Page 59 of Where The Devil Kneels

Jonah looks at the ceiling in awe, water drops sliding from his eyelashes. “That’s not standard for houses built in this era.”

“This was never a standard house,” I reply, meeting Silas’s gaze. In his eyes, I see certainty. He’s prepared for this moment his entire life.

Garrow’s voice booms from the broken window: “That was just a warning, Ms. Hale! The next one won’t be so easily extinguished!”

Maeve wipes water from her face with shaking hands. “Please, Elara. Before it’s too late.”

I look between them. My cousin, with her legal expertise and logical arguments, and Silas, with his intimate knowledge of the house’s secrets.

I turn to Maeve. “If you want to leave, the door’s right there. I insist.” Her mouth falls open, but I’m already turning to Silas. “Tell me how this house defends itself.”

The attic stairs whine under every step like they’re trying to give me away. My lantern throws more shadows than light. I can still hear Dr. Rao and Peck downstairs, their voices tangled up with the sound of water and broken glass. Ahead of me: dust, dark, and if Silas is right, answers that have been waiting since before I was born.

“Third floor landing. Door behind the faded tapestry,” Silas had said, his eyes fever-bright despite the blood at his temple. “The truck with brass fittings and your grandmother’s initials on the lock.”

I hit the top of the stairs, catching my breath in air that tastes like old cedar and dust. The lantern swings, lighting up the usual attic graveyard — stuff too sentimental to throw out, too painful to look at.

The tapestry hangs right where Silas said — all those forest creatures faded to smudges. I push it aside. There’s a door behind it, edges flush with the wall, brass knob cold and stubborn in my hand. The hinges screech when they finally give, like they’re pissed I found them. I step inside.

This room isn’t like the rest of the attic. Time skipped it somehow. There’s a faint smell of lavender — the same sachets Grandma tucked into every drawer she owned — and it catches me off guard. Neat shelves. A desk under a small round window. And tucked where the ceiling slopes down, the trunk.

It’s beautiful. Dark wood, brass fittings gone warm with age. And there on the lock, exactly as promised:AEH. Abigail Eleanor Hale. Carvedright into the metal.

I kneel before it, setting the lantern beside me. No key, but Silas anticipated this. “Press the centre of the E while turning the lock counter-clockwise,” he said. “Your grandmother’s little trick.” My fingers find the letter, applying pressure, and watch as the mechanism gives way with a satisfying click.

The lid swings up without a sound — someone’s been oiling those hinges. The smell hits first: old paper and leather. Everything inside is packed with obsessive care. Leather-bound journals soft at the corners. Blueprints rolled tight with faded ribbons. Thick envelopes that feel like money.

I work the ribbon loose and spread the blueprint across the floor, using whatever I can grab to pin the corners down before it rolls back up on me. When I see what’s drawn in faded blue ink, I forget to breathe. It’s my house — but not. Like seeing a familiar face with all the surface stripped away. The house beneath the house.

Hallways zigzag between the walls. Pipes curl under the floorboards — not regular plumbing, something far more intricate. Notes everywhere in tiny, precise handwriting: pressure plates, false sections, observation points. Solid walls that aren’t. Hidden staircases. And running alongside the normal wiring, a whole separate electrical system for God-knows-what.

The plans span over a hundred years, each generation adding their own layer. I trace what Grandma added — the sneaky stuff. God, she was clever. Those hideous wall sconces? Motion sensors. That ugly Victorian clock everyone assumed she kept for sentimental reasons? Camera.

I move to the journals next, selecting one with the most recent dates embossed on the spine. My grandmother’s handwriting flows across the pages in elegant script, each entry meticulous in its detail:

April 17, 1998 - S.M. continues his father’s work admirably. Three more were safely relocated this month. The passages to the north have required reinforcement after the spring rains, but he has managed the repairs without detection. I have provided additional funds for the sanctuary’s medical supplies.

S.M. Silas Merrick. The realization lands with gentle certainty.

I flip through more pages, understanding blooming with each entry:

November 3, 1999 - The formal oath has been renewed today. S.M. has committed himself fully to the Guardian’s role following his parents’ disappearance. Though younger than tradition dictates, he possesses the necessary qualities—discretion, resourcefulness, and unwavering dedication. The estate recognizes him as fully as it did his father and grandfather beforehim.

Another journal contains what appears to be the formal agreement , copied in my grandmother’s precise hand. The language is old-fashioned, formal:

The Inheritor shall maintain the estate as a sanctuary and safe passage for those who require protection from forces that would harm them. The Guardian shall serve as the estate’s defender, keeper of its secrets, facilitator of its purpose. Neither role exists without the other; together they form the covenant that has protected countless lives throughout generations.

My hands are shaking as I set the journal down and reach for the leather pouch at the bottom. Inside: documents going back to the estate’s construction. The truth of what this place actually is.

This wasn’t a fancy house built to show off money. It was a fortress in disguise. Secret passages, hidden rooms, escape hatches — a safe house for people who needed to vanish. They knew about the Garrows even then. My ancestors wrote it all down: how that family had already started strangling the town, how everyone could feel it.

And alongside the Hales, every step of the way, were the Merricks. Guardians. One after another taking up the watch, sometimes literally living in the walls, giving up any shot at a normal life over a promise made before any of them were born.

I find the entry about Silas’s parents. They didn’t abandon him. They ran when Garrow’s father found out they’d been digging into his business. The journal lays it out: gone after midnight, disappeared to God-knows-where, but still sending coded messages. Their handwriting is all over these papers. Notes in margins. Supply lists dated years after everyone thought they’d vanished. Ghosts, still on duty.

And there was Silas, just a kid when his parents disappeared, picking up the mantle without hesitation. All this time I’d imagined a stranger in my walls. He was a guardian keeping a promise older than both of us, even while my family turned their backs on what they were supposed to be.

Until now.