Page 5 of Where The Devil Kneels

Eventually, Lyle’s posture relaxes a little, and the formality fades as he glances at the clock, making it clear he thinks I’ve stayed too long. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Elara,” he says, giving me a careful smile before turning away. The tension stays behind, hanging in the air.

I press my pen so hard into the last box that the paper tears a little. The clerk notices as I hand over the form, my fingers leaving damp marks on the edge. Outside, my heels hit the tile faster and faster until I’m almost running. The heavydoor creaks as I leave, but the building’s smell—floor polish and old paper—sticks to my clothes. Three blocks later, I notice I’m still holding my breath.

As I walk home at dusk, the streetlights come on one by one, casting long orange shadows on the sidewalk. The path I’ve walked before suddenly feels strange, almost like I’m seeing it for the first time. Something moves at the edge of my vision, and my heart races when I think I see movement just out of sight.

I make myself slow down, turning to look behind me, but only shadows stretch across the empty street. There’s nothing there, just darkness taking over the last bit of daylight. Goosebumps cover my arms as I hear what sounds like footsteps matching mine, stopping when I do. Somewhere in the dark, a twig snaps softly, like someone is watching and waiting.

I stop at the edge where the streetlight fades into darkness. The orange light touches one side of my face, leaving the other in shadow. My heart pounds, but I lift my chin and straighten my shoulders, trying to look brave. “I can feel you watching,” I say into the empty night, my voice shaking a little. “Show yourself. Tell me what you want from me.”

There’s only silence, but the air feels tense, like something is nearby. I step forward, then pause, my foot hanging in the air. Fear tightens my throat, but curiosity keeps me moving toward the darkness. I put my foot down, annoyed by how much my legs shake. I want to run home, but I also need to know what’s out there. My heart races and my breath is shallow, but I keep moving forward.

As I get closer to the estate gates, the air feels heavier, and the crunch of gravel under my boots fades into silence. I spot a single black feather on the path, its shiny surface looking out of place among the old stones. I bend down and pick it up, realizing this isn’t just any feather—it feels like a sign, drawing me toward whatever is waiting inside.

I turn the feather between my fingers, studying its perfect details while my rational mind warns me to stop. A thrill runs through me, quickly followed by disgust at my own fascination. I should drop it and walk away, but I keep tracing its edge with my thumb. My breath catches as I wonder who might have left it here. Was it for me? Just a coincidence? Or is it a threat? The thought makes me want to throw it into a bush and run home. Instead, I tuck it into my pocket, annoyed at myself for keeping what might just be a bird’s lost feather.

I step inside, and the house wraps me in its quiet, something I’ve now grown accustomed to. Shadows grow long across the floor as the daylight bleeds from the windows. My hand still rests on the doorknob as I breathe in, dust motes dance in what little light remains, and the scent of old wood and forgotten corners fills my lungs. Something about this stillness soothes me, even as the hair raises on my arms. Time feels suspended here.

Holding the feather, I walk to the library. The candle flickers as I move, making the shadows shift. The locked oak door still stands, hiding its secrets. “Come on, Elara,” I mutter, “what’s your plan? Are you really going to break in just by hoping?” I run my hand over the panel, my finger catching on the seam. My heart races, which is silly because it’s just a door. But that’s exactly why I want to open it.

I run the feather across my palm, its edge leaving a thin white mark that turns red. Somehow, a little blood feels right in this house. I imagine Maeve’s voice in my head, her sharp breath and wide eyes when she thinks I’m making another mistake. “Just leave, Elara. Normal people don’t stay where they feel watched.” But I stay put, curiosity keeping me rooted to the spot.

My hand shakes as I press the feather to the lock, its barbs spreading over the cold metal. I pull back, feeling foolish, but then try again. The act feels old, like an offering, but also silly, as if I’m pretending in a house with a dark past. I hold my breath, waiting for the lock to open or for someone to appear from the shadows, even though I hope they don’t.

