Chapter 7 Ellie
ELLIE
This dining table at the inn has now turned into an unintentional makeshift office with papers strewn across the surface like leaves scattered by a gentle autumn breeze. This wasn't at all how I'd envisioned my escape from the incessant buzzing of city life.
I imagined a tranquil environment with soft, ambient sounds and a serene landscape, far removed from the hustle and bustle. Instead, here I sit, surrounded by these mundane piles of documents, their yellowed surfaces telling stories of their own.
As I scan yet another fraying report, my eyes catch a name I've seen before, one that now stirs something deep within me.
“Cragwood Lane…” The words escape my lips in a low murmur, resonating strangely against the quiet of the room, almost like the foreboding opening line of a compelling mystery novel waiting to unfold.
As my finger traces the name across three separate reports, distinct patterns begin to emerge. There it is again: Cragwood Lane, appearing with a frequency that rivals my editor's generous use of the red pen back in New York.
“Seriously, how many people can possibly go missing from one street?” I mutter, leaning back in my chair, which groans beneath my shifting weight. “I know small towns harbor secrets, but come on,” I add, incredulity lacing my voice as if speaking to someone who understands the absurdity of it all.
I jot the address down again, circling it harder than necessary, like the paper might confess if I pressure it enough.
“Either Cragwood Lane is cursed,” I say to the empty room, “or someone’s really committed to the bit.”
Coincidences don’t repeat this neatly. They stutter. They wobble. This feels rehearsed.
That’s when the unease shifts—not panic, just clarity. The kind that clicks into place and refuses to let go.
I flip through the oldest of the files, desperately looking for a photograph that might reveal more about Cragwood itself. The image that finally materializes is stark and haunting: dark trees looming ominously over a narrow passageway.
An acronym I stumble upon while perusing—EBI—immediately sends my brain racing down a detour: file absent.
“Convenient,” I smirk.
Well, we all know small-town record-keeping isn't exactly heralded for its integrity or accuracy.
As I delve deeper, the tone in these reports begins to shift ominously as the files grow more recent. Old habits can be stubborn, much like unwanted guests refusing to leave a party, but this? This particular situation stinks far more of selective memory than mere neglect.
Boxes and files, laden with what appears to be purposeful omissions of history, lie waiting under layers of dust. Dust that recalls the memory of the secrets hidden inside, secrets that time and patience seem to have forgotten.
“Sloppy filing,” I grumble to myself, a mixture of amusement and unease creeping into my thoughts. The chaos spread across the desk seems almost whimsical in its randomness.
No, wait. Sloppy would imply visible footprints etched across the painted surface—this is something entirely different. It’s a strategic game, maneuvering with intention while everyone else seems blissfully unaware, playing checkers with what should be considered valuable records.
The patterns I see begin to fit together, coalescing into a knot tied tightly shut, suggesting that someone out there is benefitting from keeping it that way, perhaps at the expense of those unmentioned lives.
A heavy unease settles beside me at the worn oak table, like a ghost hovering just out of sight. “It’s not about what they’ve brought out,” I tell myself, determination building, “but about what they’ve chosen to keep buried.”
I push my chair back and stare at the mess I’ve made of the table.
This was supposed to be a quiet project. A soft landing. Something tidy I could wrap up without anyone noticing.
Instead, my pulse is doing that familiar, irritating thing it does right before trouble.
“Congratulations,” I mutter. “You found the thing you weren’t supposed to.”
My curiosity doesn’t just wake up—it stretches, sharp and alert, already reaching for the next thread.
These gaps in information tell me that there's nothing cautious or reassuring about their existence; they radiate an undeniable importance. Each name on this vanishing landscape, each detail that unravels into obscurity—are they important enough to justify being erased completely?
“Well, Moonhaven,” I declare with a fervor that surprises even myself, “It looks like I’m looking for more than just a safe retreat.” Deep down, I know I never really fancied the easy path anyway.
The library’s fluorescent lights overhead flicker inconsistently, making me feel like a mental patient locked in an asylum as my eyelids squint and flutter beneath them.
