Chapter 3
The Writer's Study
The sound froze Elara in place, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but there was nowhere to go. The storm had sealed her in this gothic cage.
It's the house, she told herself, the writer rationalizing. An old house settling. The wind.
But the sound had been too precise, too localized. A single, sharp crack from directly above.
Gripping the heavy iron poker from the fireplace, she forced herself to climb the stairs.
Each creak of the ancient wood made her flinch.
The upper hallway was a tunnel of darkness, doors standing ajar like open mouths.
The sound had come from the end of the hall—the room with the boarded-up window.
The study.
She pushed the door open slowly, the poker raised.
The room was steeped in deep shadow, the only light a faint grey glow seeping around the edges of the boarded window.
It was a writer's den, much like her own at home, but frozen in time.
A large, partners desk was strewn with papers.
A vintage typewriter sat under a dusty cover.
A half-empty bottle of bourbon and a single, clean glass stood on a side table.
And in the center of the desk, illuminated by a sliver of light, was a leather-bound journal.
Elara’s breath caught. This wasn't just a rental. This was a crime scene, left untouched. Why hadn't it been cleared?
She approached the desk, her senses on high alert. The air was colder here, smelling of old paper and something else—a faint, coppery tang she recognized from her research. The metallic scent of dried blood.
Her eyes fell on the typewriter. A sheet of paper was still curled in the roller. She leaned closer, squinting in the dim light.
It was a single, typed sentence, the letters struck with violent force:
THEY’RE IN THE WALLS.
A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature slithered down her spine. She looked at the journal. Her fingers, trembling, brushed against the cool leather. This was poking around. This was exactly what Liam had warned her not to do.
She opened it.
The pages were filled with a frantic, scrawling handwriting—the notes of a man losing his mind, or uncovering a terrible truth. The early entries were mundane: descriptions of the mountain, notes on the local lore. Then, the tone shifted.
December 18: The noises started again last night. Not the wind. Scratching. From inside the walls. Roy Holt says it’s squirrels. I don’t think so.
December 20: Found a section of wall paneling in the library that doesn’t sit flush. Like it’s been pried open and poorly replaced. I can hear it better in there. A whispering.
December 21: I saw a light in the woods last night. A single, swinging lantern. Headed towards the old Holt property. Liam Holt warned me to stay away from there. Said the land was “cursed.” What are they hiding?
December 22: I know what they’re doing. My God. I have proof. It’s in the—
The entry ended there, mid-sentence.
Elara’s blood ran cold. The proof. What was it? And where was it?
Her eyes darted around the room, landing on the section of bookshelves beside the desk.
One panel did look different—the wood was a slightly lighter shade, the beading not quite matching.
Her heart in her throat, she set the journal down and went to it.
She ran her fingers along the edge. It gave slightly.
Taking a deep breath, she pried at it with her fingernails. With a soft groan, the panel swung inward, revealing a dark, narrow space behind the wall.
A hidden compartment.
Inside was a small, locked metal box. And tucked beside it was a faded, sepia-toned photograph.
She pulled it out. It showed a stern-looking man in late 19th-century dress, standing in front of Havenwood.
But it wasn't the man that held her attention; it was what he held.
A large, distinctive ring with a dark, star-shaped stone.
A ring she had seen just hours before. On Liam Holt’s finger.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
She whirled around, the photograph fluttering from her grasp. The doorway was empty. But from down the hall, she heard it again—the soft, deliberate sound of a footstep, followed by the faint, unmistakable click of a door being quietly closed.
Someone was in the house with her. And they knew she was getting close.