Page 7 of Where The Devil Kneels

I step closer, my boot hitting the stone with a loud sound. “No. I won’t be kept in the dark about my own home.” The wind blows my hair across my face, and I brush it away with shaking hands. “People have whispered around me all my life, Rafe. I came here to get away from that.” I press my hand to the cold foundation, feeling the cracks. “I didn’t just inherit a house. I inherited questions.”

His eyes lock with mine at last, the space between us charged with unspoken boundaries. “Miss Hale—Elara,” he corrects himself, each syllable measured like the stones he’s been examining. My spine straightens at the sound of my first name in his mouth, a jolt of recognition I should have expected in a town this small.

“Places like this,” he continues, glancing up at the looming structure behind me, “they hold onto things. Memory sinks into the walls. And sometimes what matters isn’t who owned the deed, but what the house itself has witnessed. Dig beneath the surface and…”

I give a short laugh, even as my heart beats faster. “You think I came all this way just to skim the surface?” I press my fingers harder against the cold stone, feeling every bump. “History doesn’t scare me, Rafe.”

Rafe’s eyes lock onto mine, burning with an intensity that makes me want to look away, yet I can’t. Something flickers behind that hard gaze, warmth trying to break through stone. He breaks the moment first, rising suddenly to his feet, metal tools clanking as he sweeps them into his weathered leather bag. “Tomorrow,” he says gruffly, glancing up at the darkening sky. “I’ll be back to fix this before the storm tears through what’s left of your roof.” His calloused fingers tighten around the bag’s strap. “A place like this won’t keep you dry tonight.”

As he turns to leave, something shifts between us, like a door opening and closing. “Wait,” I call out, my voice sharper than I meant. “You can’t just say that and walk away.” He stops at the gate, hand on the rusty latch, and looks back at the house. His face stays blank, but his knuckles turn white on the metal.

His voice drops to a rough whisper, carried away by the wind. “Houses like this have their own will. They know who’s meant to stay.” He turns and walks away, his silhouette dissolving into the gathering dusk while something cold and ancient settles beneath my skin, as familiar as a forgotten dream.

His footsteps fade away, but I stay frozen at the gate, struggling to breathe. His words linger in the air, mixing with the growing shadows. Standing alone, I feel the weight of not knowing. This house knows its story better than I do, and its past doesn’t want to let go.

I’m halfway through dinner when thunder crashes so close it shakes the dishes. My fork stops in midair. Outside, the sky is a strange green-black, clouds swirling as if something is stirring them up. The rain starts suddenly, hitting the glass hard. Three drops hit my window and are blown sideways by the wind. My chest tightens. This isn’t just a storm; it feels like Hale Manor is testing me, and I’m not ready.

The air feels heavy with dread as I move from room to room. This can’t be happening—not tonight. Every creak in the floor makes me jump. Where are the damn buckets? Thunder gets louder, and I almost drop the pot I’m holding. If the roof gives out… no, don’t think about that. My hands shake as I set containers under the first leaks. I can’t lose this house. I have nothing else. Sweat runs down myface even though it’s cold. Move faster. Heavy drops hit the attic above like gunshots, and my heart pounds. I’m not ready for this—not for any of it.

Before I know it, I dart into the upstairs hallway where water pools on the hardwood, spreading in dark tendrils across the floor. My stomach drops. Of course, it’s the master bedroom ceiling. Of course. Droplets punch through plaster in three separate spots, each hit making me flinch. I can’t afford this. I literally cannot afford this. “Damn it,” I whisper, sliding the bucket beneath the worst leak, my hands trembling. Breathe. Just breathe. The water hits metal with hollow pings that somehow sound expensive, each drop another repair bill I don’t have the money for.

I search every room for anything that can hold water—mixing bowls, pots, even an old chamber pot I found under the stairs. My footsteps echo on the warped floor as I put each container under a new leak, dust rising from corners I haven’t explored yet. I can’t help but wonder: for every drip I catch, how many more are soaking into the beams where I can’t see? I stop in the east bedroom doorway, watching water gather on the ceiling and paint peel away.

The air turns thick and musty, full of the storm’s energy. My fingers brush damp wallpaper, and suddenly I’m seven again, hiding under my bed as thunder shakes the sky. I hear my mother’s voice: “Elara, come out. It’s just the angels bowling.” But I knew better—I’d seen lightning split the oak tree in our yard. Now, as I walk down the hallway, the wind howls against the estate, echoing my old childhood fear. Another thunderclap rattles the windows, and I stop to steady myself, heart pounding like it did that night long ago.

In the library, the worst leak appears, rain pouring through a corner where the wall meets the roof. I put a big pot under the stream and hear a loud crack above me; I freeze. Part of me wants to run and leave this falling-apart house behind. Why am I fighting so hard for a place that seems to push me away? Still, I stay, gripping the pot tightly, caught between wanting to protect myself and needing to prove I belong here.

Lightning flashes outside, illuminating the world for a brief moment before plunging it into darkness once more. I glimpse a tall figure on the roof, silhouetted against the storm-lit sky. My breath catches. That can’t be real. No one would be up there in this storm. I blink hard, pressing my palms against my eyes. Great, Elara. You’ve finally cracked. One night of leaks and you’re hallucinating men on rooftops. When I look again, he’s still there, moving with purpose across the shingles. Shock rushes through me like ice water. I’m losing my mind. I have to be.Yet what I expected to be a vengeful force—or a complete mental breakdown—is transformed into something that feels bizarrely comforting.

