Page 6 of Where The Devil Kneels

The office door creaks open before Nora can answer. My pulse hammers. A tall silhouette appears, broad-shouldered and motionless. His grey eyes lock ontomine, turning my blood cold. I glance back at Nora, her face drained, hand on the folder.

Nora’s laugh comes out brittle as glass. “Oh! This is—” Her hand flutters in the air between us, before straightening papers that don’t need straightening. Her eyes dart from the papers to me, to the newcomer and back again, never settling on one for too long. “We were in the middle of research. Town archives.” She swallows, her throat clicking audibly in the sudden silence. “I’ll have those other files ready for you next time, Elara.”

I hold back a flood of questions and just nod, my eyes lingering on the folder. As I step away, the room feels unsteady. I realize the truth is buried in this mess, and Nora knows exactly where to find it.

I squint in the midday sun and pause on the steps outside. The sunlight, instead of comforting me, only makes the town’s secrets stand out more. I glance back at the archive office, half-expecting Nora to come after me and finally tell the truth. The door stays shut, guarding whatever is hidden inside. My jaw tightens as I turn away. If Nora won’t tell me about the Merricks, I’ll find out on my own.

The sun sets, taking the day’s warmth with it as twilight covers the country road. Each step I take, the cool air makes me shiver. My thoughts circle back to the questions Nora didn’t answer, and a sense of unease settles in my stomach.

As I walk, the scent of damp earth fills my lungs. Part of me wants to turn back, the sensible, still-wants-to-live-until-retirement part. Great plan, Elara. Chase cryptic small-town secrets like you’re auditioning for a horror movie victim. Yet I find myself stepping faster, drawn forward by the same mystery that terrifies me. Each rustle in the underbrush makes me flinch, small waves of panic coursing beneath the surface. Oh, fantastic. Was that a raccoon or a vengeful Merrick ghost? I strain to hear more anyway, because apparently I’ve never seen a single film where that ends well. My fingers switch between clenching into fists and trembling open as I move deeper into the growing darkness, mentally reciting my own obituary: “Here lies Elara, who should have stayed home with her journals and Netflix.”

Through the gathering darkness, I spot a figure crouched low. A young girl collects strange objects—rusty keys, bird feathers, oddly shaped stones, even a sock. Her movements are quick, and each item is important.

“Hello,” I call. She startles, standing with panic in her eyes, clutching her finds. We stand in silence, evening chill heavy between us.

She narrows her eyes. “You’re not from here,” she says, sounding more accusing than curious. Her shoulders tense as she looks back at the trees, holding her collection close.

I clear my throat. “Elara Hale. I’m staying at the old estate up the road.” My boots sink into the ground as she looks me over, her stare heavy. “And you are…?”

The girl holds her things tighter. “Marta Ellery,” she says, then stops. Her eyes go wide as she looks at me. “You live there?” she whispers, stepping a little closer. “Someone’s always watching from the windows.”

“Who?” slips from my lips as my pulse pounds. Goosebumps rise. I step closer, drawn by the secrets Marta guards.

She looks back, shoulders hunched as if the trees are closing in. “Him. The one who sees everything. The Watcher.” Her words are tense with fear, like she’s afraid he might hear her.

I edge closer. “Does the watcher have a name?” My voice catches as chills crawl down my spine. Fingers twitch, torn between reaching and running.

Marta’s voice drops to a whisper. “People ‘round here say different things.” She twists a feather around a rusty key, tying them with a strand of her hair. “Some say he keeps people safe. Others say once he sees you, you never leave.” Her eyes meet mine for a second, then look away. “But everyone knows nothing happens in that house that he don’t witness.”

I start to speak, stop, then try again. “Marta, please—” I hesitate, unsure if I really want to hear her answer. My hands shake at my sides, torn between reaching out and covering my ears. “What do you know?” I finally ask, my voice shaky as the night closes in and shadows stretch across the path.

But in response, she stuffs the collected items into a worn canvas bag, her demeanour shifting, eyes darting wildly between the trees and me, retreating. “You shouldn’t be there. It isn’t safe.”

