Page 19 of Where The Devil Kneels

The portraits get deeper as I flip through, not creepy-intimate, but like he’s caught all those raw moments I thought nobody saw. There I am, crying at 2 AM with a tissue crumpled in my fist; there’s that look on my face when I’m sure I’m screwing everything up; and even that little dance I did in the kitchen when I finally got the ancient oven to work. God, Thought I was alone for all of that.

The pages turn to reveal something unexpected, sketches that capture not just my vulnerability but a version of myself I barely recognize. There I am on market day, shoulders squared as I stare down Garrow, the charcoal lines somehow conveying both my trembling hands and unwavering gaze. Another shows me kneeling beside a sobbing child outside the general store, my face a mirror of her distress yet somehow steadying. Most startling is the one from that twilight walk when those boys trailed me through the pines; he’s drawn me from behind, but something in the set of my spine tells the whole story.

I turn to the last page. There I am, captured just hours ago, crouched beside that deliberate footprint in the yard. My face in the drawing shows everythingI’d tried to hide, the relief flooding through me, the questions still lingering in my eyes, the moment when pieces started clicking together. Below the portrait, flowing script matches the handwriting from the journals: “You notice what they hope remains unseen.”

I close the book, my eyes stinging with tears. It’s like he truly sees me—not just what I look like or what I do, but who I am inside. He’s not just some creep or someone spying. He’s been watching me like I’m someone worth understanding. Like I matter.

I grab a blank page from my notebook and pop the cap off my pen. My hand just hovers there while I try to find the right words, but they keep slipping away. How the hell do you write to someone who’s got you all figured out when you don’t even know yourself? This person who’s been watching my back without me asking. This ghost who shows me things instead of telling me.

Finally, I begin to write. “I’ve been searching for answers since I arrived, not realizing that someone was guiding me toward them all along. Thank you for the portraits—for seeing me as I am, not as what this town believes me to be. My name is Elara Hale. I think it’s time I knew yours.”

I’ve barely signed my name when my phone vibrates in my pocket, shattering the moment. Maeve’s name flashes on the screen, along with the time. 3:17 AM. Nothing good comes from calls at this hour.

“Elara,” she says the instant I answer, her voice tight with the forced calm she uses when things have gone sideways. “I’ve booked a flight tomorrow. I’ll be there by dinner.”

My stomach drops. “What? Why?”

“I’ve received concerning reports about your situation,” she says, each word precise as a scalpel. “Your unhealthy attachment to the property. Your isolation. The… incidents in town.”

“From who?” I demand, though I already know the answer. Garrow. It has to be. “Maeve, I’m fine. Better than fine.”

I grip the phone tighter. “There’s nothing to worry about,” I insist, my voice rising. “God, Maeve, I’m so tired of everyone treating this house like it’s some kind of—of problem to solve. First the town, now you.” My gaze falls on the sketchbook as I pace, this beautiful evidence of a presence that Maeve would undoubtedly see as reason to have me committed, or worse, to force the sale of the estate that’s finally beginning to feel like mine.

The line crackles with her sigh. “This conversation can wait until I’m there in person. In the meantime, please don’t do anything… impulsive.”

The call ends, and I’m left standing there like an idiot with my note in one hand and my stupid phone in the other. Great. Just perfect.

Tomorrow, Maeve swoops in. Miss Logic-and-Reason, who’d take one look at this watchtower, the journals, and the portraits, she’d probably call a psychiatric hospital. She’d never understand what’s really going on here. She’d likely try to clean the place, book me a hotel, and schedule a therapy session.

I stare at my chicken-scratch handwriting, then flip through the sketchbook again. Shit. Less than twenty-four hours before Maeve swoops in with her power suits and legal pad to “save” me from this weird, wonderful house, and from whoever’s been watching over me all this time. The only person who’s ever really gotten me, and I don’t even know their name.

Chapter eight

Beneath the Surface

Thebasementairhitsme like a damp towel at the bottom of the stairs. Maeve’s voice still rings from the phone—twenty-four hours until hurricane-cousin arrives to "rescue" me from the only place that’s ever felt like home. I drag my fingers along rough stone, trying to slow my brain. Why am I even down here? Running doesn’t fix anything. Problems just follow, worse than telemarketers. Yet here I am, hiding in my own basement like a Victorian heroine mid-breakdown—minus fainting couch or smelling salts.

I pull the cord on the single bulb. Shadows jump, settle. The basement is layers: dirt since colonial times, coal dust from a Victorian winter, 1950s concrete with rusty pipes through old stone. Nobody in my family gutted the place—they just kept piling new on old. It’s a bizarre, never-finished architectural lasagna.

“Great hiding spot, Elara,” I mutter, kicking a loose stone. “Very mature—” As it slides, scraping too easily, my jaw clenches. Why do I always go poking at things? The mortar’s fresher. I hesitate, heart thumping. Curiosity always wins. I wiggle the stone, revealing a small cavity in the wall.

“What the hell?” I whisper, heart pounding. Inside the cavity is an iron latch. My fingers hover over it. Every horror movie I’ve seen screams at me to run, pack, and never look back. But the curious, stubborn part of me—the part kept up by local history research—reaches out and pulls.

The whole wall section swings inward with a groan, and I’m staring at a narrow passage that doesn’t appear on any blueprint I’ve ever dug up. Cool air breathesout of it, like the house exhaling. I flip on my phone flashlight. Steps, going down deeper than the foundation should even allow.

“This is insane,” I tell myself. But I go in anyway. The passage is so narrow I have to turn sideways, stone walls snagging my sweater. With each step down, the temperature drops—not the gross damp of somewhere forgotten, but the steady, deliberate cool of an archive or wine cellar.

The passage opens into a meticulously preserved room. Stone walls, yes, but the floor is worn wood, smoothed by paths between display areas. My flashlight glints off glass-fronted cabinets filled with objects frozen in time.

“Oh my God,” I breathe, stepping closer to one of the displays. Inside: a pair of handmade leather children’s shoes, cracked with age, probably from the early 1900s. Beside them sits a faded wooden horse, red and black. A yellowed card reads: “Samuel Fisher, age 7, 1912 – Mill accident survivor.”

The next cabinet holds a folded shawl, its vibrant pattern faded. “Eliza James, 1889 – Escaped domestic violence.” Nearby: a wedding band, a lock of hair tied with ribbon, and a folded letter addressed to “My Saviour.”

I move through the room in a daze, snapping photos with shaking hands. Cracked leather boots—a man who’d informed on a crooked mayor and had to run, 1925. A child’s reading book and tiny glasses— a teacher who stood up to the wrong people and disappeared. A handkerchief embroidered with initials I recognize from Nora’s article on the town’s missing.

Each item belonged to someone who had been lost from town records, remembered or maligned as a deserter. They weren’t victims—they survived.

I scribble so fast my handwriting falls apart. This isn’t a hoarder’s stash; it’s a lifeline through time. Real people, real lives. They weren’t lost—they were hidden, safe, and sent to start over.