Page 3 of Where The Devil Kneels

She leaves me standing in the doorway. My heart beats hard as the dark shadows in the house grow longer. When the door closes, silence fills the space, heavy and familiar. I look at the desk where the hidden photographs rest. Their words mix with the uncertainty now rooted in my mind.

The world outside feels unclear. As I settle into the quiet, I sense the house is full of energy. Stories are still hidden, and history lingers in every corner. With Nora gone, the pressure of these secrets presses on me. I feel pulled to uncover them, but caution holds me back. I close my eyes, letting the memory of our talk linger, then turn back to the photograph. A small feeling of determination starts to grow.

The road to town curves ahead, fading into the evening. I hold my journal close under my coat, its weight a slight comfort against the unease inside my chest. Each step on the unkempt path crunches leaves below my boots, conveying the loneliness and worry that follow me.

The path, overgrown with wildflowers and weeds, leads into a quiet, tired forest. Branches form a canopy above, both sheltering and confining. The quietness is deep, rendering me alone with my thoughts and scattered memories.

As I walk, I replay my talk with Nora, her questions still bearing on my mind. What did she notice that I haven’t figured out? The thought makes me walk faster until I step out of the woods into the market square.

The general store sits in front of me, old and mysterious. I open the door, and the bell rings within the quiet. The shopkeeper is behind the counter, his smile tightens as I come closer. "Afternoon, ma’am," he says, but his stiff voice makes me uncomfortable. I nod and start picking up what I need for the week. As I reach for honey, I notice two elderly women whispering in the corner, their glances making me more uncomfortable. I hear them say, "Another one gone missing… third this year." Cold anxiety settles in my stomach.

The women’s words catch in my throat. I avoid turning their way. My heart pounds, urgent in my chest. I glance at the shopkeeper, hoping for reassurance, but he watches me—his brow knitted with concern, or maybe suspicion.

When I put my items on the counter, the shopkeeper’s hands shake as he gives me change, pulling back quickly to avoid touching me, as if he’s afraid. The air feels thick, full of things left unspoken.

“Everything alright?” I manage to ask, my voice sounding foreign in my ears.

He avoids my gaze, shuffling his feet as he shifts nervously. “Just… just the way it is around here. You be careful, now.” His voice fades, replaced with the hum of anticipation that vibrates through the air.

My instincts urge me to leave the store quickly. The silence outside feels cold and heavy. I walk faster, carrying my bag of supplies, feeling as if hidden eyes are watching me. The lane seems darker now, shadows reaching along the edges of my sight, twisting in strange ways.

I hear footsteps matching mine, keeping pace with me. Whenever I stop, they stop too, which leaves me uneasy. I force myself to keep moving, hoping to escape from the fear that seems to creep in around me.

Halfway home, I freeze as three men step out from a side path. Their faces turn cold when they see me, and the air feels suddenly tense. "Look what we found," one says, his voice biting with malice. "The new witch at the haunted house," another taunts.

My stomach drops as they block my way, their figures outlined by the shadows. Fear rises inside me. "Excuse me," I say quietly, stepping back, haste and instinct mixing.

Before I can do anything, a heavy crash comes from the woods—maybe a gate slamming or an animal moving. It doesn’t matter. The noise distracts them just long enough for me to slip past, my heart beating as I run in the direction of the safety of the estate.

I can’t shake the feeling of being watched as I rush to the estate. The hairs on my neck stand up until I cross the threshold and slam the door behind me. The sound carries through the foyer. I lean against the solid oak, its coolness centring me. I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding since the store. Outside, the world is full of rumours and suspicion; inside, the darkness feels nearly comforting. I slide to the floor, knees to my chest, letting the shadows surround me.

Silence fills the study as I return to my hiding place. I sink into the leather chair and reach for my journal, now my closest companion. Its blank pages wait for me to write about today’s strange events. Candlelight shimmers at the edge of my vision, throwing silhouettes as I get ready to record the tangled moments of my day.

My pen lingers before I start writing about Nora’s visit. I note how her eyes lingered in the corners, and her fingers moved over the picture frames, as though searching for something hidden. With each question, she broke past my guard. I’m not sure if I admire or fear her intense curiosity about me and the house. "Wants answers," I write in the margin, the red ink spreading. "Dangerous curiosity about things better left buried in these walls."

I can’t stop thinking about the general store. I write about how the shopkeeper’s smile faded when I came near and how he pulled his hand back from mine, asif I was dangerous. I remember the elderly women murmuring about the missing people—"Third this year," they said. My hand shakes as I write "Danger stalks this town," underliningit twice, the ink leaking through the page.

I’m drawn to the photographs I found under the floorboard, their faces hazy and strange words written on the back. I copy down the phrase that keeps echoing in my mind: “Some places protect their own.” The words feel oddly familiar, practically alive in the quiet room. I pause, wondering if this house is a refuge or a warning.

Tiredness washes over me, my eyes becoming heavier with each blink. I smudge ink on the page as I rub my temples. The grandfather clock sounds in the hall. I wonder how much time has passed. My writing becomes messy as I try to make sense of my thoughts about the house, the town, and the strange feeling of being both trapped and protected.

At last, my pen slips from my hand, leaving a black line on the margin. My head drops, and I rest my cheek on the cool paper. The candle flickers as I drift into sleep, shadows sliding across the messy desk. One photograph slides to the floor, its face turned away from the moonlight coming through the window.

When I wake up, everything feels different. The clock chimes in the calm, cutting through the shadows. I blink, getting used to the moonlight, and notice something strange: my notes are neatly arranged, though I don’t remember doing it.

My heart beats faster as I look over the desk. Every photograph is stacked neatly, and my writing looks more careful and intense than I recall. When I see my journal, a chill runs through me—the line I wrote before sleeping is now underlined in dark ink: “Some places protect their own.”

The idea hangs in the air, heavy and real. There is something in this house—something that knows I’m here, maybe even watching over me. Instead of fear, I feel a strange sense of acceptance. I speak into the silence, my voice quiet yet clear, “Who are you?”

A floorboard creaks under me, the tone echoing throughout the room as if in response. I wait, but no one appears, and the moonlight stays undisturbed. Still, I sense something in the air—a presence as real as the walls, as familiar as a faintly remembered song. I touch the underlined words and realize whoever is here isn’t trying to hurt me. They watch over this place and, now, over me too.

Sleep comes more easily this time. The locks and latches I checked earlier don’t seem as important now, with something hidden yet real between me and thishouse. I let myself drift off, listening to the old beams creak. For once, the sounds comfort me—they remind me I’m not alone here.

Chapter three

Boundaries Drawn

Thelibraryfeelsancient.Shadows gather in the corners, holding secrets I want to find. I breathe in the scent of old leather, stale air, and worn pages. My hand tightens around the journal, ready to record another day’s strange events. The silence is heavy and tense, making me even more curious. I want to uncover the stories hidden in these walls.