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    The morning fog clung to Ashbourne like a ghostly shroud, muffling the world in a damp, silvery haze. Clara awoke to the sound of her phone vibrating on the bedside table of the cottage. The display read an unfamiliar number, and for a moment, she hesitated. Taking a deep breath, she swiped to answer.


    “Miss Dorne?” The voice was low, gruff, and edged with urgency.


    “Yes. Who is this?”


    “A friend. Let’s leave it at that. If you’re serious about finding the truth about the Blackthorn fire, meet me at the old church. Noon.”


    Before she could ask anything more, the line went dead. Clara stared at her phone, the remnants of sleep fading as adrenaline surged. The old church. Another clue, or perhaps a trap? She decided it was a risk worth taking.


    By the time she stepped outside, the fog had thickened, swallowing the narrow streets and muffling the sounds of the waking town. Clara pulled her coat tighter around her and set off. The old church was a short walk from the cottage, but it felt like she was stepping into another world entirely. The path wound through a grove of gnarled trees, their skeletal branches reaching out like the fingers of unseen hands.


    When the church finally came into view, it was like something out of a Gothic painting. Its stone walls were cracked and weathered, ivy creeping up toward a crooked bell tower. The wooden door hung slightly ajar, creaking softly in the breeze. Clara pushed it open, the sound echoing in the cavernous interior.


    Inside, the air was colder, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and something metallic. The pews were empty, their wood splintered and scarred, and shards of stained glass littered the floor like forgotten jewels. At the far end of the nave stood a figure cloaked in shadows, his back to her.


    “You came,” the man said without turning.


    Clara stepped closer, her boots crunching on the debris. “Who are you? And why are you helping me?”If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    The man turned slowly, his face partially obscured by the brim of a wide hat. His eyes, however, were sharp and unsettling, like those of a bird of prey. “Call me Elias. Let’s just say I have my own reasons for wanting the truth to come to light.”


    “What do you know about the Blackthorn fire?” Clara pressed, her voice firm despite the unease creeping over her.


    Elias gestured for her to follow and led her to a small alcove near the altar. From beneath his coat, he pulled out a leather-bound journal, its edges charred. He handed it to her without a word.


    Clara flipped it open. The pages were brittle, but the handwriting inside was unmistakably feminine, looping and elegant. The entries were dated a few weeks before the fire and seemed to belong to Lila Blackthorn, the youngest daughter of the family. One passage caught Clara’s eye:


    "I fear for my life. He watches me, even when I think I’m alone. Mother doesn’t believe me, and Father says I’m imagining things. But I know what I saw in his eyes. Hatred. If something happens to me, promise you’ll find the truth. Promise you’ll make them see."


    Clara’s pulse quickened. “Who was she talking about?”


    Elias’s expression darkened. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Lila tried to confide in someone, but no one listened. Maybe they didn’t want to.”


    Clara closed the journal carefully. “Why are you giving this to me?”


    Elias leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because you’re the only one who can finish what she started.”


    Before Clara could respond, a faint noise echoed through the church—a rhythmic tapping, like footsteps on stone. Both she and Elias froze. The sound grew louder, closer, until it seemed to come from just beyond the altar. Clara’s breath hitched as a figure stepped into view.


    It was the man from the forest, the one who had warned her the day before. Only now, his face was pale, his eyes wide with panic.


    “They know,” he rasped. “They know you’re here.”


    Elias cursed under his breath and grabbed Clara’s arm. “We need to leave. Now.”


    “What’s going on?” Clara demanded as Elias pulled her toward a side door.


    “No time to explain,” he hissed. “If they find us, you’ll never make it out of this town alive.”


    The three of them spilled out into the foggy graveyard behind the church, the cold air biting at their faces. Clara’s mind raced. Who were they, and how far would they go to keep the past buried? As they hurried through the mist, a single thought burned in her mind: she was no longer just chasing a story. She was running for her life.


    Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled—a low, mournful sound that reverberated through the fog like a warning. The echoes of Ashbourne were stirring, and they were anything but silent.


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