Page 37 of Where The Devil Kneels

Heavy footsteps overhead make us both freeze. Dust sifts down from between floorboards as someone walks directly above our position. My heart slams against my ribs as a floorboard creaks, the loose one outside the upstairs study that I’ve been meaning to fix.

“They’re starting a second sweep,” Silas whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “We need to move deeper.”

He leads me into a narrower passage, his hand finding mine in the dark. I follow right away, our bodies close together in the tight space. What felt awkward before now feels normal, even comforting—not just for getting through the passage, but for the quiet reminder that I’m not alone.

In this moment, with Garrow’s men searching methodically overhead and the memory of his casual threat against a child still fresh, I understand something with absolute clarity: Silas isn’t my captor or my shadow. He’s perhaps the only person in this town who has never been under Garrow’s control, the only one who has consistently fought against his influence.

We descend for ages, the passage widening as we go. After a final turn, I stumble to a halt. The room before me shouldn’t exist on any blueprint I’ve seen. Beneath the slanted ceiling, clearly the underside of the main staircase, every inch of wall space hosts Silas’s documentation.

Photographs spiral in chronological order. Newspaper clippings connect with coloured string. Leather notebooks line built-in shelves in perfect rows. This is his command centre, the hidden heart of his decades-long vigil against Garrow.

“My primary documentation room,” Silas explains, lighting an oil lamp that casts a warm glow across the cluttered space. Unlike the dust-coated passages, this room is immaculate, with each surface polished and each document precisely placed. “One of three, but this contains the most comprehensive collection.”

I step farther into the room, drawn to a wall of black-and-white photographs arranged in concentric circles around what appears to be a family portrait, a stern-faced man with Silas’s jawline standing behind a seated woman whose eyes hold the same watchful intelligence.

Surrounding them are hundreds of images capturing moments that seem mundane until you look closer: Garrow accepting an envelope behind the old mill; the police chief loading boxes into an unmarked van at 2 AM, according to the timestamp; council members meeting in what appears to be a basement room with strange symbols painted on the walls.

“You’ve been documenting everything,” I murmur, fingers hovering over the photos without touching them.

“For twenty-three years,” Silas confirms, moving to a wooden cabinet beneath the largest concentration of images. He unlocks it with a key from around his neck, revealing dozens of leather-bound journals organized by date. “My father began the process in 1971. I continued after he relocated to establish the network.”

He selects a journal from 2017, opening it to reveal page after page of meticulous handwriting, each entry dated and cross-referenced with photographs and newspaper clippings. The level of detail is staggering, times, locations, individuals present, conversations overheard, all documented with the precision of a scientist recording experimental data.

“May 17, 2017,” I read aloud from one entry. “Garrow met with County Commissioner Harris at the boathouse, 23:15 hours. Exchange of documents confirmed. Harris’s subsequent vote against environmental inspection of the north waterfront development suggests bribery or blackmail. Cross-reference to audio file B-1127.”

“The evidence alone isn’t enough,” Silas says, taking the journal from my hands and replacing it carefully. “The system is designed to protect him. Each person who might hold him accountable is already compromised.”

I move to another wall, this one covered with what appear to be personal effects, a child’s hair ribbon, a wedding band, a police badge, each labelled with a name and date. My throat tightens as I realize what I’m seeing, tokens from those Silas has helped disappear, physical reminders of lives saved.

“Thomas Webb,” I read from a small card attached to a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. “Ellen Mercer,” next to a pressed flower in a frame. “Maria Guthrie,” beneath a gold locket similar to the one Silas showed me earlier.

“Not victims,” Silas says quietly, coming to stand beside me. “Survivors.”

I turn to face him, and suddenly it all makes sense. He’s not just some strange man spying on people—he’s on a mission for justice. Every photo, note, and labelled item is evidence against Garrow. This room isn’t a place for obsession; it’s where someone fights back the only way he can, by recording every wrong until the truth can come out.

“How many?” I ask, gesturing to the wall of personal effects.

“One hundred and seventy-three individuals over twenty-three years,” he answers without hesitation. “Plus their family members, another two hundred and forty-one people relocated to safety.”

The numbers overwhelm me—over four hundred lives changed by this quiet man working alone in secret, keeping up the network his parents started and risking everything to protect people who will never know him. Meanwhile, the town either ignores him or thinks he’s crazy.

“You’ve never received recognition,” I say, the unfairness of it suddenly overwhelming. “No one knowswhat you’ve done.”

Something like confusion crosses his features. “Recognition would defeat the purpose,” he says, as if explaining a basic concept. “Effectiveness requires invisibility.”

A sound from above interrupts us, the crackle of radio static followed by Garrow’s voice, distorted but recognizable, coming through what must be a ventilation shaft connecting to the library.

“—searched every inch,” someone reports. “No sign of her or anyone else.”

“Keep looking,” Garrow snaps, his voice clearer now as he must have moved closer to the vent. “She couldn’t have just vanished. Check the grounds again, the outbuildings.”

“Sir, we’ve been at this for hours. The warrant only covers until dawn, and we’re approaching that limit.”

A pause, then Garrow’s voice drops to that dangerous purr I’ve come to recognize. “If she isn’t found by dawn, burn it all down.”

“Sir?” The shock in the subordinate’s voice matches the ice suddenly flooding my veins.

“You heard me. Create an electrical fault in the east wing. Old houses are so prone to tragic accidents.” Garrow’s tone is casual, as if discussing nothing more significant than changing a lightbulb. “This property has been a thorn in this town’s side for generations. If we can’t have it, no one will.”