s dim office. When I look back, I see her standing behind the lace curtains, completely still, watching me leave. The way she stands, partly hidden but able to see everything, makes me pause. I wonder if she’s watching over me, or if someone is watching her.

So I’m not crazy, and I’m not alone. Someone else knows my house has a... whatever he is. And the way Dr. Rao triple-checked those locks? She’s definitely playing keep-away with those files. Not from me, but from someone else. Someone who wouldn’t be happy about what’s inside.

I’m barely three steps off Dr. Rao’s porch when movement flickers between the buildings across the street. Great. Perfect. Just what I need after a morning of “your house has a supernatural bodyguard”, some creeper watching me from the shadows. My fingers clench around my car keys, ready to go full eye-gouging mode if necessary. Then the shadow shifts and I recognize the too-thin frame of Marta Ellery, her dark braid swinging as she darts glances up and down the street like she’s expecting snipers on the rooftops. The girl practically vibrates with nervous energy, and something in her furtive movements makes my skin prickle. Whatever she’s doing, it’s definitely not casual small-town people-watching.

We make eye contact across the street, and for a moment, I think she’ll run. Instead, she glances over both shoulders again—what is she looking for?—then slips between parked cars toward me. She moves like a wild animal, tense and careful. Up close, she looks even more worn out than I remember, with dark circles under her eyes.

“You shouldn’t be standing out in the open,” she hisses, grabbing my elbow and tugging me toward the narrow space between the clinic and the neighbouring building. My instinct says to resist, but something in her urgency overrides my common sense.

“What exactly is going on, Marta?” I ask as she pulls me deeper into the shadows. The brick wall feels cold against my back, a sharp contrast to the morning sun we’ve just abandoned. “Why are you acting like we’re in some spy movie?”

“People talk in this town,” she mutters, fidgeting with that red leather notebook she always carries. Her fingers trace its worn edges with obsessive precision. “They watch. They listen. Especially when you start asking questions about things they don’t want you to know.”

My mouth goes dry. “Are you talking about the estate? About someone… keeping watch over it?” The last words come out barely above a whisper, but they hang in the air between us like smoke.

Her eyes widen, pupils dilating with surprise. “Well, look who finally joined the party,” she says, a half-smile twisting her chapped lips. The tension in her shoulders eases slightly, like she’s been carrying a boulder that just got a fraction lighter. “Took you long enough to notice the guy living in your walls.”

“I’m still piecing it together,” I admit, watching her eyes dart between me and the alley entrance. “But yeah, there’s definitely someone there. Looking out for me.” I chew my lip, then just say it: “Last night? Some assholes showed up with gas cans. He scared them off before they could torch my place.”

Marta nods, as if this is exactly what she expected to hear. Her hands still their nervous dance long enough to unzip her ratty backpack and extract a folded paper, its edges soft from handling. “Here,” she says, thrusting it toward me with trembling fingers. “You need this more than I do now.”

I unfold it carefully. The paper crackles between my fingers, worn thin at the creases from repeated handling. Crooked lines in faded pencil trace familiar routes: Main Street with its sharp bend by the post office, the winding path through Memorial Park, the jagged outline of the pier. Red ink blooms in circles across the page, some as small as a thumbprint, others spanning entire blocks. Near the general store: “he watches the back alley.” By the elementary school: “safe after dark.” Along the creek: “he follows if you’re alone.”

“What is this?” I ask, though I already have a sinking feeling I know the answer.

Marta’s breath tickles my ear as she leans in. “Sanctuaries,” she whispers. “His territories. The places he keeps an eye on.” Her chipped black nail polish catches the light as she taps the largest circle in the centre of the map, my estate, without question. “Your house is ground zero. His home base.”

My throat tightens as I flash back to the tower room, those leather-bound journals stacked beside the window overlooking the entire property, the chair positioned perfectly for someone to sit and observe for hours. “He lives in my house? In that watch tower?”

Marta’s fingers trace invisible lines in the air, mapping pathways I can’t see. “Crawlspaces behind the library shelves. Maintenance tunnels under the clinic. Old dumbwaiters.” Her eyes dart past my shoulder, her breath catching. She freezes mid-gesture, head cocked like a sparrow sensing a hawk. I strain to hear whatever made her pause, but catch only the distant hum of a passing car. Her shoulders lower a fraction. “The night my stepdad came at me with the belt, someone left the cellar door unlocked. I hid there for three days. Found water. Granola bars. A blanket that wasn’t there before.”

I squint at the map, connecting the dots in my mind as I recognize places. The little general store I visited on my first day here. The park bench where I fell asleep reading for two hours without worrying. Even that creepy creek path that should scare me, but somehow never does.

Marta’s voice drops to barely a whisper, her eyes darting to the shadows behind me. “He’s done this before, you know. Found people who were… broken. Vulnerable. Made himself their guardian when no one else would.”

I trace the red circle around my property with my fingertip, feeling the slight indentation in the paper where Marta had pressed down hard with her pen. “Ifhe’s watching over me, there must be something he’s watching for. What exactly is out there that I need protection from?”

Marta’s eyes darken, something like fear, or maybe anger, flashing across her face. “The town has secrets. Old ones.” Her fingers twist together nervously. “Some people want to keep them buried. They don’t like it when outsiders start digging.”

“People like Mayor Garrow?”

Her head snaps up, her gaze suddenly focused with laser intensity. “Don’t say his name out loud. Not here.” Her fingers clutch at my wrist, bony and cold. “He has people everywhere.”

Before I can answer, voices drift toward us from the main street: someone’s husband bought the wrong cheese again, and someone else’s tomato plants are finally flowering after that weird cold snap. Just everyday small-town drama. But Marta freezes, her limbs locking mid-fidget like someone pressed her pause button.

“I have to go,” she whispers, already backing deeper into the alley. “Keep the map hidden. Don’t let anyone see you looking at it.”

“Wait,” I call after her, keeping my voice low. “How do you know all this? Who told you about him?”

For a moment, she pauses, one hand braced against the brick wall. “I figured it out myself,” she says, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. Her eyes hold the weary knowledge of someone who’s survived by noticing what others miss. “When you spend enough time in shadows, you start to recognize who else lives there.”