Lightning flashes again, and in that moment, I feel something change inside me—not panic, but calm. My thoughts slow as I watch him move across the wet roof. He fixes loose shingles with steady hands, bracing himself against the wind. Every time a new leak starts, he’s already there, working with quiet confidence. I press my hand to the window, breath fogging the glass, watching this stranger protect what I’ve only just begun to call mine.

I put the last bucket under a new leak and check my watch: 3:17 AM. Wasn’t it just midnight? My wet socks squish on the floor as I go to the window. Outside, he pulls a tarp over the east corner, and soon the dripping above my grandmother’s desk stops. I hurry to the study, and the ceiling is dry, even though rain still pounds the rest of the roof. I run my fingers over the desk’s surface, still warm from when I polished it yesterday.

I know I should be scared of a stranger on my roof during a storm, but I’m not. Instead, I feel relieved. He’s up there fixing things, stopping the leaks that could ruin this house. Watching him work in the lightning, I realize I feel safer with him there than I did alone. It doesn’t make sense, but as I stand surrounded by buckets, I’m grateful he’s fighting the storm for me.

As dawn edges closer, the storm begins to let up. The rain slows to a drizzle, and my racing heart finally calms down. Birds start chirping again outside. I tiptoe to the window and look out. The lightning has mostly stopped, and the heavy rain has turned into a soft patter against the glass.

I check each room in the estate, expecting the worst. Instead, I find only a few puddles where the buckets missed. The ceilings are still up. The walls are solid. I touch dry spots on the wallpaper that should be soaked. As sunlight comes in, I think about the figure on the roof, moving with purpose, fixing things before the wind could do more damage. He knew just where to put the tarp and what needed fixing, like he already knew every weak spot in this house. It feels like he’s been protecting this place long before I arrived.

I sink into my grandmother’s armchair, exhausted but oddly calm. The house creaks as it settles after the storm, like we both survived something. I run my fingers over the worn velvet and smile. This place has secrets, and I’m starting to think the “watcher” is one of them. I don’t know why he’s looking out for me—or for the house—but deep down, I feel he might be the only real protection I have from whatever is out there. The townspeople’s rumours. The disappearances.The feeling of being alone, except for a stranger who knows exactly how to keep my roof safe.

I still feel shaken from last night, like I’ve crossed a line I can’t go back over. The sun is rising, turning everything gold, and I know I need to start searching for what’s hidden in these old walls. Maybe when I finally meet the watcher face to face, I’ll understand why I’m connected to this place, to the Merricks, and to him. He’s trying to tell me something without words: that I haven’t just inherited a house, but a place full of secrets that feel alive.

Chapter five

Patterns in Dust

Morningraysslipthroughthe windows, making the dust in the air visible. I’ve been awake for hours, still shaken by last night’s storm and the shadow I spotted on the roof. My leather journal sits open next to me, its pages filled with hurried notes from last night. My Canon camera feels heavy in my hands; the display is still cracked from when I dropped it three apartments ago. The lens is fine, ready to capture whatever happens next.

I start in the front lounge, where weak sunlight makes pale rectangles on the floorboards themselves. I tilt my head, raising one eyebrow. There’s a pattern in the dust that looks too intentional to be random. I crouch down, my knees popping. I’m only twenty-nine, so why do I sound so old? That thought disappears as I stare at a perfect spiral spreading from a central point. It’s maybe eight inches across. Every contour is so precise it makes my skin crawl. There are no footprints, not even mine. How is that possible? The spiral is just there, as if the dust arranged itself while I slept. Someone or something has been here. It must have.

I point my camera at the spiral, my hands shaking. “North corner,” I whisper, attempting to steady myself. The shutter clicks, and I exhale. My journal feels like my sole anchor as I jot down notes. Am I really measuring a dust pattern while something might be in the house with me? But what else can I do? Run? Where would I even go? I need these details—the size, the location—to feel protected. My handwriting gets smaller, as if making it tiny could shield me from whatever’s watching.

In the dining room, I find two more spirals—one under the china cabinet, another by the fireplace. I take photos, measure them, and write everything down, trying to act like I’m not scared. I push my fingers into my journal so hard I leave dents in the leather. What am I even doing? By the time I reach the library, I’ve found seven spirals, each one looking more intentional than the last. Whoever or whatever is making them seems to be getting better, or maybe just bolder. This isn’t random dust. This isn’t a coincidence. Something is trying to communicate with me.

I take the thermometer out of my bag and turn it about in my hand. Am I really doing this? Playing ghost hunter in my own house. The library feels normal, about 20°C, nothing unusual. I walk around taking readings, feeling more foolish with every step. What am I even hoping to find?

Then I reach the window seat, and the temperature drops so quickly I almost think I imagined it. The numbers can’t be right. 4°C? That’s cold. How is that possible? It’s like winter arrived in this one spot while the rest of the room stays warm. There’s nothing here—no drafts, no vents—to explain it.