Back in my makeshift office, I open my journal but pause, pen hovering over the page. Should I write this down? Writing it makes it real. The feather sits next to the blank page, almost daring me. I start to write, then scratch out a line so hard I tear the paper. My handwriting goes from neat to messy as I switch between facts and doubts. “Someone is here,” I write, then add, “Or am I just desperate to believe I’m not alone?” I look at the messy page, tempted to rip it out, but I don’t.

I close the journal, the sound echoing in the empty room. Fine. If someone is watching, let them. This is my house now. I’ll find out what’s happening here, even if I have to break down every wall. I take a deep breath and blow out the candle, letting darkness fill the room. Whatever is hiding here, I’m ready.

Chapter four

The Archivist's Warning

AssoonasIstep into Nora’s cluttered office, the space feels tight, crowded by old stories and dust. Shelves sag under stacks of newspapers, and narrow paths twist between fragile ledgers. Every corner seems to hold back a secret. I imagine lost words whispering and shadows moving, as if daring me to uncover what’s hidden in this mess.

Nora sits at her desk, her fingers moving quickly through piles of papers. Her wild curls seem to match the room’s messy energy, hinting at hidden secrets. The smell of old paper and ink hangs in the air, making me even more curious.

Nora’s face tightens. “You made it!” The words tumble out, her tone bright but edged with nervous flutter. She flicks her fingers to her glasses, pushing them up for only a moment before they slide down again, all while shuffling papers, her gaze skittering away from mine.

I nod and run my fingers along her desk. “The Merrick family,” I say, getting straight to the point. “I found some mentions of them in the town’s digital archives, but it’s odd. Most of the photos were damaged or blacked out.” I pause and watch her face. Her expression changes, and the warmth in her eyes fades, like a candle flickering out when a draft slips in.

“Oh, the Merricks,” she murmurs, and the joy that just sparkled in her gaze clouds over. She shifts uncomfortably, a pile of files sliding toward her in disarray. “They were an enigmatic family. Rarely mingling with the townsfolk, always kept to themselves. Disappeared without a trace long ago.”

I lean in, pressing my fingertips to her desk. “The records—do you still have them?” The question lingers between us. My heart beats faster as I see her glance at a drawer she hasn’t touched. Her hesitation only makes me want to know more; every time she avoids the question, the mystery pulls me in deeper.

Nora nods, her fingers pausing on a fragile ledger. “Yes, but…” she says, her eyes flicking nervously to the window. Late-afternoon light pours in, warm on the floor, but the room still feels cold. “Some of the records were lost in a fire.”

“A fire?” I echo, heart sinking. It sounds too convenient, a way to dodge the more sinister questions looming around the town’s history.

She bites her lip and pulls at a loose thread on the desk. “It was years ago. The archive was damaged. What’s left…” She waves at the papers, a mess of unreadable notes and faded documents. I spot a file sticking out of the pile, “Merrick” written in bold letters and hidden away.

“What’s in that folder?” I ask, leaning forward, instincts prickling at her shift in demeanour. Nora’s eyes dart away; a shadow passes over her face.

She presses her hand flat on the folder, fingers spread as if to keep it from slipping away. “Just boring property records,” she says, but her voice wavers on the word “boring.” Her eyes flick to the window and back to me, never settling. “I’ll find something more useful for your next visit, Elara. Something you’ll want to see.”

Her hands shuffle papers frantically. I press my palm down, trapping a document. “Nora,” I demand, leaning in close. “Stop lying. People vanished. The Merricks disappeared. You’re hiding the connection, aren’t you?” My voice drops. “What happened to them?”

She stiffens at my words, her posture tightening. “Disappearances? That’s just…” she starts, but then hesitates, fingers tapping the desk. “Some say it’s just folklore, others—” She stops, glances at the door, and leans in. “Listen, I shouldn’t—” She straightens, her professional look returning. “People who came here from outside never really fit in,” she says, her voice a mix of warning and welcome, torn between loyalty to the town and concern for me.

My mouth feels dry as Nora’s silence drags on. She avoids my eyes, her fingers twitching on the folder like it could catch fire. Even the dust in the air seems to stop moving. “People come to this town,” I finally whisper, “but not everyone leaves, do they?”