I lunge forward, my hand outstretched. “Please—this man watching the house—what’s his name?” The girl recoils, her body half-swallowed by shadow. Moonlight catches the whites of her eyes as they widen. “By the time you know,” she whispers, “he’ll already know everything about you.” Then she’s gone, nothing but trembling branches and the soft thud of fleeing footsteps marking where she disappeared into the darkness.

I’m left alone, staring at the spot where Marta disappeared, like she vanished into thin air. Great. Just what I needed—mysterious warnings from a kid collectingstrange things in the woods. I can barely breathe. The road ahead looks like something out of a Stephen King story, with trees closing in on all sides. Nice job, Elara. Really picking the perfect place to be the first one gone in a horror movie. My chest tightens as I wonder how many dangers could be hiding behind each tree. Probably too many.

A watcher? Someone who protects people, or keeps them trapped? I hug myself tighter, my fingers digging into my arms. The empty road stretches out in both directions, feeling like a narrow path over a deep drop. The night feels still around me. Marta’s words stick with me, mixing with the uneasy feeling I’ve had since I first unlocked the estate’s door. Something is out there in the dark, waiting and watching. I can sense it’s already seen me, even if I haven’t seen it yet.

I walk back to the estate as the sun goes down and shadows stretch across the ground. The air smells like wet earth and something I can’t name. I keep replaying what people have said about this place. There’s more to discover here, and I can feel it drawing me in, even though part of me wants to leave.

Next to the crumbling foundation, a man crouches, his rough hands working carefully over the old stone. Tools—hammer, chisel, measuring tape—are scattered in the dirt by his boots. The last bit of sunlight shines on his messy grey hair and the deep lines on his face, showing years spent outside. His flannel shirt hangs loose, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. Even as night falls, his steady presence seems to push back against the estate’s uneasy feeling.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I call out, my voice edged with irritation as I walk closer. He turns his head a little, eyes narrowing in the fading light. For a moment, I see him frown, and it makes me notice how intense he seems.

He doesn’t look up. “Checking for structural damage,” he says, his voice as rough as the stones he touches. “Name’s Rafe Calder. I fix things around here.” He runs his hand over a crack in the foundation, feeling how deep it goes. There’s something about his quiet confidence that makes me uneasy, like he belongs here more than I do.

I raise an eyebrow, feeling my face flush. “Funny, I don’t remember hiring an inspector.” I cross my arms tightly, fingers pressing into my skin. “Or did I miss when this stopped being my house?”

His eyes cut to mine, one brow lifting as his mouth quirks, not quite a smile, but something that makes my stomach tighten. “Right.” He runs a thumb along the fracture in the stone. “Foundation’s splitting. Rain comes, water gets in, freezes, and expands. By spring, you’d have more than a crack.” His shoulders shift as he turns back to his work. “Just thought I’d save you the trouble.”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. The fight drains from me like water from a cracked basin. “Look, I appreciate the help, I do. But next time—” My voice softens despite myself, the edge of challenge dulling to something more like tired resignation. “Just knock on the door first, okay?” Rafe straightens to his full height as I speak, and I have to tilt my chin up to maintain eye contact, suddenly aware of how he towers over me.

“There’s always more than a few cracks in old houses,” he responds, keeping his attention on the foundation rather than acknowledging me fully. “You’ll learn that in time.” He lifts one of his tools, studying the angle of the cracked stone as if it holds more secrets than he is willing to share.

My heart sinks as I step closer, wanting to break through his defenses. “What about the previous owners, Rafe? You must have heard the stories about the Merricks.” My voice catches as I say their name, feeling the weight of it between us.

The name “Merrick” makes Rafe’s jaw lock. His shoulders bunch beneath his flannel shirt, and his gaze darts to the tree line where shadows stretch longer by the minute. “Old ghosts,” he mutters, voice rough as the stone beneath his fingertips. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing once. “Some graves shouldn’t be disturbed, Miss Hale.”