I sit cocooned amidst towering shelves that rise like sentinels on either side, their faded spines filled with knowledge and history.
The musty scent of old paper permeates the air, an aroma as familiar to me as an old friend offering solace, and in this closeness, I let my focus sharpen like the pointy end of a freshly honed pencil, ready to carve through confusion.
The newspaper archives yield their contents reluctantly, each page a fragile vessel stiffened with age, yet with every sigh of brittle paper I turn under my fingers, my vision tunnelled in on the details, darting to pinpoints of interest like a hawk zeroing in on its unsuspecting prey.
“Dates don’t line up,” I mutter under my breath, each discrepancy emerging like tantalizing threads trying to weave themselves into a tapestry of meaning.
The handwritten notes in the margins reveal not the personal thoughts one might expect, but rather an aggressive urge to hide them—an attempt to stifle evidence. And then, in an instant, it clicks—a sudden clarity sweeps over me.
It’s absolutely brilliant, really, this revelation shimmering with compliance and deceit. But it also speaks to the deliberate nature of buried truths, hidden away in plain sight, waiting to be uncovered.
My hand hovers over my phone instinctively, fingers poised, aching to reach out. Part of me wants to call someone, to unravel this knot of complexity with shared excitement, to share in the rush of discovery.
Yet, deep in the pit of my belly, a nagging sense of distrust—a well-worn leather pouch, reliable yet limited—feels stretched over dangerous edges. I consider that if I sound the alarm, the wrong people are surely going to hear it, echoing back to haunt me.
I settle back into my chair, exhaling long and deliberately, breathing out the doubts as if I'm trying to keep a top spinning on pinball glass—a careful balance of finesse.
"I’ve got this,” I whisper to the empty space around me, where voices echo with just the right delay, thickening the air with anticipation. "If it gets messy, it’s on me."
I make a choice then—a conscious resolution, akin to that regrettable haircut I stubbornly tried in college.
Opting to go at it alone isn’t just about efficiency; it’s a deep understanding of my own contours—knowing that they will catch any creeping doubts before anyone else has the chance to point them out.
With fingers that still tremble lightly, I shut the folder slowly, the brittle crinkle echoing loudly in the stillness of the library—and in the silence that follows, a surge of determination emboldens within me.
The isolation wraps around me, its warmth imbued with the sweet comfort of familiar battles, ready to be resumed and fought with renewed vigor.
Pages crinkle softly beneath my fingers—a dry whisper in what should be a symphony of revelations. But my symphony's missing a note, and it itches.
My eyes snag on a footnote: File JD-19472. Those bold numbers loom like an accusation between the mildewed sheets.
I check the index again. Slowly. Carefully.
Nothing.
No misfiled folder. No alternate number. No crossed-out reference pointing somewhere else.
This isn’t loss. It’s removal.
The realization settles in my chest with quiet certainty: people don’t erase paperwork unless they’re afraid of what it remembers.
"Where are you hiding?" I mutter, flipping back through the files with determination.
In faded ink, it says: See JD-19472 for Jenkins Closure. Jenkins. Almost scrubbed clean from history.
But the file doesn’t exist—not here, or in this room’s index. It’s as if ghosts are stealing documents, too.
"Hey, Ellie, deep sea diving again?" Meredith, the librarian, approaches, her warm smile like sunshine in winter.
“Depths and despair, M.” I glance up, pushing my glasses to meet her gaze. “You heard of JD-19472?”
“Sounds like a train from Brooklyn.” She smiles before focusing, serious. “Never saw it. Why?”
“It contains a piece of the Jenkins puzzle but is elusive.”
“Not surprising.” She taps her lips thoughtfully. “But missing means you’re onto something.”
“Well, what do we do when our monster tip-toes off the page?”
“Find the author who knows the story, and listen.”
The absence of this file isn’t an obstacle—it’s the breadcrumb. “Right. Track the unravelers.”
Meredith nods. “The powers that be love playing ghost. But it’s harder with someone who hunts.”
“Guess I picked the right hobby.” I grin, and she matches it.
The missing piece feels like a lighthouse—unseeable but guiding stubborn boats like me.